Clay

by C. Hall Thompson

  “It must be a lonely world for you. Jar Me, I do not know what I would do without my eyes. I am a jeweler by trade, you see; the firm of Krondorf in Munich; I have been fortunate, Gott sei dank! My sight has always, been perfect...”

  The mask of polite interest my guest saw gave no hint of the impatience that seethed in my brain. I thought the prattling fool would never be quiet; I thought he would never retire to the bedchamber Victor had prepared for him. But, he did...

  “Schlafen Sie wohl, Herr Conrad,” I called after him.

  "Danke...”

  Two sets of footsteps receded up the stone stairway. I poured myself a drink. Agitation destroyed my usually keen sense of direction; some of the wine spilled. I rose and paced before the hearth until Victor returned. I clutched his arm.

  “His eyes!” I hissed. "What were they like, Victor?”

  The fragile body drew away from me.

  “I do not understand, Herr Doktor. What does all this solicitude for Conrad mean?” The old whine crept into his tone. “You’ve acted most peculiarly, ever since he appeared... I...”

  “The eyes!” I snapped. "The eyes, you idiot!”

  "How should I know?" Petulantly, Victor freed his arm. “His eyes are like any others... a young man's eyes... keen and very blue. I don’t see...”

  I nodded. “Then, we need wait no longer....”

  “Wait? I don’t under...” The nasal voice withered; Victor swallowed audibly. “The experiment? You don’t mean... No, you can’t...”

  “But, we can —we shall!”

  “No!” It was a weak cry of cowardice. “I won’t do it.... It’s insane.... Anyway, it might only fail...”

  “It can’t fail,” I said thickly. “I must see again!”

  "I won’t be involved in this hideous...”

  “You will!” My fingers caught his lapel, crept upward, and closed on his throat. “You’ll do as I say or spend the rest of your days rotting in prison. The authorities would still be interested to know who caused the accident at Freiburg, my dear Victor. I thrust him from me. “Think it over,” I said levelly. “Think, quickly.”

  I heard the raw sound of his breathing. His tread approached the wine-cabinet; there was the cold clink of bottle and glass. I smiled. After a long minute, Victor said in a soft, beaten voice:

  “When?”

  It was not easy. I had never done this sort of thing' before. I had no grievance against Conrad; but it was his life or mine. If the experiment succeeded, the world would lose an insignificant jeweler, but regain a brilliant surgeon. Yes. It was difficult; But, anyone must admit, there was no other way. We waited until Conrad slept. I do not know how long. Victor crouched by my side in the tower alcove scant feet from Conrad’s chamber-door. Nocturnal rats skittered and squealed in the shadows; in a lower corridor, the Swiss clock moaned the quarter hour. No sound issued from Conrad's room. With the stealth of a night animal, my hand reached for the latch.

  “Quietly!” Victor whimpered. "He may still be awake...”

  The latch, clicked faintly; the door inched inward on a crack. A hinge whined;

  Victor’s breath clogged in his throat. We stood quite still. With the sudden changefulness of a regional storm, the rain had abated shortly before midnight; now, the moon shimmered in a liquescent sky. Victor touched my arm.

  “He’s asleep...”

  “Are you certain...?”

  “The moonlight falling across the bed. I can see his face...”

  I listened more closely; the groan of a snore reached me. I nodded.

  “All right,” I said. “Now...”

  It was done very quickly. We were beside the bed and Victor had pinned Conrad’s arms to his sides. A gasp ripped from the sleeper’s throat. He slept no longer. I felt his neck-muscles go taut beneath my searching grasp; I sensed his bulging eyes burning into my face. He managed one desperate, “Nein!” and then, deftly, the scalpel in my delicate fingers found the carotid artery. Conrad jolted; his throat gurgled; warm blood bathed my hand. I heard Victor moan at the sight of it. Briefly, Conrad struggled. Then, he stopped breathing. The body went rigid, then limp. My hands quivered. It took him longer to die than I had thought it would.

  The worst was over. Simon Conrad was no longer a man; only a collection of bones and flesh and dying organisms; a guinea-pig, ripe for experimentation. The laboratory that let off the library had been long in preparation for this moment; even when I had despaired of ever testing my theory, some inner sense of urgency had led me to have every instrument in readiness. The only thing I had to fear was the weakness of Victor Rupert; and, in this final instant, that fear was dispelled. For, like an actor, nervous until the rise of curtain, but exquisitely self-assured once on stage, Victor had grown suddenly calm and detached; he was not a weakling, now. With the power of my will, the brilliance of my brain to direct his every move, he had become a precise surgical machine; his hands worked over Conrad’s head as if they had been my own, responding to each order almost before it was spoken. The operation was a success; in less than an hour, two eliptical blue orbs floated in a jar of physiological saline beside the operating table.

  *

  BY DAWN, we had disposed of the body. The, foetid vaults beneath the Castle were perfectly fitted to our needs. Simon Conrad lay in final rest amid the dust of the Barons von Zengerstein. As I climbed the dank stairway to my bed-chamber, a thrill of well-being mixed with expectation shot through my weary body. My deliverance was at hand. That day, I slept, a more contented sleep than I had known in many years.

  Not so with Victor. The tension of that moment of strange scientific achievement past, the weakling lapsed back into the tortured realm of doubt and cowardice. He could not have slept at all; in the evening, when I rose, I found him already in the library. His voice was discordant with strained nerves. He was pouring himself a drink. I went to his side.

  “How many have you had?”

  “I don’t see what business that is of yours!” he snapped. "If I want to drink...” He got no further; I smashed the glass from his fingers. It splintered on the floor. “I told you to stay sober!”

  “But, I need it! These trembing hands —I tell you I can’t go through with this...”

  “You must! We’ve been over the details a thousand times...”

  “No”

  “You will, my dear Victor. Remember the authorities in Freiburg. And one other thing; you are now an accomplice in a premeditated murder...” Breath snagged in

  his throat; I seized his wrist. “I tell you, you can do it. Stop being a coward! Your hands are perfect; you worked wonderfully on Conrad last night...”

  “But, you were there to, back me up. If I made a mistake....”

  “There will be no mistakes! Understand, Victor? You dare not make a mistake. You are the one who robbed me of my sight, and you are the one who will restore it!”

  Despite my insistence, I was not at all certain it was wise to keep Victor from the liquor. Perhaps it would steady his nerves, work his mind to a pitch as coldly surgical as it had been when he worked on Conrad. That night, as I prepared myself for the final step in the experiment, misgiving seized my mind. Perhaps Victor was right; without my will to guide him, once I was under anaesthesia, he might falter; he might make a mistake...

  He stood washing his hands in disinfectant; when he spoke, his tone seemed calm enough. And yet... I sighed and shrugged. It was a chance, but it had to be risked. I lay back on the operating table; silent, sure, Victor was; at my head. The mask brushed my cheek; the stench of ether swirled in my dark world. I breathed deeply. It did not take long. But, as I relinquished the last shred of consciousness, a needle of fear stabbed my brain. Victor’s fingers touched my forehead, and, it seemed to me, they trembled...

  The return to consciousness was slow and painful. There was no sound; only the smell of antiseptic, and the tautness of bandages that swathed my head; the skin of my eyesockets ached and stung. My tongue felt thick in the arid hole
of my mouth. Something rustled to the right of me.

  “Victor...?”

  There was no answer; instruments rattled in a sterilizing basin. I pawed the air impatiently.

  “Victor, where are you?”

  “Here, Herr Doktor...” His voice was dry and tight. My groping fingers caught the edge of his tunic.

  “Tell me,” I croaked. “Quickly, you fool! It was a success? It went well...?”

  Victor cleared his throat; his tone turned evasive. “You should be quiet, now, Herr Doktor....”

  I tightened my grip on his tunic; I drew his face down to mine. His whimpering breath was audible.

  “Tell me!” I cried. "You haven’t failed! You did not dare to fail! You succeeded! I will see again!”

  “Yes! Yes! It’s all right. I succeeded! Please... let me go...”

  I did. I sank back against the pillows. Relief and weariness flooded my body; after a time I slept. Once, during the night, I woke, to hear the spineless sound of a man sobbing. A bottle and glass clattered, neck-to-mouth. The fool was at it again. I did not interfere. Let him drown, in his sotted forgetfulness. He had served his purpose. I was finished with him.

  The weeks of convalescence were not as tedious as I had feared; during, those last hours of interminable night I was sustained by taut anticipation. I scoffed at Victor’s uneasiness. Time and again, he sighed, at my mocking laughter

  “You must, not expect too much, Herr Doktor. We can’t be certain....”

  “Nonsense! You yourself said the operation was a success. I shall see! See with the young perfect eyes of Simon Conrad!”

  Victor’s pessimism did not touch me. My mind was filled with plans for the resumption of my career; for the rebuilding of the life of the master surgeon, Herr Doktor Luther Markheim. I dreamed of the moment when I should watch the idiots who had supplanted me swallow their loathesome pity for a “blind hasbeen.” My sense of security lasted until three days before the removal of the eye-bandages. Then, quite unexpectedly, a visitor came to Zengerstein.

  *

  BY HIS tread and the timbre, of his voice, he was a stolid man of perhaps forty-five. He spoke, calmly, and with respect; his tone was cultured, though with a faint inflection of the bauer. One would not have supposed him to be connected with the police. He said his name was Koch; Inspector Koch, of the Donaueschingen constabulary. Almost imperceptibly, Victor drew a sharp breath. Only a blind man, with heightened aural sensitivity could have caught the intensity of that tiny gasp.

  “Well, Herr Inspektor,” I said quietly. “And, what brings the police to Zengerstein...?”

  “The need of information,” Koch said tonelessly. “We thought perhaps you could help, mein herr...”

  “Gladly, but I don’t see...”

  “Perhaps I’d best explain... You see, two weeks ago, a man named Conrad, a jeweler from Munich, set out from Donaueschingen on a walking tour of the Schwarzwald region. His wife and several friends chose to stay behind and await his return. He never, came back...” Koch cleared his throat.

  “Victor,” I put in. “Perhaps the Inspektor would care for a bit of burgundy...”

  “Ja...” I heard Victor at the cabinet. He brought two glasses. He poured Koch’s drink and began to fill my goblet.

  “It is wondered,” Koch continued, “if perhaps he lost his way... and happened onto Zengerstein....”

  Victor’s hand jolted; wine spilled over my fingers.

  “Look what you’re doing, you idiot!” At that instant, I could have killed him for his treacherous cowardice. I could only cover the slip as quickly as possible, and hope that Koch had not guessed its import.

  “I’m afraid, Herr Inspektor, we can be of little assistance...” I shook my head, sipping burgundy. “You are the first visitor to Zengerstein in a good many years. No one could have come here without our knowledge. The dogs alone would have frightened him off...”

  Koch sighed. “I see...”

  “It is possible the poor devil lost his way in the Forest...”

  “Ja...” The Inspector rose slowly from his chair. “Ja, that is what we fear... Of course, my questioning you was only routine, mein herr...”

  “I quite understand.” My tone was apologetic. “I should be only too happy to help, if I could...”

  I did not like the moment of silence that followed; I sensed, the shifting of Victor’s feet beside my chair, as though he cringed under a steady scrutiny. I liked it even less when Inspector Koch finally answered, me in his flat voice:

  “Perhaps you have already, Herr Doktor...”

  He left; Victor saw Kim to the door. Sitting alone in the library, I clutched the goblet in both hands; it splintered; needles of pain gashed my palms, and I felt a wet warmth that might have been wine —or blood. That night, in the quiet of my bedchamber, Koch’s double-edged words echoed malevolently. And I knew Victor must never make another such mistake as he had made this afternoon; he and the threat of his weakling nature must be wiped out.

  This time it was easier. It may be that the second time is always easier. Against Simon Conrad I had harbored no grudge. But loathing for the spineless Victor had festered within me for nearly a decade. Now, he had become downright dangerous. Once again, his sotted stupidity threatened to ruin my life. Any scruples I had had in connection with Conrad’s murder were entirely lacking as I planned that of Victor Rupert. My hands were steady; my voice calm. I was completely equal to the task that lay before me.

  The acquisition of the poison was not difficult; every bottle in the laboratory was so arranged that I, in my blindness, could select from memory; my presence in the laboratory or at the wine-cabinet could hardly arouse Victor’s suspicion. He had drunk a good deal during the day; the bottle I set on our table at dinner must have seemed as innocent as any other; the poison did not change the color of the wine. I ate little that night; I toyed with my food and waited. Finally, it came. He was setting down his glass when it slipped from numbed fingers. A gasp tore from his lungs.

  “Doktor!... My throat!... that wine... burning in my chest... I...”

  He broke off, struggling for breath; he must have seen the quiet smile that crossed my lips.

  “Nein!” Victor lurched to his feet; his chair crashed backward; china shattered from the table to the stone floor. “Nein!” It was an agonized scream, now. “A mistake... don’t let me die... you can’t!” His clawed fingers caught at my robe; he whimpered like a dying cur. I thrust him from me; he fell against the cabinet-de-vin; bottles and glasses clattered wildly. “You can’t! You must save me... I lied... You vain fool, I lied... Don’t you see? ...If I die... If...” The words clotted in his seared mouth; a gurgling screech dwindled in the shadowed stillnesses of Zengerstein. Rupert crumpled in a silent heap.

  He was not heavy, but the descent into the crypt seemed endless. Spiderwebs brushed my face; a rat slithered across my feet and I stumbled, nearly dropping my hideous burden. The poison had worked quickly; droplets of still-warm blood oozed from Victor’s scorched mouth; in the tomb itself a noisome stench choked my nostrils; without benefit of embalming, the remains of Simon Conrad had decomposed rapidly. I lay Victor on the shelf by the side of the maggot-eaten thing he had helped create. I was glad when it was over. I climbed wearily to my chamber and locked myself in. I should have been relieved; the last barrier to the safety of the new life that awaited me had been eliminated. Yet, strangely, I slept ill that night. The howling of the hounds was unbearable. They had been Victor’s pets.

  I thought the time would never come. The bandages itched intolerably; the waiting had done nothing for my nerves. Early this evening a fresh storm swept south along the River Murg. Demented winds chanted litanies in the depths of the Schwarzwald. I could hear the voices of men and the baying of hunting dogs, rising intermittantly above the storm. Inspector Koch and his deputies were unrelenting in their search for the man whose flesh slowly rotted in the Vaults below Zengersteinschloss. I cursed Koch and his infernal curiosity. I s
oothed, myself with the speculation that it was but a matter of hours now; once I had removed the bandages, I could leave this damnable place, return to Freiburg and the life in which I belonged. After tonight...

  *

  THE laboratory seemed cold despite the fire in the grate. My hands were coated with sweat. The surgical scissors slipped several times in my trembling fingers. It will work, my mind chanted; it must work! I unwound the bandages carefully; cotton adhered to the healing flesh of my eyes. Then, the last strip of gauze fell away; an instant of darkness and my eyelids flickered. The blackness wavered and at its heart flared a tiny, dancing object —the flaming moth of the gaslamp that stood before me! Lieber Gott, I could see!

  I celebrated; my triumphant laughter violated the sullen dark of the Castle. I drank too much wine and ate too heartily. I toasted the impotent ghosts of Conrad and Victor and mocked their shadows that seemed to linger in the dim corners of the library. I was delirious with joy. And why not? Life sprawled before me anew in the wonderful colors of a world I had not seen for nearly a decade. Tomorrow, I would quit this house of the dead; tomorrow, I would set out for Freiburg. And, now, in farewell, I wandered the halls of Zengerstein, drinking in sights I had thought never to know again. The candelabra glinting in errant firelight, the tapestries alive with medieval pageantry, the Gothic arches of the upper corridors, and, yes, the chamber that had been, my mother’s private sitting room —all before me now, just as, I remembered them from childhood. Even the needlework my mother’s hand had wrought remained as though she had left it there only last evening, incomplete, awaiting, her return. How strange, I marvelled, that it has not altered in all these lonely years! How very strange! And, my own bedchamber, the same as ever, the canopied bed, the fencing foils and mask like skull and crossbones upon the stone wall above the mantlepiece, and the full-length mirror by the bed... the mirror...

  Perhaps it was the wine. But, as I paused before that mirror, peering into its watery crater, it seemed, for one awful instant, that I saw no reflection of myself. The glass had become a vast threshold on the lip of outer night, beyond which lay only steps going down—down to the bowels of earth, through the tombs of Zengerstein. And, as I watched, out of those catacombs rose a livid sphere of flesh, shapeless and twisted in a hideous grin. Instinctively, I drew away from that mask, and yet I could not shut from view the pallor of those flaccid jowls, the warped mouth, the hair, matted like reptiles on a scabrous skull. The dead- white skin was covered with raw cicatrices, as if some latent putrescence had seeped through the pores; and from scarred pits, sightless eyes glared at me. Breath rasped in my lungs. I reeled away from that hateful reflection, my mind screaming, No, no, it cannot be! And yet, I knew, beyond a doubt, the pale face that scowled from the glass was mine! Terror whirled in my brain; sobbing, I fell across the counter pane to sink almost immediately into a dreamless sleep —a stupor from which I woke —God knows how soon or late!— to find that blasphemous Thing of the mirror’s depths bending over me!