by Don Wilcox
The little old man looked at her sympathetically. But his words were not words of hope. “The Dobberines have their beliefs and traditions. I am a Dobberine. I have never used my knowledge to destroy any tribal ceremonies.”
CHAPTER X
The Evil Heart Ceremony
The storms were thrashing on the surface of the planet. Messengers came down the trails every few hours to report the weather to the palace. The people hurried to store their last gatherings of moss in their clay homes. Honey-glue was being prepared in the valley homes to be used on the wedgeshaped doors as protection against the rush of water.
The hour for the Ceremony was twice pushed ahead, owing to new reports of conditions overhead. Then, several hours ahead of the scheduled time, the palace bells rang, and the people gathered in from far and near.
The Evil Heart Ceremony! What a time of excitement this occasion always was; but never more than this year. For the swift rumors of evil deeds had rung like shrill bells all through the Dobberine world.
Moss-gatherers from the hinter’s came down to the plaza, gawking and staring, wondering which of the beautiful faces of the many lovely girls might be that of the ill-fated beauty queen. Some of them, the parents of beloved children, were incensed to a fighting rage over what they had heard.
“She waited until she’d got to be beauty queen,” they would say, “and then she took full advantage of the little child. Killed her, most likely. Anyway, got her out of the way somehow. That’s the way, when folks get mad for jewels and riches. They lose their judgment. It’s a clear case.”
The bells rang almost constantly for an hour, and by that time the plaza crowd had swelled to thousands. Many hundreds would continue to stray into the city from remote places as the Ceremony proceeded. Muriel, walking along the outskirts of the crowd, kept watching the trails for the appearance of Jaff.
But it was quite uncertain whether Jaff would arrive for the ceremony. If the danger of the flood was too imminent, he would wait until all the other messengers had come in; for he was the swiftest runner and would eventually make the announcement that would send all these people scurrying to their water-proof homes.
But might Jaff not come back for the Ceremony before his last official message? No, Muriel was hoping for the impossible. In fact, it. was her lingering hope that he might have found Neeka that kept tantalizing her.
“We are gathered to nominate a candidate for sacrifice,” the Dobberking shouted through the huge metal horn. The crowd quieted and gathered in closer. “Any Dobberine has the privilege of making nominations.”
The meeting moved swiftly. For once, these nominations took less than an hour. In times past they had been known to require as much as a day. For if there was no victim in sight whose evil deeds had struck through the hearts of many people, a great number of “spite” nominations could be expected.
At last Irlinza rose to make her nomination. She did not stop halfway up the palace steps, as most of the speakers had done. She ascended to the porch and spoke through the metal megaphone usually reserved for the Dobberking himself.
Her speech was brief—so much so that it was over before Muriel had recovered from the shock of the hundreds of faces that turned to stare at her.
“Is there any doubt,” Irlinza concluded, “that we should choose for the sacrifice the one who has set this abominable example of social climbing—who has cast good judgment to the winds—who has forgotten every law of personal and property rights in her passion to get her hands on the riches of an innocent little girl? I nominate Muriel, the beauty queen.”
The words “beauty queen” were drawn out in a tone of high sarcasm that brought down a tremendous ovation. The cheering was a mass brutality, barely under organized control. It was the fever of a vast, unwieldly crowd, ready to descend with the full force of its latent sadism upon a single victim.
The throngs that surrounded Muriel turned to her and began to make way, as if she had already been chosen. She was almost bound to start walking forward, under public pressure.
Technically, the selection was not yet official. It was never official until the Dobberking made his announcement. Some whisperings within Muriel’s hearing expressed this uncertainty. Would the Dobberking coincide in the public choice?
Now Noskin went through the officious routine of reading off the names and numbers of a number of laws that had been violated by the chief candidates for the sacrifice.
Meanwhile, Muriel looked again for Jaff. But Jaff did not come. It must be that the signs of the coming flood were too near for him to break away from his vital post somewhere overhead.
Each time that Muriel looked around she would see the little old Lava Man, sitting way back in one lonely corner, near the valley house of some friend who would probably give him shelter when the headwaters came.
“He’s taking no interest in these proceedings,” Muriel thought. “And he doesn’t have a single skull in sight.”
But she was remembering, in her courageous heart, the strongest advice that her own conscience had sung to her: that she must not fail the traditions. Whatever was expected of her as a Dobberine, that she must do.
Now Noskin whispered to the Dobberking. Absolute quiet reigned over the crowd.
The Dobberking nodded and rose to address the multitude.
“All evidence of evil deeds has pointed to one candidate. The sacrifice will be made by the beauty queen, Muriel. Muriel will come forward.”
The crowd made way, and Muriel walked down to the front of the audience. When she came to the six-foot stalagmite—the point of the curved ridge of stone—she turned and faced the silent crowd.
“It is customary,” the Dobberking called out, “for the beauty queen to officiate at this point of the ceremony. The victim must be tied to the stone pillar, and the beauty queen is supposed to tie the knot. However, in this case I must call upon the former queen of beauty—”
In a clear voice, Muriel interrupted this announcement with a statement that shocked every ear that could hear it.
“I am the queen of beauty. I have the right to tie myself to the post. I insist upon my right as a Dobberine—”
The rope, its ends saturated with honey-glue, was brought to Muriel. Swinging its ends deftly, she managed to make the strands catch. The honey-glue fastened with the strength of a knot. She had tied herself to the pillar.
CHAPTER XI
Sacrifice to the Hood
Many Dobberines would long remember that picture. One of Muriel’s forearms, not quite caught within the bonds of rope, was crossed over her breast. Her fingers dung to the winged ornament on her shoulder which Jaff had given her on another public occasion only a few short days ago.
But at once the picture became more complicated than anyone had anticipated. A purplish-white skull seemed to have formed out of the air. At least it looked like a skull to all who could see it hanging there. No one saw where it came from. It attracted a thousand whispered speculations, and before the officials were through consulting over its strange appearance, a second skull formed out of thin air to join it. Then a third.
The thousands of onlookers were almost unaware of the low rumbling sounds of the approaching flood. As a rule, the first echoes of thundering water from the caverns overhead would start the audience scurrying for shelters. But this sight of skulls was too tantalizing. There must be a meaning.
Ubolt paced back and forth impatiently, and Noskin, trying to exchange a word with him, was brushed aside. Irlinza came down the steps, followed by a number of the palace royalty, and they crowded around the lower end of the sentry ridge, demanding of each other that someone do something.
“I saw one of those before,” Irlinza said, within Muriel’s hearing. “The girl is bewitched. It’s a good thing we’re getting rid of her.”
But now the crowd broke a path for the little old Lava Man. There were a few, among the audience of thousands, whose hopes were struck with fire at the sight of him; for in the years pa
st, a few had heard tales of these mysteries or had even experienced, in secret, the revelations of these conscience voices of which the old man was obviously the guardian.
“Who is he?” Ubolt muttered.
“Let him talk,” Irlinza said. “Find out what’s at the bottom of all this.”
So, before a wide-eyed audience, the Lava Man was allowed to speak. He was even provided with a megaphone. He pointed to the cluster of skulls—six of them were now floating in an eight foot orbit around Muriel’s head—and he identified them to the audience as consciences.
“My life in the Lava Pit is more interesting than anyone can imagine,” he said, “for I have the privilege of listening to the consciences of any of you. Can you hear the singing voices of these skulls? Listen to that beautiful soprano hum. That is the conscience of little Neeka.”
Most of the crowd could not hear, but those who were close enough caught the sweetly spoken words. “Do something-nice for Muriel . . . Something nice for Muriel. . . For Muriel.
“And listen,” said the Lava Man, “to the conscience of Noskin. It talks loud enough you’d think he could hear it, but he seldom does.”
A harsh voice called out wisps of accusations, dimmed by the uproar among the ranks of the palace crowd. “Is it right? . . . Is it right? . . . Is it right to take money . . . for lying about the evil deeds . . . of the people?”
The Dobberking was marching down the palace steps, now. He had been left out of this show, and he probably intended stopping it before his conscience was revealed. But halfway down, he turned back. He caught sight of one very important messenger coming down the trail on a dead run. From somewhere overhead the rush of floods was echoing. The crowds began to break away.
“Wait!” the Lava Man cried. “You must hear the conscience of Ubolt, and the Dobberking, and above all, Irlinza.” Ubolt’s gutteral conscience could be heard by the ears that were tuned to the approaching flood roar. “Ubolt, you live by making trouble. . . . Trouble, Ubolt . . . Gossip . . . Lies . . . Intrigues . . . Are you going to help Irlinza with a murder?”
Then Irlinza’s shrill, distraught wail came from another skull, clamoring above the uproar of the crowd. “Listen to me, Irlinza. I am your conscience . . . You haven’t murdered her yet . . . Release her! . . . Release her before it is too late!”
At that, Muriel broke her terrified silence. She cried out to the palace crowd, and her accusing eyes shot at Irlinza like arrows. “That’s your conscience, Irlinza. Listen to it. It’s telling you not to murder Neeka—”
Her words were swallowed up in the tumult. This was unheard of, unprecedented. How did a person, bound to the stake for a sacrifice, dare to make accusations at her accused.
“It’s a trick!” Irlinza screamed, white with rage. “All these skulls are cheap magic. But they won’t win you your freedom. You’re tied. The flood—”
The flood was coming. The last messenger, Jaff, raced down to the plaza, and bounded up the palace steps. At the sight of him, hundreds of persons had already begun to run for shelter. Now the Dobberking shouted his final announcement, bells began to ring, the whole plaza became one wide outspreading of people.
Jaff came down to Muriel, so breathless that he couldn’t say a word. But he saw that she was clutching the winged ornament.
“Good-bye, Jaff.” Her lips formed the words. His heart was pounding too hard for him to accept any such resignation. He flew at the ropes, tried to tear them to shreds.
“Get him away from there,” Ubolt shouted: Three guards whirled to the task. Jaff was struck down. He bounded up. They were on him with knives, then, and he was forced back to the farther side of the plaza. Some messenger friend tried to reason with him. It would not do to break up the sacrifice to the Flood Gods. He must control himself, even as Muriel herself had done so admirably.
The first headwaters rushed through a channel on the Onyx City level. They were less than a mile away. A flood-tide coming down fast, pounding, thrashing, dashing into every nook and crevice that wasn’t sealed.
The plaza had cleared. All across the slope the inhabitants of the Dobberine kingdom watched through their glass windows.
In the sentry house three figures huddled close, tense with the excitement of the oncoming flood. Ubolt and Irlinza were laughing. The Dobberking, having chosen this station rather than the palace, was not in a good humor. The recent voices of the skulls had struck deep. He would have plenty of music to face, from their revelations, after this flood was over. Even if he could prove that there was nothing to their words, that it was a cheap magic trick to try to save Muriel—
They opened the sentry house door to admit a fourth party—Noskin. He had changed his mind the last minute, and as they closed the door after him, the water struck against it with a terrific thud. But the sentry house was a rock to stand against any force—Except the force of shrill vibrations emitted by singing skulls.
For within the view of the thousands of Dobberines, safe in their sealed homes, fully ten skulls had gathered around the post of sacrifice. From the movement of their jaws, one could imagine that they were singing at the tops of their voices.
Muriel, the only person left against the rising flood, heard their weird song above the pounding of waters.
Their vibrations rang against the stone, and abruptly a huge chunk of it broke away.
It fell with a rip and a roar and an echo through the hollow lower end of the question-mark ridge of stone.
The effect was two-fold. It sent the sacrifice post reeling down toward the water. It opened the lower end of the natural tunnel that formed a part of the sentry house.
Muriel caught a quick glimpse of the sentry house window—the upper bulge of the question mark. Those four faces at the window saw her falling. They saw her ropes slip loose. But they did not see that the lower end of their own shelter had broken open.
Therefore they did not see that the little prisoner hidden within that end of the ridge, was revealed, not only to the eyes of Neeka but also to thousands of Dobberines.
One house nearby dared to open its sealed door at that moment. Jaff came bounding out, splashing knee-deep in the first rush of waters.
“Come on, Muriel!” he cried. Muriel looked for the skulls. All but one had now disappeared and that one was fading. But it called to her, in the familiar voice of her own conscience. “Run, Muriel. The Flood Gods have spoken!”
Already Jaff had gathered the frightened little Neeka into his arms.
In the moment the three of them were safely behind the sealed door of the nearby house. It was their turn to look out at the wall of water that now came plunging down to engulf the whole valley.
“It’s rushing into the Sentry House by the back door,” Jaff said.
Little Neeka was hugging Muriel for all she was worth. “I knew you’d come all the time,” she said. “One of the skulls from that funny old man’s cave kept whispering to me that sometime you’d find me.”
Muriel was weeping with joy.
But now the spectacle of the flood threatened to block their view. They knew that a few days of outer darkness would have to close over them before they could carry lights out into the open cavern again.
The last thing they saw, before the waters dashed over the window, was the boiling rush of the flood, striking its deadly blow at the sentry house, hurling its occupants out into roaring sea.
“Some thousands of people saw that happen,” said Muriel. “I wonder what they’ll think.”
“I’ll bet they wonder if we can miss the sacrifice for three or four years, to make up for those four people,” said Neeka innocently.
“One of those four was the Dobberking,” said Jaff. “I’ve a hunch we’ll do without the sacrifice for a long time to come.”
THE SCARLET SWORDSMEN
First published in Amazing Stories, June 1945
Only in India could a man be murdered, and yet not be dead! Nor could he be more than one person!
CHAPTER I
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br /> Before I tell you how I was murdered and what strange experiences befell me afterward, I must first let you know what sort of person I am—or was—and I must tell you many things about my acquaintance with Faye Landreth, a most remarkable girl. Perhaps the best way for me to begin is to ask a simple question that will help us get acquainted.
Are you the sort of person who would help rescue a cow from a ditch?
If you were traveling along the old Silk Routes of India, as I was, with a donkey and two trained monkeys, and you were anxious to reach the next town in time to put on a show for the afternoon crowds at the marketplace, would you stop to help a wheezy little old Hindu who was in a dither about saving the life of a sacred cow?
If so, you and I are going to understand each other from the start. My name is—or was—Val Roman. As a traveling showman I was a first rate vagabond. To float as aimlessly as a cloud had become my gay, carefree way of living ever since the war had left me stranded in the lands beyond the Suez. And so, on this hot August morning, when I came upon this little old Hindu in need of help, his troubles became the most important thing in the world to me, for the moment, and I lent a hand.
Not as if this were some good and noble deed that would bring me a rich reward some day—such a thought never entered my head. I simply said to myself, “There’s a wizened little Hindu who needs a good Samaritan. Maybe an American, Samaritan would do—an Irish-Italian-American-Samaritan—that’s me.”
To me, the unfortunate bossy, mired belly-deep in the mud, was just a tough old bundle of unground hamburger. To the Hindu it was not simply a cow, but a sacred cow, for that was the way his people believed. I improvised a collar around the neck of my sturdy little donkey, hitched a rope to it, and threw a loop around the cow’s horns.
