“‘I won’t be bluffed by anything so utterly absurd,’ I declared, and started toward the door. The masked men drew together, barring my way. I turned toward the bed and they shrank back toward the corners of the room. Then I lay down and closed my eyes. ‘I’ll count up to a thousand,’ I said. ‘When I’m done counting I’ll open my eyes, and they’ll be gone.’
“But they weren’t. In every corner of the room they hunched and crouched and panted, waiting the moment to pounce.
“I felt stark panic hammering at me; terror yarnmered at my will, abysmal fear ripped at my nerves, and when I tried to call to Daddy I could make no sound. A dreadful weight seemed pressing on me, so heavy I could not endure it; I felt it crushing out my breath, cracking my ribs, breaking every bone in my body. My eyes seemed starting from my face, I could feel my tongue protruding from my mouth, and . . .”
“Yes, Mademoiselle, and then?” de Grandin prompted as she ceased talking with a shudder.
“Then I saw you and Dr. Trowbridge and my own dear Daddy standing by me, and the terrible old men had gone away. You won’t let them come back, will you?”
“Be assured, Mademoiselle, if they come back while I am here they shall indubitably wish they had not. Now it is time for you to get some rest and gather back your strength.
“Will you prepare the hypo, good Friend Trowbridge?” he asked me.
“D’YE REALIZE WHAT VELLA saw was the Infernal Assizes of Old Egypt?” Dr. Taylor whispered as we tiptoed from the bed chamber.
“The Infernal Assizes?” I repeated.
“Precisely. When a man died the Egyptians believed his soul was led by Thoth and Anubis to Amenti, where it stood trial before the judges of the Dead. These included hawk-headed Kebhsnauf, ape-headed Taumatet, dog-visaged Hapi, cat-headed Bes, and, of course, ox-headed Osiris. Similarly, when a living person was accused of heresey, a court of priests made up to represent the infernal deities tried him or her. The Priestess Nefra-Kemmah must have stood trial before just such a tribunal.”
“Ah?” de Grandin murmured. “Ah-ha? Ah-ha-ha?”
“What is it?”
“I am persuaded, Friend Taylor, that what your daughter saw was more than ‘such stuff as dreams are made on’—or, to be more explicit, just such stuff as that of which a dream is compounded, namely, thought-force. Just what it is I do not know, but somewhere there is an influence running from the mummy of the Priestess Nefra-Kemmah to Mademoiselle your daughter. The poor, misfortunate priestess seeks her aid, the ghostly old ones would prevent it. The daylight quickens in the east, my friend. Soon it will be full day. We shall arrange to have a nurse attend Mademoiselle Vella, and if you will be so kind we shall repair to the Museum and inspect this precious mummy of yours.”
“H’m, that’s a bit irregular,” Taylor demurred.
“Irregular, ha? And by damn-it, was it not irregular for Mademoiselle your daughter to be vouchsafed a glimpse of the old times, to watch the unfolding of the romance of those so sadly unfortunate lovers, and to see the olden ones from the parapets of hell come trooping into her bed chamber? Parbleu, I damn think yes!”
WITH A PRECISION RIVALING that of a jeweler, Dr. Taylor cut away the criss-crossed bandages of yellowed linen that swathed the mummy of the Priestess Nefra-Kemmah. Yard after endless yard he reeled off, finally coming to a strong, seamless shroud drawn sackwise over the body and tied at the foot with a stout cord. The cloth of which the bag was made seemed stouter and heavier than the bandages, and was heavily coated with beeswax or some ceraceous substance, the whole being, apparently, both air- and water-tight.
“Why, bless my soul, I never saw a thing like this before!” exclaimed Dr. Taylor.
“Monsieur, unless I am more greatly mistaken than I have any right to suppose, I make no doubt there are at least a dozen things in this case which will be novelties to you,” de Grandin answered rather grimly. “Come, cut away that seventeen-times-damned sack. I would see what lies within it.
“Ah-ha?” he exclaimed as with a gentle twitching motion Dr. Taylor worked the waxed bag upward from the mummy’s shoulders. “Que diable?”
The body that came gradually in view beneath the blue-white glare of the electric lights was not technically a mummy, though the aromatic spices in the coffin and the sterile, arid atmosphere of Egypt had combined to keep it in a state of almost perfect preservation. The feet, first parts to be exposed, were small and beautifully formed, with long straight toes and narrow heels and high-arched insteps, the digits as well as the whole plantar region stained brilliant red with henna. There was astonishingly little desiccation, and though the terminal tendons of the brevis digitorum showed prominently through the skin the effect was by no means revolting; I had seen equal prominence of flexor muscles in living feet where the patient had suffered considerable emaciation.
The ankles were sharp and shapely, the legs straight and well turned, with the leanness of youth rather than the wasted look of death; the hips were narrow, almost boyish, the waist slender, and the gently swelling bosom high and sharp.
“Morbleu, Friend Taylor, you had right when you said she had suffered grievous hurt before she died,” de Grandin murmured as the waxed sack slid over the body’s shoulders.
I looked across his shoulder and gulped back an exclamation of horrified amazement. The slimly tapering arms had been folded demurely on the breast in accordance with Egyptian custom, but the humerus of the left arm had been cruelly crushed, resulting in a compound comminuted fracture, so that an inch or more of splintered bone had thrust through the skin above the deltoid attachment. The same cruel blow that crushed the arm had smashed the bony structure of the chest, the third and fourth ribs had snapped in two, and through the smooth skin underneath the breast a prong of bone protruded. “La pauvre!” de Grandin murmured. “Fi donc! By damn-it, if I could but come to grips with those who did this thing I should—” He paused in mid-word, pursed his lips as if about to whistle, then whispered half-thoughtfully, half-gleefully, “Nom d’un porc vert, c’est possible!”
“What’s possible?” I demanded, but his only answer was a shrug as he diverted his gaze to the face exposed as Dr. Taylor drew the sack away. The features were those of a woman in her early youth. Semitic in their cast, they had a delicacy of line and contour which bespoke patrician breeding. The nose was small, high-bridged, a little aquiline, with slim, aristocratic nostrils. The lips were thin and sensitive, and where they had retracted in the process of partial desiccation showed small, sharp teeth of startling whiteness. The hair was black and lustrous, cut in a shoulder-length bob that seemed amazingly modern, and bound about the brows was a circlet of hammered silver set with small studs of lapis lazuli. For the rest, a triple-stranded necklace of gold and blue enamel, armlets of the same design, and a narrow golden girdle fashioned like a snake composed her costume. Originally a full, plaited skirt of sheer white linen had been appended to the girdle that circled her slim torso just beneath the bosom, but the fragile fabric had not been able to withstand the years of waiting in the tomb, and only one or two thin wisps remained.
“La pauvre belle créature!” de Grandin repeated. “If it were only possible—”
“I think we’d better wrap the body up again,” Dr. Taylor broke in. “To tell the truth, I’m just a little nervous—”
“You fear,” de Grandin did not ask a question, he made an assertion. “You fear the ancient gods of olden Egypt may take offense at our remaining here to speculate upon the manner of this poor one’s death—or murder, one should say.”
“Well, you must admit there’ve been some unexpected things happening in connection with this mummy, if you can call it that, for technically it’s never been embalmed at all, just preserved by the aromatics sprinkled in the coffin, and—”
“One understands and agrees,” de Grandin nodded. “There have been unexpected happenings, as you say, Friend Taylor, and unless I’m more mistaken than I think, there will be more before we finish. I should say
—gran Dieu des pommes de terre, observe her, if you please!”
As Dr. Taylor had reminded us, the body had not been embalmed but merely preserved by the spices strewn around it and the almost hermetic sealing of the coffin and waxed shroud. It had been dehydrated in the years since burial so that blood, tissue and bones while retaining their contours had been reduced to something less stable than talcum powder. Now, beneath the impact of the fresh damp air and Dr. Taylor’s gentle handling the triturated body-substance began crumbling. There was nothing horrifying in the process. Rather, it was as if we witnessed the slow disintegration of a lovely image moulded in sand or chalk-dust.
“Sic transit bellitas mundi,” murmured Jules de Grandin as the shape before us lost its human semblance. “At least we’ve seen her in the flesh, which is a thing those wicked old ones never thought would happen, and you, Monsieur still have the coffin and her priceless ornaments for souvenirs. They are decidedly worthwhile, and—”
“Damn her coffin and her ornaments!” Dr. Taylor cut in sharply. “What frightens me is what this devilish business may do to my girl. She’s already partially identified herself with Nefra-Kemmah and saw a vision of the priestly court that condemned her to be crushed to death beneath great stones. If that vision keeps recurring—isn’t there some way we can break up this obsession—”
“By blue, there is, Monsieur,” de Grandin assured him. “Precisely as a phobia may be overcome by showing him who suffers from it that it has no basis, so we can clear the vision of those wicked old ones from your daughter’s mind. Of that I am persuaded. But the treatment will not be orthodox—”
“I don’t care what it is. D’ye realize her sanity may be at stake?”
“Perfectly, Monsieur. Have we your consent to proceed?”
“Of course—”
“Très bon. Tonight, at your convenience, we shall call at your house, and unless I am far more mistaken than I think, we shall give battle to and wrest a victory from those shapes that haunt the darkness. Yes. Certainly. Of course.”
ALL DAY HE WAS as busy and as bustling as a bluebottle fly. Calling on the telephone repeatedly, swearing poisonously improbable French oaths when he found our friend John Thunstone had been called away from New York on a case, rushing to the Library to consult some books the librarian had never heard of, but managed to dig up from dust-hidden obscurity at his insistence; finally dashing to the wholesale poultry market to secure something which he brought home in a thermos bottle and placed with loving care in the sterilizing cabinet of the surgery. At dinner he was almost silent, absent-mindedly forgetting to request a third helping of the lobster cardinal, a dish of which he was inordinately fond, and almost failing to refill his glass with Poully-Fuisse a fourth time.
“You’ve figured everything out?” I asked as we began dessert.
“Corbleu, I only wish I had,” he answered as he raised a forkful of apple tart to his lips. “I used brave words to Monsieur Taylor, Friend Trowbridge, but just between the two of us I do not know if I am right or wrong. I grope, I feel my way, I stumble in the dark like a blind man in an unfamiliar street. I have an hypothesis, but it cannot yet be called a theory, and there is not time to test it. I warn you, what we do tonight may be dangerous. You can ill be spared to suffering humanity, my friend. The sick and ailing need your help. If you prefer to stay home while I give battle to these olden forces of evil I shall not feel offended. It is not only your privilege, it is almost your duty to remain away—”
“Have I ever let you down?” I broke in reproachfully. “Have I ever stayed behind because of danger—”
“Non, par la barbe d’un bouc vert; that you have not, brave comrade,” he denied. “You may not be a trained occultist, but what you lack in training you make up in courage and loyalty, dear friend. You are one in twenty million, and I love you, vieux comrade, may the devil serve me hot with sauce bordelaise for his dinner if I do not!”
Shortly after nine o’clock that evening we gathered in the recreation room of Dr. Taylor’s house. Vella, looking little worse for her attack of the night before, was wearing a black velvet dinner dress, quiet and unadorned, save for a great intricate gold pin which emphasized by contrast the ivory of her complexion and the dark mistiness of her black hair.
De Grandin set his stage precisely. Dribbling red liquid from his thermos bottle, he traced a double interlaced triangle across the tiled floor and placed four chairs inside it. “Now, Mademoiselle, if you will be so kind,” he invited with a bow to Vella.
She dropped into an armchair, hands folded demurely in her lap, head lolling back against the cushions.
The little Frenchman took his stand before her, drew out a small gold pencil and held it vertically in front of her face. “Mademoiselle,” he ordered, “you will please be kind enough to look at this—at its very tip, if you will. So. Good. Excellent. Observe him closely.”
Deliberately, as one who beats time to a slow andante tune, he wove the little gleaming pencil back and forth, describing arabesques and intricate interlacing figures in the air. Vella watched him languidly from under long black lashes, but gradually her attention became fixed. We saw her eyes follow every motion of the pencil, finally converge toward each other until it seemed she made some sort of grotesque grimace; then the lids came down across her great dark eyes and her head moved slightly sidewise as her neck muscles relaxed. Her folded hands fell loosely open on her velvet clad knees, and she was, to all appearances, sleeping peacefully. Presently the regular, light heaving of her bosom and her softly sibilated, regular light breathing told us she had indeed fallen asleep.
De Grandin returned the pencil to his pocket, put his fists upon his hips and held his arms akimbo as he regarded her steadily. “You can hear me, cannot you, Mademoiselle?” he demanded.
“I can hear you,” she repeated drowsily.
“Bien. You will rest a moment, then, as the inclination moves you, say whatever comes into your mind. You understand?”
“I understand.”
For something like five breathless minutes we waited in silence. I could hear the great clock in the hall above: “Tick-tock—tick-tock!” and the soft hiss of a green log burning in the fireplace, then, gradually, but certainly, for no reason I could think of, the room began to grow colder. A hard, dull bitterness of cold that seemed to affect the spirit as well as the body pervaded the atmosphere; a biting, searing cold suggestive of the limitless freezing eternities of interstellar space.
“Ah-ha!” I heard de Grandin’s small strong teeth click sharply, like a pair of castanets. “Ah-ha-ha! It seems you did not wait a second invitation, Messieurs las Singeries.” How they came there I had no idea, but there they were—a semi-circle of old men in flowing robes of white linen, masked with headgear simulating hawks, jackals, lions, apes and oxen. They stood in a grim, silent crescent, looking at us with dull, lack-luster eyes, the very embodiment of inhibitory hatred.
“Mademoiselle,” de Grandin whispered, “the time has come for you to speak, if you can find the words.”
The sleeping girl moaned softly, tried to articulate, then seemed to choke upon a word.
The semi-circle of grim silent watchers moved a step nearer, and the cold that theretofore had been a mere discomfort became a positive torture. The nearest of the shadowy masked figures reached the point of one of the interlaced triangles, paused irresolutely a moment, then shrank back.
“Sa-ha, Monsieur Tête de Singe, you do not like him, hein?” de Grandin asked with a short spiteful laugh. “Have patience, Monsieur Monkey-Face; there is to come that which you will like still less.” He glanced across his shoulder at the girl. “Speak, Mademoiselle. Speak up and fear no evil!”
“Lords of the Ghostland,” came a voice from Vella Taylor’s lips, but it was not her voice. There was an indefinable and eerie undercurrent to the tone that sent a shiver tingling up our spines. Her words were slurred and languorous, yet strangely mechanical, as though an unseen hand were playing a gramop
hone:
“Revered and dreadful judges of the worlds of flesh and spirit, ye awful ones who sit on the parapets of hell, I answer guilty to the charge ye bring against me. Aye, Nefra-Kemmah who stands now before ye on the brink of deathless death, whose body waits the crushing stones of doom, whose spirit, robbed forever of the hope of fleshly tenement, must wander till time blends into eternity, confesses that the fault was hers, and hers alone.
“Behold me, awesome judges of the living and the dead, am I not a woman, and a woman shaped for love? Are not my members beautiful to see, my lips like apricots and pomegranates, my eyes like milk and beryl, my breasts like ivory set with coral? Yes, mighty ones, I am a woman, and a woman formed for joy.
“Was it my fault or my volition that I was pledged to serve the Great All-Mother or ever I had looked upon the daylight? Did I abjure the blissful agony of love and seek a life of sterile chastity, or was the promise spoken for me by another’s lips?
“I gave all that a woman has to give, and gave it gladly, knowing that the pains of death, and after death the torment of the gods awaited me, nor do I deem the price too high a one to pay.
“Ye frown. Ye shake your dreadful heads upon which rest the crowns of Amun and of Kneph, of Seb and Tem, of Suti and Osiris’ mighty self. Ye whisper one to other that I speak sacrilege. Then hear me yet awhile: She who stands in chains before you, shorn of all reverence as a priestess, stripped of all honor as a woman, tells ye this to your teeth; knowing that ye cannot do her greater hurt than she stands prejudged to endure. Your reign and that of those ye serve draws to a close. A little while ye still may strut and preen yourselves and mouth the judgments of your gods, but in the days to come your very names shall be forgot save when some stranger from another time and place drags forth your withered mummies from the tomb and sets them up to make a show of. Aye, and the gods ye serve shall be forgotten. They shall be sunk so low that none shall be found in the world to do them reverence; none to call on their names, not even as a curse, and in their ruined temples there shall not be found a living thing except the fearful, whimpering jackal and the white-bellied lizard.
Black Moon Page 42
