Fighters of Fear

by Mike Ashley

  “He lives in a solitary hut out on the marshes—on the marsh of Arjuzanx. But do not go tonight, for the way is treacherous!”

  “I must go tonight, mon père—or it may be too late. Can one of the villagers show me the path?”

  “At night-time they would not dare to.”

  “Can I find it for myself?”

  “On the stilts there are many paths, but on foot only one that is safe. If you are determined to go, I must lead you there myself.”

  “Thank you—I accept your help willingly. But I shall ask you to return without me and keep guard over Jeanne while I am away.”

  The last gleams of the setting sun shone from between an angry bank of clouds as they came out of the forest on to the marshland. The pools, stagnant with slime, turned to blood, then grew dark and chill.

  “It may be a bad night, monsieur,” said the priest warningly. “See how the clouds have massed in the west, over the Bay of Biscay!”

  “If necessary, I will spend the night with Osper Camargo,” answered Dr. Wycherley quietly.

  A tortuous path amongst the firmer parts of the marshland brought them within sight of a low hut. It was surrounded by a few stunted trees on ground a little above the general level. Around them again were the dark sedges, whispering amongst themselves, and the chill, dank pools of slime. A marsh bird called to its mate with a strange, eerie cry.

  “Is the way straight from here onwards?” asked Dr. Wycherley at length.

  “Yes, you have but to follow the path. Only be careful that you sound around you with your stick should the foot tread on ground that gives.”

  “Then I would ask you to return at once to guard Jeanne. If necessary, give her bromide from the tablets in this phial. See to it that she does not leave the house tonight. Au revoir, mon père.”

  The hut was silent and lightless. After knocking at the door fruitlessly, Dr. Wycherley lifted the latch and entered.

  It was empty save for a lean grey cat that arched her back and spat at him. The bigger of the two rooms, serving as kitchen and bedroom, showed by small signs that it had been unoccupied for days. There was nothing to be done but to wait for the return of the owner, for no one at Aureilhac had been able to tell of his movements.

  It was a lonesome, weary vigil. The cat, refusing overtures of friendship, had stalked out into the night. The clock over the fireplace was silent, for it had run down during the owner’s absence. Around the room were tokens that this Osper Camargo worked on the superstitions of his neighbours, for conspicuous on the walls were a human skull, dead bats nailed up with outspread wings, snakes and blindworms preserved in spirit, and other devices common to the sorcerers of all ages. A heavy locked chest doubtless contained more of his paraphernalia.

  But to Dr. Wycherley the most significant object in the room was hung above the bed where the peasant of the Landes would place his crucifix.

  It was a small pentacle in hammered iron.

  For many hours the doctor waited patiently in the lightless hut. For times such as this he had trained himself to a habit of deep thought that lost count of place and time, but yet was alert to the least unusual sign. He had made his brain his servant to an extent far beyond the usual with men.

  His thoughts ran on the records in hieroglyphic that have come down to us of the sorcerers of ancient Egypt, the men who claimed that they could use the gods to work their will. He had spent many interesting hours with Professor Clovis Marnier, the great Egyptologist, listening to his demonstration of the meaning of the hieroglyphs.

  There was a sound out of the darkness—a plash in a distant pool.

  At the instant his watchful senses had flashed the message to his brain, and he was awake and alert. But he kept still in his chair.

  The sounds came nearer. The door opened, and a man entered with a lantern, under his arm a pair of stilts slimy from the marsh pools. Placing the lantern on a table, he began to lay sticks on the dead ashes of the hearth, the grey cat rubbing affectionately round his legs. He had a ragged, scrawny beard and moustache, and his nose was crushed in the way Père Bonivet had described. A face with evil lines—an evil mind behind it.

  He had not seen Dr. Wycherley. When at length he caught sight of him, sitting quietly in the chair in a corner of the room, he started violently and called out in the harsh, twanging dialect of the Landes: “Sangrediable, get on your knees!”

  The doctor made no reply, but sat still.

  “Who are you?” cried Camargo, flashing the lantern upon him.

  “Peace, brother!” answered Dr. Wycherley. “Peace to you in the names of Khabbakhel and Knouriphariza, our masters.”

  “But I don’t know you! What are you doing here?”

  “We have met in the plane of the spirit,” answered Dr. Wycherley courteously. “Though I live afar off, I have long wished to visit you and learn of your wisdom.”

  The man was clearly puzzled. Suspicion lay behind his narrow eyes. And yet his vanity was touched. Dr. Wycherley had allowed no trace of irony or ridicule to appear in his words—they had a tone of grave deference in them. Osper Camargo twisted his hands uneasily. Finally he hit on a satisfactory answer: “You want to buy wisdom from me—hein?”

  “Come!” remonstrated the doctor. “Payment between brothers of the craft?”

  “If you want to learn, you pay!”

  “Very well,” answered the doctor, with assumed reluctance, and drew out a gold piece from his pocket.

  The man’s eyes glittered cunningly.

  “Not enough!”

  “This I will give you beforehand, and again a louis when you have shown me what I do not know already.”

  He showed a second gold piece.

  “Do you know the incantation that brings the sickness upon the oxen? Or the incantation that drives the goats to madness? With them one can make money.”

  “Those,” answered Dr. Wycherley, “are elementary. I had hoped to see bigger proof of your powers. Even in my land they speak of the spells you can lay on man or woman.”

  Osper Camargo’s pride was awakened.

  “They speak well, for I have those powers, and I use them. But”—a cunning glitter came again into his eyes—“I work within the law. Whatever I do, it is such that the law cannot touch me. Oh, I am careful!”

  “We have all to be prudent. A friend of mine, the great sorcerer, Smith—doubtless you have heard of him?—desired greatly a young girl of his neighbourhood, but she was of tender years, and the law of his country would not permit that he cast spells to bring her to his side. So he waited.”

  “As I have waited!” cried Camargo fiercely. “As I have waited these long years! If the mother would have none of me, the child shall—and willingly! It is my right! Everything is prepared!”

  With a dramatic gesture he drew out a key from his pocket and opened the heavy oaken chest. The upper part of it was filled with dresses and dress material. There was silk and good cambric in the heap. He plunged his hands into it, fondling the garments, letting them rustle through his fingers.

  “A fine trousseau for the bride,” commented Dr. Wycherley. “She should be well pleased.”

  “A bride? Maybe yes or maybe no. Of one girl one may get tired. Why tie oneself up with the law?” He shut the lid of the chest and turned the key. “But that is not the only reason why I desire her. No, no. There is another reason, a stronger reason—a reason that you of the craft should well know!”

  Now it was Dr. Wycherley’s turn to be puzzled. He thought he had gauged the man’s mainspring of action. His motive was surely horrible enough—what worse could lie behind? And yet it must be something within the law, for the man was plainly stating truth as to his devilish prudence.

  To gain time, Dr. Wycherley asked: “What is her name?”

  “Ask at Aureilhac,” answered Camargo. “They will tell you quickly enough!”

  There was a note of triumph in his tone that expressed the near fulfilment of his desire. From the law he had nothi
ng to fear, for the law takes no cognisance of wizardry as such, and it was plain that he had no fear of man’s intervention. Perhaps they could keep the girl away from his hut for a week, two weeks, a month even—but what of that? He had waited many long years—he could wait a little longer if necessary. Small wonder that Osper Camargo boasted openly of his desires.

  “You do not know my second motive!” mocked the sorcerer.

  Dr. Wycherley replied deferentially:

  “No, I am but a learner at the craft, and you are a master. I have come from afar to drink of your wisdom.”

  “This much will I show you. Today I procured it, and it completes the preparations that are necessary.”

  He flashed a small corked glass tube from his pocket, and quickly returned it to its shelter. In the fitful light from the lantern Dr. Wycherley could only gather the impression that it contained the dried ear of some cereal—barley or perhaps rye. It puzzled him still further. The thought of poison passed across his mind, but this he at once put aside—Osper Camargo was a coward at heart and would never risk the vengeance of the law in that way. But if not poison, what could it mean? A dried ear of barley—or perhaps rye.

  “You speak of your powers,” said Dr. Wycherley, “but you give me no proof. It may be that this girl is in love with you and will come willingly at your call.”

  “Ask at Aureilhac!” returned the sorcerer again, licking his lips. “Ask if she has been willing to come. But now I have her in my hands. When I crook my little finger, she will come.”

  From the west a flash of lightning filled the hut with light, shoeing with startling distinctness the fire of evil passion in the face of Osper Camargo.

  “Shall I give you proof of my power?” he asked fiercely.

  “For that I have journeyed from afar, and for that I will pay the further louis,” returned the doctor.

  The sorcerer set about his preparations quickly, while outside the storm gathered and the distant lightning flashed. First he lit a fire on the hearth and into it threw some powder that gave out a strong odour of balsam. Next he took down the small iron pentacle from its nail over the bed, and hung it by a string round the neck of the grey cat. Then he scattered sand on the floor, and on the sand traced a magical enclosure fringed with mystic signs. In the enclosure he placed a small iron vessel containing a slow-burning pastille with a pungent odour, and next to it a rough wax doll, which bore a certain resemblance to Jeanne Dorthez.

  His preparations completed, the sorcerer began to recite strange incantations, swaying himself backwards and forwards in time to the words, beginning low and quietly and gradually working himself up to a pitch of hysterical frenzy. Finally he reached the stage where automatism of the lower centres holds sway in the brain. Writhing and foaming at the mouth, he fell in a fit upon the bed. After a little the jerking muscles quieted down—the sorcerer was in a trance.

  Dr. Wycherley had watched with intense interest every detail of the fantastic operation, endeavouring to disentangle the essential and the significant from the gibberish of abracadabra and the puerilities of the wax doll. From the first there had been no doubt in his mind that this Osper Camargo was a dangerous man. The problem in hand was: how far did his powers in the realm of the supernormal extend?

  The anaesthetic patches on the body of Jeanne Dorthez which had seemed of such horrible significance to the goodwives of the neighbourhood—these were a not unusual symptom of a patient suffering from hysteria. The shape of the patches was probably the result of a post-hypnotic suggestion; the red mark on the breast of the girl could be produced by the same means. At the Salpêtrière Hospital in Paris many such experiments have been carried out. Dr. Wycherley had no doubt whatever that this Osper Camargo had gained influence over her mind and had been working to bend it to his own will—the appearance on her body of the symbolic pentacle would react on her mind and convince her that she belonged to him, body and soul.

  But how would Camargo bring her over the marshes that night? How far did his telepathic powers extend, if he possessed them at all?

  Dr. Wycherley searched the room for some indication that might have escaped him, and suddenly he found it. It was a negative indication—during the rigmarole of the incantations and the rhythmic swayings the grey cat had slipped out of the room.

  At once a vivid mental picture came before his eyes of the cat padding swiftly over the dark path through the marshes—through the forest to the hamlet of Aureilhac—reaching the low wooden house of the Dorthez—scratching at the bedroom window of the girl—Jeanne opening the window at the call and seeing the pentacle around its neck, the sign of her master—dressing swiftly and slipping out of the window—following it back to the marsh of Arjuzanx and the hut of the sorcerer.

  How could he wrest the girl from the power of Osper Camargo? It would be difficult in the extreme. With her mind so under the power of the sorcerer, counter-suggestions might be of very little effect. Was there no way in which the law could step in, so that this man’s power of working evil would be fettered?

  Perhaps there might be some hope of this if he could discover the ulterior purpose at which Camargo had hinted. His eye turned to the oaken chest, and at once he went over to it. In his excitement, Camargo had forgotten to take away the key.

  Dr. Wycherley swiftly opened it and turned over the pile of garments, seeking for something hidden in the box which might give him a clue to the great ulterior motive. His hand brushed against parchment, and he drew it out and took it over to the light—a parchment yellow with age and written in faded ink with words of French many centuries old. But it was possible to get its general purport, even if single words here and there conveyed no meaning:

  The Potion.

  Of Which Whosoever Shall Drink Shall Become Immortal.

  It was a lengthy recipe full of such ingredients as the eyes of bats, the powdered forehand of a toad, broth of blindworms, and others nauseating in the extreme, but the culmination of the recipe sent a chill of horror coursing down the doctor’s spine. Though he had watched by the bedside of raving madmen, he had never had to listen to imaginings so devilish as this. His eye ran over it hurriedly before he thrust it into his pocket to bring if necessary before a court of law:

  “. . . a maiden undefiled, a first-born . . . when she is with, child . . . an infusion of the spotted rye . . . the left eye and the right ear . . . see to it that you both drink, the potion together . . .”

  Dr. Wycherley realised as never before the feelings of our ancestors when, centuries ago, they had had to deal with the sorcerers of their age. Small wonder that they had lynched at the stake men who put into practice what had been written on this old parchment. Small wonder that in their zeal to stamp out such devilish imaginings they had persecuted the innocent as well as the guilty.

  Outside, the lightning flashed and the thunder tore across the swishing rain, but through the noise Dr. Wycherley sensed a footstep. He moved towards the door, but at the same moment the man on the bed stirred and rose up. He too had sensed the presence outside, the presence for which he in his trance was feverishly waiting.

  Osper Camargo thrust back the doctor and strode to fling open the door. And as he did so, as he stepped out of the threshold to lay hand on the girl who had come at the call of the grey cat, a blinding flash of lightning, followed on the instant by the roar of thunder from directly overhead, struck upon him.

  The sorcerer staggered back, his hands to his eyes, moaning horribly.

  Groping, he blundered about the room, and a torrent of blasphemies poured from his lips as he realised what had come upon him. Then, little by little, the stream of imprecations died down, and as the girl moved to his side, shivering in her sodden clothes, Osper Camargo cried out pitifully, in a voice so changed from his previous tone that Dr. Wycherley started at it: “Keep away from me, for I am accursed! The judgment of God is upon me—He has struck me blind for my sins!”

  He fell on his knees, and as from a little child there came f
rom him the prayer of the Paternoster. One of those strange instantaneous conversions, the rationale of which is so veiled from us, had been witnessed. For a long hour, until exhaustion set in, the sorcerer laid bare his soul before his Maker and prayed for forgiveness. Let it be granted to him that he should work out his salvation in the cell of a monk, sworn to perpetual silence, and he would be content.

  When the morning broke through the grey mists of the marshes, Dr. Wycherley and Jeanne Dorthez were leading by the hand over the marsh-path a blind man who murmured continuously the prayers he had learnt in his youth.

  Behind them smoke curled up from the hut of the sorcerer that was. Dr. Wycherley had set fire to it so that the ghastly tokens and records it contained might never fall into the hands of any human being.

  MORIS KLAW IN

  THE IVORY STATUE

  SAX ROHMER

  The name of Sax Rohmer, the writing persona of Arthur Sarsfield Ward (1883–1959), will forever be associated with the character of the Oriental supervillain Fu Manchu, whose stories first appeared in 1912 and continued through to Rohmer’s death. The success of the books plus the many film, radio, and television adaptations made the name of Fu Manchu famous, almost a synonym for all Oriental villains, but in so doing they overshadowed much of Rohmer’s other work. This includes the character of Moris Klaw, the “dream detective,” whose stories first appeared in 1913, soon after the first Fu Manchu adventures. Klaw is an odd individual, usually almost entirely draped in a black cape, with skin showing that he is of a great age, yet he has a young, beautiful, and seemingly ageless daughter, Isis. Klaw runs a curio shop full of ancient relics that form just part of his knowledge of and connection with the past. Klaw believes that everything has a personality, a vibration, and by sleeping at the location of any crime or disturbance, he is able to connect with events which come to him in a dream. Hence his soubriquet and the title of the collection, The Dream Detective, which appeared in 1920. The stories tend to be impossible crimes rather than true supernatural cases, but it is Klaw and his paraphernalia that make this series so effective.