CHAPTER III: RITUAL OF KHALK'RU
The stallion
settled down to a steady, swinging lope. He carried my weight easily. About an
hour from dusk we were over the edge of the desert. At our right loomed a low
range of red sandstone hills. Close ahead was a defile. We rode into it, and
picked our way through it. In about half an hour we emerged into a
boulder-strewn region, upon what had once been a wide road. The road stretched
straight ahead of us to the north-east, toward another and higher range of red
sandstone, perhaps five miles away. This we reached just as night began, and here
my guide halted, saying that we would encamp until dawn. Some twenty of the
troop dismounted; the rest rode on.
Those who
remained waited, looking at me, plainly expectant. I wondered what I was
supposed to do; then, noticing that the stallion had been sweating, I called
for something to rub him down, and for food and water for him. This,
apparently, was what had been looked for. The captain himself brought me the
cloths, grain and water while the men whispered. After the horse was cooled
down, I fed him. I then asked for blankets to put on him, for the nights were
cold. When I had finished I found that supper had been prepared. I sat beside a
fire with the leader. I was hungry, and, as usual when it was possible, I ate voraciously.
I asked few questions, and most of these were answered so evasively, with such
obvious reluctance, that I soon asked none. When the supper was over, I was
sleepy. I said so. I was given blankets, and walked over to the stallion. I
spread my blankets beside him, dropped, and rolled myself up.
The stallion bent
his head, nosed me gently, blew a long breath down my neck, and lay down
carefully beside me. I shifted so that I could rest my head on his neck. I
heard excited whispering among the Uighurs. I went to sleep.
At dawn I was
awakened. Breakfast was ready. We set out again on the ancient road. It ran
along the hills, skirting the bed of what had long ago been a large river. For
some time the eastern hills protected us from the sun. When it began to strike
directly down upon us, we rested under the shadow of some immense rocks. By
mid-afternoon we were once more on our way. Shortly before sun-down, we crossed
the dry river bed over what had once been a massive bridge. We passed into
another defile through which the long-gone stream had flowed, and just at dusk
reached its end.
Each side of the
end of the shallow gorge was commanded by stone forts. They were manned by
dozens of the Uighurs. They shouted as we drew near, and again I heard the word
"Dwayanu" repeated again and again.
The heavy gates
of the right-hand fort swung open. We went through, into a passage under the
thick wall. We trotted across a wide enclosure. We passed out of it through
similar gates.
I looked upon an
oasis hemmed in by the bare mountains. It had once been the site of a
fair-sized city, for ruins dotted it everywhere. What had possibly been the
sources of the river had dwindled to a brook which sunk into the sands not far
from where I stood. At the right of this brook there was vegetation and trees;
to the left of it was a desolation. The road passed through the oasis and ran
on across this barren. It stopped at, or entered, a huge square-cut opening in
the rock wall more than a mile away, an opening that was like a door in that
mountain, or like the entrance to some gigantic Egyptian tomb.
We rode straight
down into the fertile side. There were hundreds of the ancient stone buildings
here, and fair attempts had been made to keep some in repair. Even so, their
ancientness struck against my nerves. There were tents among the trees also.
And out of the buildings and tents were pouring Uighurs, men, women and
children. There must have been a thousand of the warriors alone. Unlike the men
at the guardhouses, these watched me in awed silence as I passed.
We halted in
front of a time-bitten pile that might have been a palace - five thousand years
or twice that ago. Or a temple. A colonnade of squat, square columns ran across
its front. Heavier ones stood at its entrance. Here we dismounted. The stallion
and my guide's horse were taken by our escort. Bowing low at the threshold, my
guide invited me to enter.
I stepped into a
wide corridor, lined with spearsmen and lighted by torches of some resinous
wood. The Uighur leader walked beside me. The corridor led into a huge room -
high-ceilinged, so wide and long that the flambeaux on the walls made its
centre seem the darker. At the far end of this place was a low dais, and upon
it a stone table, and seated at this table were a number of hooded men.
As I drew nearer,
I felt the eyes of these hooded men intent upon me, and saw that they were
thirteen - six upon each side and one seated in a larger chair at the table's
end. High cressets of metal stood about them in which burned some substance
that gave out a steady, clear white light. I came close, and halted. My guide
did not speak. Nor did these others.
Suddenly, the
light glinted upon the ring on my thumb.
The hooded man at
the table's end stood up, gripping its edge with trembling hands that were like
withered claws. I heard him whisper -”Dwayanu!"
The hood slipped
back from his head. I saw an old, old face in which were eyes almost as blue as
my own, and they were filled with stark wonder and avid hope. It touched me,
for it was the look of a man long lost to despair who sees a saviour appear.
Now the others
arose, slipped back their hoods. They were old men, all of them, but not so old
as he who had whispered. Their eyes of cold blue-grey weighed me. The high
priest, for that I so guessed him and such he turned out to be, spoke again:
"They told
me - but I could not believe! Will you come to me?"
I jumped on the
dais and walked to him. He drew his old face close to mine, searching my eyes.
He touched my hair. He thrust his hand within my shirt and laid it on my heart.
He said:
"Let me see
your hands."
I placed them,
palms upward, on the table. He gave them the same minute scrutiny as had the
Uighur leader. The twelve others clustered round, following his fingers as he
pointed to this marking and to that. He lifted from his neck a chain of golden
links, drawing from beneath his robe a large, flat square of jade. He opened
this. Within it was a yellow stone, larger than that in my ring, but otherwise
precisely similar, the black octopus - or the Kraken - writhing from its
depths. Beside it was a small phial of jade and a small, lancet-like jade knife.
He took my right hand, and brought the wrist over the yellow stone. He looked
at me and at the others with eyes in which was agony.
"The last
test," he whispered. "The blood!"
He nicked a vein
of my wrist with the knife. Blood fell, slow drop by drop upon the stone; I saw
then that it was slightly concave. As the blood dripped, it spread like a thin
film from bottom to lip. The old priest lifted the phial of jade, unstoppered
it, and by what was plainly violent exercise of his will, held it steadily over
the yellow stone. One drop of colourless fluid fell and mingled with my blood.
The room was now
utterly silent, high priest and his ministers seemed not to breathe, staring at
the stone. I shot a glance at the Uighur leader, and he was glaring at me,
fanatic fires in his eyes.
There was an
exclamation from the high priest, echoed by the others. I looked down at the
stone. The pinkish film was changing colour. A curious sparkle ran through it;
it changed into a film of clear, luminous green.
"Dwayanu!"
gasped the high priest, and sank back into his chair, covering his face with
shaking hands. The others stared at me and back at the stone and at me again as
though they beheld some miracle. I looked at the Uighur leader. He lay flat
upon his face at the base of the dais.
The high priest
uncovered his face. It seemed to me that he had become incredibly younger,
transformed; his eyes were no longer hopeless, agonized; they were filled with
eagerness. He arose from his chair, and sat me in it.
"Dwayanu,"
he said, "what do you remember?"
I shook my head,
puzzled; it was an echo of the Uighur's remark at the camp.
"What should
I remember?" I asked.
His gaze withdrew
from me, sought the faces of the others, questioningly; as though he had spoken
to them, they looked at one another, then nodded. He shut the jade case and
thrust it into his breast. He took my hand, twisted the bezel of the ring
behind my thumb and closed my hand on it.
"Do you
remember -” his voice sank to the faintest of whispers -”Khalk'ru?"
Again the
stillness dropped upon the great chamber - this time like a tangible thing. I
sat, considering. There was something familiar about that name. I had an
irritated feeling that I ought to know it; that if I tried hard enough, I could
remember it; that memory of it wasfirst over the border of consciousness. Also
I had the feeling that it meant something rather dreadful. Something better
forgotten. I felt vague stirrings of repulsion, coupled with sharp resentment.
"No," I
answered.
I heard the sound
of sharply exhaled breaths. The old priest walked behind me and placed his
hands over my eyes.
"Do you
remember - this?"
My mind seemed to
blur, and then I saw a picture as clearly as though I were looking at it with
my open eyes. I was galloping through the oasis straight to the great doorway
in the mountain. Only now it was no oasis. It was a city with gardens, and a
river ran sparkling through it. The ranges were not barren red sandstone, but
green with trees. There were others with me, galloping behind me - men and
women like myself, fair and strong. Now I was close to the doorway. There were immense
square stone columns flanking it... and now I had dismounted from my horse... a
great black stallion... I was entering...
I would not
enter! If I entered, I would remember - Khalk'ru! I thrust myself back... and
out... I felt hands over my eyes... I reached and tore them away... the old
priest's hands. I jumped from the
chair, quivering with anger. I faced him. His face was benign, his voice
gentle.
"Soon,"
he said, "you will remember more!"
I did not answer,
struggling to control my inexplicable rage. Of course, the old priest had tried
to hypnotize me; what I had seen was what he had willed me to see. Not without
reason had the priests of the Uighurs gained their reputation as sorcerers. But
it was not that which had stirred this wrath that took all my will to keep from
turning berserk. No, it had been something about that name of Khalk'ru. Something
that lay behind the doorway in the mountain through which I had almost been
forced.
"Are you
hungry?" The abrupt transition to the practical in the old priest's
question brought me back to normal. I laughed outright, and told him that I
was, indeed. And getting sleepy. I had feared that such an important personage
as I had apparently become would have to dine with the high priest. I was
relieved when he gave me in charge of the Uighur captain. The Uighur followed
me out like a dog, he kept his eyes upon me like a dog upon its master, and he
waited on me like a servant while I ate. I told him I would rather sleep in a
tent than in one of the stone houses. His eyes flashed at that, and for the
first time he spoke other than in respectful monosyllables.
"Still a
warrior!" he grunted approvingly. A tent was set up for me. Before I went
to sleep I peered through the flap. The Uighur leader was squatting at the
opening, and a double ring of spearsmen stood shoulder to shoulder on guard.
Early next
morning, a delegation of the lesser priests called for me. We went into the
same building, but to a much smaller room, bare of all furnishings. The high
priest and the rest of the lesser priests were awaiting me. I had expected many
questions. He asked me none; he had, apparently, no curiosity as to my origin,
where I had come from, nor how I had happened to be in Mongolia. It seemed to
be enough that they had proved me to be who they had hoped me to be - whoever that
was. Furthermore, I had the strongest impression that they were anxious to hasten
on to the consummation of a plan that had begun with my lessons. The high
priest west straight to the point.
"Dwayanu,"
he said, "we would recall to your memory a certain ritual. Listen
carefully, watch carefully, repeat faithfully each inflection, each
gesture."
"To what
purpose?" I asked.
"That you
shall learn -” he began, then interrupted himself fiercely. "No! I will
tell you now! So that this which is desert shall once more become fertile. That
the Uighurs shall recover their greatness. That the ancient sacrilege against
Khalk'ru, whose fruit was the desert, shall be expiated!"
"What have
I, a stranger, to do with all this?" I asked.
"We to whom
you have come," he answered, "have not enough of the ancient blood to
bring this about. You are no stranger. You are Dwayanu - the Releaser. You are
of the pure blood. Because of that, only you - Dwayanu - can lift the
doom."
I thought how
delighted Barr would be to hear that explanation; how he would crow over
Fairchild. I bowed to the old priest, and told him I was ready. He took from my
thumb the ring, lifted the chain and its pendent jade from his neck, and told
me to strip. While I was doing so, he divested himself of his own robes, and
the others followed suit. A priest carried the things away, quickly returning.
I looked at the shrunken shapes of the old men standing mother-naked round me,
and suddenly lost all desire to laugh. The proceedings were being touched by the
sinister. The lesson began.
It was not a
ritual; it was an invocation - rather, it was an evocation of a Being, Power,
Force, named Khalk'ru. It was exceedingly curious, and so were the gestures
that accompanied it. It was clearly couched in the archaic form of the Uighur.
There were many words I did not understand. Obviously, it had been passed down
from high priest to high priest from remote antiquity. Even an indifferent
churchman would have considered it blasphemous to the point of damnation. I was
too much interested to think much of that phase of it. I had the same odd sense
of familiarity with it that I had felt at the first naming of Khalk'ru. I felt
none of the repulsion, however. I felt strongly in earnest. How much this was
due to the force of the united wills of the twelve priests who never took their
eyes off me, I do not know.
I won't repeat
it, except to give the gist of it. Khalk'ru was the Beginning-without-Beginning,
as he would be the End-without-End. He was the Lightless Timeless Void. The
Destroyer. The Eater-up of Life. The Annihilator. The Dissolver. He was not
Death - Death was only a part of him. He was alive, very much so, but his
quality of living was the antithesis of Life as we know it. Life was an
invader, troubling Khalk'ru's ageless calm. Gods and man, animals and birds and
all creatures, vegetation and water and air and fire, sun and stars and moon -
all were his to dissolve into Himself, the Living Nothingness, if he so willed.
But let them go on a little longer. Why should Khalk'ru care when in the end
there would be only - Khalk'ru! Let him withdraw from the barren places so life
could enter and cause them to blossom again; let him touch only those who were
the enemies of his worshippers, so that his worshippers would be great and
powerful, evidence that Khalk'ru was the All in All. It was only for a breath
in the span of his eternity. Let Khalk'ru make himself manifest in the form of
his symbol and take what was offered him as evidence he had listened and
consented.
There was more,
much more, but that was the gist of it. A dreadful prayer, but I felt no dread
- then.
Three times, and
I was letter-perfect. The high priest gave me one more rehearsal and nodded to
the priest who had taken away the clothing. He went out and returned with the
robes - but not my clothes. Instead, he produced a long white mantle and a pair
of sandals. I asked for my own clothes and was told by the old priest that I no
longer needed them, that hereafter I would be dressed as befitted me. I agreed that
this was desirable, but said I would like to have them so I could look at them
once in a while. To this he acquiesced.
They took me to
another room. Faded, ragged tapestries hung on its walls. They were threaded
with scenes of the hunt and of war. There were oddly shaped stools and chairs
of some metal that might have been copper but also might have been gold, a wide
and low divan, in one corner spears, a bow and two swords, a shield and a
cap-shaped bronze helmet. Everything, except he rugs spread over the stone
floor, had the appearance of great antiquity. Here I was washed and carefully shaved
and my long hair trimmed - a ceremonial cleansing accompanied by rites of
purification which, at times, were somewhat startling.
These ended, I
was given a cotton undergarment which sheathed me from toes to neck. After
this, a pair of long, loose, girdled trousers that seemed spun of threads of
gold reduced by some process to the softness of silk. I noticed with amusement
that they had been carefully repaired and patched. I wondered how many
centuries the man who had first worn them had been dead. There was a long,
blouse-like coat of the same material, and my feet were slipped into cothurms,
or high buskins, whose elaborate embroidery was a bit ragged.
The old priest
placed the ring on my thumb, and stood back, staring at me raptly. Quite
evidently he saw nothing of the ravages of time upon my garments.
I was to him the
splendid figure from the past that he thought me.
"So did you
appear when our race was great," he said. "And soon, when it has
recovered a little of its greatness, we shall bring back those who still dwell
in the Shadow-land."
"The
Shadow-land?" I asked.
"It is far
to the East, over the Great Water," he said. "But we know they dwell
there, those of Khalk'ru who fled at the time of the great sacrilege which
changed fecund Uighuriand into desert. They will be of the pure blood like
yourself, Dwayanu, and you shall find mates among the women. And in time, we of
the thinned blood shall pass away, and Uighuriand again be peopled by its
ancient race."
He walked
abruptly away, the lesser priests following. At the door he turned.
"Wait
here," he said, "until the word comes from me."
CHAPTER IV: TENTACLE OF
KHALK'RU
I waited for an
hour, examining the curious contents of the room, and amusing myself with
shadow-fencing with the two swords. I swung round to find the Uighur captain
watching me from the doorway, pale eyes glowing.
"By
Zarda!" he said. "Whatever you have forgotten, it is not your sword play!
A warrior you left us, a warrior you have returned!"
He dropped upon a
knee, bent his head: "Pardon, Dwayanu! I have been sent for you. It is
time to go."
A heady
exaltation began to take me. I dropped the swords, and clapped him on the
shoulder. He took it like an accolade. We passed through the corridor of the
spearsmen and over the threshold of the great doorway. There was a thunderous
shout.
"Dwayanu!"
And then a
blaring of trumpets, a mighty roll of drums and the clashing of cymbals.
Drawn up in front
of the palace was a hollow square of Uighur horsemen, a full five hundred of
them, spears glinting, pennons flying from their shafts. Within the square, in
ordered ranks, were as many more. But now I saw that these were both men and
women, clothed in garments as ancient as those I wore, and shimmering in the
strong sunlight like a vast multicoloured rug of metal threads. Banners and
bannerets, torn and tattered and bearing strange symbols, fluttered from them.
At the far edge of the square I recognized the old priest, his lesser priests flanking
him, mounted and clad in the yellow. Above them streamed a yellow banner, and
as the wind whipped it straight, black upon it
appeared the shape of the Kraken. Beyond the square of horsemen, hundreds
of the Uighurs pressed for a glimpse of me. As I stood there, blinking, another
shout mingled with the roll of the Uighur drums.
"The King
returns to his people!" Barr had said. Well, it was like that.
A soft nose
nudged me. Beside me was the black stallion. I mounted him. The Uighur captain
at my heels, we trotted down the open way between the ordered ranks. I looked
at them as I went by. All of them, men and women, had the pale blue-grey eyes;
each of them was larger than the run of the race. I thought that these were the
nobles, the pick of the ancient families, those in whom the ancient blood was
strongest. Their tattered banners bore the markings of their clans. There was
exultation in the eyes of the men. Before I had reached the priests. I had read
terror in the eyes of many of the women.
I reached the old
priest. The line of horsemen ahead of us parted. We two rode through the gap,
side by side. The lesser priests fell in behind us. The nobles followed them. A
long thin line upon each side of the cavalcade, the Uighur horsemen trotted -
with the Uighur trumpets blaring, the Uighur kettle-drums and long-drums
beating, the Uighur cymbals crashing, in wild triumphal rhythms.
"The King
returns -”
I would to heaven
that something had sent me then straight upon the Uighur spears!
We trotted
through the green of the oasis. We crossed a wide bridge which had spanned the
little stream when it had been a mighty river. We set our horses' feet upon the
ancient road that led straight to the mountain's doorway a mile or more away.
The heady exultation grew within me. I looked back at my company. And suddenly
I remembered the repairs and patches on my breeches and my blouse. And my
following was touched with the same shabbiness. It made me feel less a king, but
it also made me pitiful. I saw them as men and women driven by hungry ghosts in
their thinned blood, ghosts of strong ancestors growing weak as the ancient
blood weakened, starving at it weakened, but still strong enough to clamour
against extinction, still strong enough to command their brains and wills and
drive them toward something the ghosts believed would feed their hunger, make
them strong again.
Yes, I pitied
them. It was nonsense to think I could appease the hunger of their ghosts, but
there was one thing I could do for them. I could give them a damned good show!
I went over in my mind the ritual the old priest had taught me, rehearsed each
gesture.
I looked up to
find we were at the threshold of the mountain door. It was wide enough for
twenty horsemen to ride through abreast. The squat columns I had seen, under
the touch of the old priest's hands, lay shattered beside it. I felt no
repulsion, no revolt against entering, as I then had. I was eager to be in and
to be done with it.
The spearsmen
trotted up, and formed a guard beside the opening. I dismounted, and handed one
of them the stallion's rein. The old priest beside me, the lesser ones behind
us, we passed over the threshold of the mined doorway, and into the mountain.
The passage, or vestibule, was lighted by wall cressets in which burned the
clear, white flame. A hundred paces from the entrance, another passage opened,
piercing inward at an angle of about fifteen degrees to the wider one. Into
this the old priest turned. I glanced back. The nobles had not yet entered; I
could see them dismounting at the entrance. We went along this passage in
silence for perhaps a thousand feet. It opened into a small square chamber, cut
in the red sandstone, at whose side was another door, covered with heavy
tapestries. In this chamber was nothing except a number of stone coffers of
various sizes ranged along its walls.
The old priest
opened one of these. Within it was a wooden box, grey with age. He lifted its
lid, and took from it two yellow garments. He slipped one of these garments
over my head. It was like a smock, falling to my knees. I glanced down; woven
within it, its tentacles encircling me, was the black octopus.
The other he drew
over his own head. It, too, bore the octopus, but only on the breast, the
tentacles did not embrace him. He bent and took from the coffer a golden staff,
across the end of which ran bars. From these fell loops of small golden bells.
From the other
coffers the lesser priests had taken drums, queerly shaped oval instruments
some three feet long, with sides of sullen red metal. They sat, rolling the
drumheads under their thumbs, tightening them here and there while the old
priest gently shook his staff of bells, testing their chiming. They were for
all the world like an orchestra tuning up. I again felt a desire to laugh.
I did not then
know how the commonplace can intensify the terrible.
There were sounds
outside the tapestried doorway, rustlings. There were three clangorous strokes
like a hammer upon an anvil. Then silence. The twelve priests walked through
the doorway with their drums in their arms. The high priest beckoned me to
follow him, and we passed through after them.
I looked out upon
an immense cavern, cut from the living rock by the hands of men dust now for
thousands of years. It told its immemorial antiquity as clearly as though the
rocks had tongue. It was more than ancient; it was primeval. It was dimly
lighted, so dimly that hardly could I see the Uighur nobles. They were
standing, the banners of their clans above them, their faces turned up to me,
upon the stone floor, a hundred yards or so away, and ten feet below me. Beyond
them and behind them the cavern extended, vanishing in darkness. I saw that in
front of them was a curving trough, wide - like the trough between two long waves
- and that like a wave it swept upward from the hither side of the trough,
curving, its lip crested, as though that wave of sculptured
stone were a gigantic comber rushing back upon them. This lip formed the
edge of the raised place on which I stood.
The high priest
touched my arm. I turned my head to him, and followed his eyes. A hundred feet
away from me stood a girl. She was naked. She had not long entered womanhood
and quite plainly was soon to be a mother. Her eyes were as blue as those of
the old priest, her hair was reddish brown, touched with gold, her skin was
palest olive. The blood of the old fair race was strong within her. For all she
held herself so bravely, there was terror in her eyes, and the rapid rise and fall
of her rounded breasts further revealed that terror.
She stood in a
small hollow. Around her waist was a golden ring, and from that ring dropped
three golden chains fastened to the rock floor. I recognized their purpose. She
could not run, and if she dropped or fell, she could not writhe away, out of
the cup. But run, or writhe away from what? Certainly not from me! I looked at
her and smiled. Her eyes searched mine. The terror suddenly fled from them. She
smiled back at me, trustingly.
God forgive me -
I smiled at her and she trusted me! I looked beyond her, from whence had come a
glitter of yellow like a flash from a huge topaz. Up from the rock a hundred
yards behind the girl jutted an immense fragment of the same yellow translucent
stone that formed the jewel in my ring. It was like the fragment of a gigantic
shattered pane. Its shape was roughly triangular. Black within it was a
tentacle of the Kraken. The tentacle swung down within the yellow stone, broken
from the monstrous body when the stone had been broken. It was all of fifty
feet long. Its inner side was turned toward me, and plain upon all its length
clustered the hideous sucking discs.
Well, it was ugly
enough - but nothing to be afraid of, I thought. I smiled again at the chained
girl, and met once more her look of utter trust.
The old priest
had been watching me closely. We walked forward until we were half-way between
the edge and the girl. At the lip squatted the twelve lesser priests, their
drums on their laps.
The old priest
and I faced the girl and the broken tentacle. He raised his staff of golden
bells and shook them. From the darkness of the cavern began a low chanting, a
chant upon three minor themes, repeated and repeated, and intermingled.
It was as
primeval as the cavern; it was the voice of the cavern itself.
The girl never
took her eyes from me.
The chanting
ended. I raised my hands and made the curious gestures of salutation I had been
taught. I began the ritual to Khalk'ru...
With the first
words, the odd feeling of recognition swept over me – with something added. The
words, the gestures, were automatic. I did not have to exert any effort of
memory; they remembered themselves. I no longer saw the chained girl. All I saw
was the black tentacle in the shattered stone.
On swept the
ritual and on... was the yellow stone dissolving from around the tentacle...
was the tentacle swaying?
Desperately I
tried to halt the words, the gesturing. I could not!
Something
stronger than myself possessed me, moving my muscles, speaking from my throat.
I had a sense of inhuman power. On to the climax of the evil evocation - and
how I knew how utterly evil it was - the ritual rushed, while I seemed to stand
apart, helpless to check it.
It ended.
And the tentacle
quivered... it writhed... it reached outward to the chained girl...
There was a
devil's roll of drums, rushing up fast and ever faster to a thunderous
crescendo...
The girl was
still looking at me... but the trust was gone from her eyes... her face
reflected the horror stamped upon my own.
The black
tentacle swung up and out!
I had a swift
vision of a vast cloudy body from which other cloudy tentacles writhed. A
breath that had in it the cold of outer space touched me.
The black
tentacle coiled round the girl...
She screamed -
inhumanly... she faded... she dissolved... her screaming faded... her screaming
became a small shrill agonized piping... a sigh.
I heard the dash
of metal from where the girl had stood. The clashing of the golden chains and
girdle that had held her, falling empty on the rock.
The girl was
gone!
I stood,
nightmare horror such as I had never known in worst of nightmares paralysing me
-
The child had
trusted me... I had smiled at her, and she had trusted me... and I had summoned
the Kraken to destroy her!
Searing remorse,
white hot rage, broke the chains that held me. I saw the fragment of yellow
stone in its place, the black tentacle inert within it. At my feet lay the old
priest, flat on his face, his withered body shaking; his withered hands clawing
at the rock. Beside their drums lay the lesser priests, and flat upon the floor
of the cavern were the nobles - prostrate, abased, blind and deaf in stunned worship
of that dread Thing I had summoned.
I ran to the
tapestried doorway. I had but one desire - to get out of the temple of
Khalk'ru. Out of the lair of the Kraken. To get far and far away from it. To
get back... back to the camp-home. I ran through the little room, through the
passages and, still running, reached the entrance to the temple. I stood there
for an instant, dazzled by the sunlight.
There was a
roaring shout from hundreds of throats - then silence. My sight cleared. They
lay there, in the dust, prostrate before me – the troops of the Uighur
spearsmen.
I looked for the
black stallion. He was close beside me. I sprang upon his back, gave him the
reins. He shot forward like a black thunderbolt through the prostrate ranks,
and down the road to the oasis. We raced through the oasis. I had vague
glimpses of running crowds, shouting. None tried to stop me. None could have
stayed the rush of that great horse.
And now I was
close to the inner gates of the stone fort through which we had passed on the
yesterday. They were open. Their guards stood gaping at me. Drums began to
beat, peremptorily, from the temple. I looked back. There was a confusion at
its entrance, a chaotic milling. The Uighur spearsmen were streaming down the
wide road.
The gates began
to close. I shot the stallion forward, bowling over the guards, and was inside the
fort. I reached the further gates. They were closed. Louder beat the drums,
threatening, commanding.
Something of
sanity returned to me. I ordered the guards to open. They stood, trembling,
staring at me. But they did not obey. I leaped from the stallion and ran to
them. I raised my hand. The ring of Khalk'ru glittered. They threw themselves
on the ground before me - but they did not open the gates.
I saw upon the
wall goatskins full of water. I snatched one of these and a sack of grain. Upon
the floor was a huge slab of stone. I lifted it as though it had been a pebble,
and hurled it at the gates where the two halves met. They burst asunder. I
threw the skin of water and sack of grain over the high saddle, and rode
through the broken gates.
The great horse
skimmed through the ravine like a swallow. And now we were over the crumbling
bridge and thundering down the ancient road.
We came to the
end of the far ravine. I knew it by the fall of rock. I looked back. There was
no sign of pursuit. But I could hear the faint throb of the drums.
It was now well
past mid-afternoon. We picked our way through the ravine and came out at the
edge of the sandstone range. It was cruel to force the stallion, but I could
not afford to spare him. By nightfall we had readied semi-arid country. The
stallion was reeking with sweat, and tired. Never once had he slackened or
turned surly. He had a great heart, that horse. I made up my mind that he
should rest, come what might.
I found a
sheltered place behind some high boulders. Suddenly I realized that I was still
wearing the yellow ceremonial smock. I tore it off with sick loathing. I rubbed
the horse down with it. I watered him and gave him some of the grain. I
realized, too, that I was ravenously hungry and had eaten nothing since
morning. I chewed some of the grain and washed it down with the tepid water. As
yet, there were no signs of pursuit, and the drums were silent. I wondered
uneasily whether the Uighurs knew of a shorter road and were outflanking me. I threw
the smock over the stallion and stretched myself on the ground. I did not
intend to sleep. But I did go to sleep.
I awakened
abruptly. Dawn was breaking. Looking down upon me were the old priest and the
cold-eyed Uighur captain. My hiding place was ringed with spearsmen. The old
priest spoke, gently.
"We mean you
no harm, Dwayanu. If it is your will to leave us, we cannot stay you. He whose
call Khalk'ru has answered has nothing to fear from us. His will is our
will."
I did not answer.
Looking at him, I saw again - could only see – that which I had seen in the
cavern. He sighed.
"It is your
will to leave us! So shall it be!"
The Uighur
captain did not speak.
"We have
brought your clothing, Dwayanu, thinking that you might wish to go from us as
you came," said the old priest.
I stripped and
dressed in my old clothes. The old priest took my faded finery. He lifted the
octopus robe from the stallion. The captain spoke:
"Why do you
leave us, Dwayanu? You have made our peace with Khalk'ru. You have unlocked the
gates. Soon the desert will blossom as of old. Why will you not remain and lead
us on our march to greatness?"
I shook my head.
The old priest sighed again.
"It is his
will! So shall it be! But remember, Dwayanu - he whose call Khalk'ru has
answered must answer when Khalk'ru calls him. And soon or late - Khalk'ru will
call him!"
He touched my
hair with his trembling old hands, touched my heart, and turned. A troop of
spearsmen wheeled round him. They rode away.
The Uighur
captain said:
"We wait to guard
Dwayanu on his journey."
I mounted the
stallion. We reached the expedition's new camp. It was deserted. We rode on,
toward the old camp. Late that afternoon we saw ahead of us a caravan. As we
came nearer they halted, made hasty preparations for defence. It was the
expedition - still on the march. I waved my hands to them and shouted.
I dropped off the
black stallion, and handed the reins to the Uighur.
"Take
him," I said. His face lost its sombre sternness, brightened.
"He shall be
ready for you when you return to us, Dwayanu. He or his sons," he said. He
touched my hand to his forehead, knelt. "So shall we all be, Dwayanu -
ready for you, we or our sons. When you return."
He mounted his
horse. He faced me with his troop. They raised their spears. There was one
crashing shout -
"Dwayanu!"
They raced away.
I walked to where
Fairchild and the others awaited me.
As soon as I
could arrange it, I was on my way back to America. I wanted only one thing - to
put as many miles as possible between myself and Khalk'ru's temple.
I stopped.
Involuntarily my hand sought the buckskin bag on my breast.
"But
now," I said, "it appears that it is not so easy to escape him. By anvil
stroke, by chant and drums - Khalk'ru calls me '"
