He looked down at himself, ran his hands over his face. He had not changed. And yet he knew that he was different. He had taken the full force of the radiation this time and apparently it had completed the change begun three years ago. He was not the same David Heath, perhaps, but he was no longer trapped in the no-man’s-land between the old and the new.
He no longer felt that he was going to die and he no longer wished to. He was filled with a great strength and a great joy. He could bring his Ethne back now and they could live on together here in the golden garden of the Moonfire.
It would have to be here. He was sure of that. He had only been into the fringe of the Moonfire before, but he did not believe that that was the whole reason why he could create nothing but shadows. There was not a sufficient concentration of the raw energy upon which the mind’s telekinetic power worked.
Probably, even in the outer mists of the Moonfire, there were not enough free electrons. But here, close to the source, the air was raging with them. Raw stuff of matter, to be shaped and formed.
David Heath rose to his feet. He lifted his head and his arms reached out longingly. Straight and shining and strong he stood in the living light and his dark face was the face of a happy god.
“Ethne,” he whispered. “Ethne. This is not the end of the dream, but the beginning!”
And she came.
By the power, the exultant strength that was in him, Heath brought her out of the Moonfire. Ethne, slim and smiling, indistinct at first, a shadow in the mist, but growing clearer, coming toward him. He could see her white limbs, the pale flame of her hair, her red mouth bold and sweet, her wistful eyes.
Heath recoiled with a cry. It was not Ethne who stood before him. It was Alor.
For a time he could not move but stared at what he had created. The apparition smiled at him and her face was the face of a woman who has found love and with it the whole world.
“No,” he said. “It isn’t you I want. It’s Ethne!” He struck the thought of Alor from his mind and the image faded and once again he called Ethne to him.
And when she came it was not Ethne but Alor.
He destroyed the vision. Rage and disappointment almost too great to bear drove him to wander in the fog. Alor, Alor! Why did that wench of the temple gardens haunt him now?
He hated her, yet her name sang in his heart and would not be silenced. He could not forget how she had kissed him and how her eyes had looked then and how her last desperate cry had been for him.
He could not forget that his own heart had shaped her image while only his mind, his conscious mind, had said the name of Ethne.
He sat down and bent his head over his knees and wept, because he knew now that this was the end of the dream. He had lost the old love forever without knowing it. It was a cruel thing, but it was true. He had to make his peace with it.
And already Alor might be dead.
That thought cut short his grieving for what was gone. He leaped up, filled with dread. He stood for a moment, looking wildly about, and the vapor was like golden water so that he could see only a few feet away. Then he began to run, shouting her name.
For what might have been centuries in that timeless place he ran, searching for her. There was no answer to his cries. Sometimes he would see a dim figure crouching in the mist, and he would think that he had found her but each time it was the body of a man, dead for God knew how long. They were all alike. They were emaciated, as though they had died of starvation and they were all smiling. There seemed to be lost visions still in their open eyes.
These were the gods of the Moonfire—the handful of men through all the ages who had fought their way through to the ultimate goal.
Heath saw the cruelty of the jest. A man could find godhead in the golden lake. He could create his own world within it. But he could never leave it unless he were willing to leave also the world in which he was king. They would have learned that, these men, as they started back toward the harbor, away from the source.
Or perhaps there was more to it. Perhaps they never tried to leave.
Heath went on through the beautiful unchanging mist, calling Alor’s name, and there was no answer. He realized that it was becoming more difficult for him to keep his mind on his quest. Half-formed images flickered vaguely around him. He grew excited and there was an urgency in him to stop and bring the visions clear, to build and create.
He fought off the temptation but there came a time when he had to stop because he was too tired to go on. He sank down and the hopelessness of his search came over him. Alor was gone and he could never find her. In utter dejection he crouched there, his face buried in his hands, thinking of her, and all at once he heard her voice speaking his name. He started up and she was there, holding out her hands to him.
He caught her to him and stroked her hair and kissed her, half sobbing with joy at having found her. Then a sudden thought came to him. He drew back and said, “Are you really Alor or only the shadow of my mind?”
She did not answer but only held up her mouth to be kissed again.
Heath turned away, too weary and hopeless even to destroy the vision. And then he thought, “Why should I destroy it? If the woman is lost to me why shouldn’t I keep the dream?”
He looked at her again and she was Alor, clothed in warm flesh, eager-eyed.
The temptation swept over him again and this time he did not fight it. He was a god, whether he wished it or not. He would create.
He threw the whole force of his mind against the golden mist, and the intoxication of sheer power made him drunk and mad with joy.
The glowing cloud drew back to become a horizon and a sky. Under Heath’s feet an island grew, warm sweet earth, rich with grass and rioting with flowers, a paradise lost in a dreaming sea. Wavelets whispered on the wide beaches, the drooping fronds of the liha-trees stirred lazily in the wind and bright birds darted, singing. Snug in the little cove a ship floated, a lovely thing that angels might have built.
Perfection, the unattainable wish of the soul. And Alor was with him to share it.
He knew now why no one had ever come out of the Moonfire.
He took the vision of Alor by the hand. He wandered with it along the beaches and presently he was aware of something missing. He smiled, and once again the little dragon rode his shoulder and he stroked it and there was no least flaw in this Elysium. David Heath had found his godhead.
But some stubborn corner of his heart betrayed him. It said, This is all a lie and Alor waits for you. If you tarry you and she will be as those others, who are dead and smiling in the Moonfire.
He did not want to listen. He was happy. But something made him listen and he knew that as long as the real Alor lived he could not really be content with a dream. He knew that he must destroy this paradise before it destroyed him. He knew that the Moonfire was a deadly thing and that men could not be given the power of gods and continue sane.
And yet he could not destroy the island. He could not!
Horror overcame him that he had so far succumbed, that he could no longer control his own will. And he destroyed the island and the sea and the lovely ship and it was harder than if he had torn his own flesh from the bones.
And he destroyed the vision of Alor.
He knew that if he wished to escape the madness and the death of the Moonfire he must not again create so much as a blade of grass. Nothing. Because he would never again have the strength to resist the unholy joy of creation.
7 To Walk Divine
Once more he ran shouting through the golden fog. And it might have been a year or only a moment later that he heard Alor’s voice very faintly in the distance, calling his name.
He followed the sound, crying out more loudly, but he did not hear her again. Then, looming in shadowy grandeur through the mist, he saw a castle. It was a typical Upland stronghold but it was larger than the castle of any barbarian king and it was built out of one huge crimson jewel of the sort called Dragon’s Blood.
&
nbsp; Heath knew that he was seeing part of Broca’s dream.
Steps of beaten gold led up to a greater door. Two tall warriors, harness blazing with gems, stood guard. Heath went between them and they caught and held him fast. Broca’s hatred for the Earthman was implicit in the beings his mind created.
Heath tried to tear himself free but their strength was more than human. They took him down fantastic corridors, over floors of pearl and crystal and precious metals. The walls were lined with open chests, full of every sort of treasure the barbarian mind could conceive. Slaves went silent footed on their errands and the air was heavy with perfume and spices. Heath thought how strange it was to walk through the halls of another man’s dream.
He was brought into a vast room where many people feasted. There were harpists and singers and dancing girls and throngs of slaves, men who wrestled and men who fought and danced with swords. The men and women at the long tables looked like chieftains and their wives but they wore plain leather and tunics without decoration, so that Broca’s guardsmen and even his slaves were more resplendent than they.
Above the shouting and the revelry Broca sat, high on a throne-chair that was made like a silver dragon with its jeweled wings spread wide. He wore magnificent harness and a carved diamond that only a high king may wear hung between his eyebrows. He drank wine out of a golden cup and watched the feasting with eyes that had in them no smallest flicker of humanity. God or demon, Broca was no longer a man.
Alor sat beside him. She wore the robes of a queen but her face was hidden in her hands and her body was still as death.
Heath’s cry carried across all the noise of the feast. Broca leaped to his feet and an abrupt silence fell. Everyone, guards, chieftains and slaves, turned to watch as Heath was led toward the throne—and they all hated him as Broca hated.
Alor raised her head and looked into his eyes. And she asked, in his own words, “Are you really David or only the shadow of my mind?”
“I am David,” he told her and was glad he had destroyed his paradise.
Broca’s mad gaze fixed on Heath. “I didn’t think you had the strength,” he said, and then he laughed. “But you’re not a god! You stand there captive and you have no power.”
Heath knew that he could fight Broca on his own grounds but he did not dare. One taste of that ecstasy had almost destroyed him. If he tried it again he knew that he and the barbarian would hurl their shadow-armies against each other as long as they lived and he would be as mad as Broca.
He looked about him at the hostile creatures who were solid and real enough to kill him at Broca’s word. Then he said to Alor, “Do you wish to stay here now?”
“I wish to go out of the Moonfire with you, David, if I can. If not I wish to die.”
The poison had not touched her yet. She had come without desire. Though she had bathed in the Moonfire she was still sane.
Heath turned to Broca. “You see, she isn’t worthy of you.”
Broca’s face was dark with fury. He took Alor between his great hands and said, “You will stay with me. You’re part of me. Listen, Alor. There’s nothing I can’t give you. I’ll build other castles, other tribes, and I’ll subdue them and put them in your lap. God and goddess together, Alor! We’ll reign in glory.”
“I’m no goddess,” Alor said. “Let me go.”
And Broca said, “I’ll kill you, first.” His gaze lowered on Heath. “I’ll kill you both.”
Heath said, “Do the high gods stoop to tread on ants and worms? We don’t deserve such honor, she and I. We’re weak and even the Moonfire can’t give us strength.”
He saw the flicker of thought in Broca’s face and went on. “You’re all-powerful, there’s nothing you can’t do. Why burden yourself with a mate too weak to worship you? Create another Alor, Broca! Create a goddess worthy of you!”
After a moment Alor said, “Create a woman who can love you, Broca, and let us go.”
For a time there was silence in the place. The feasters and the dancers and the slaves stood without moving and their eyes glittered in the eerie light. And then Broca nodded.
“It is well,” he said. “Stand up, Alor.”
She stood. The look of power came into the face of the tall barbarian, the wild joy of molding heart’s desire out of nothingness. Out of the golden air he shaped another Alor. She was not a woman but a thing of snow and flame and wonder, so that beside her the reality appeared drab and beautiless. She mounted the throne and sat beside her creator and put her hand in his and smiled.
Broca willed the guardsmen to let Heath free. He went to Alor and Broca said contemptuously, “Get out of my sight.”
They went together across the crowded place, toward the archway through which Heath had entered. Still there was silence and no one moved.
As they reached the archway it vanished, becoming solid wall. Behind them Broca laughed and suddenly the company burst also into wild jeering laughter.
Heath caught Alor tighter by the hand and led her toward another door. It, too, disappeared and the mocking laughter screamed and echoed from the vault.
Broca shouted, “Did you think that I would let you go—you two who betrayed me when I was a man? Even a god can remember!”
Heath saw that the guardsmen and the others were closing in, and he saw how their eyes gleamed. He was filled with a black fear and he put Alor behind him.
Broca cried, “Weakling! Even to save your life, you can’t create!”
It was true. He dared not. The shadow-people drew in upon him with their soulless eyes and their faces that were mirrors of the urge to kill.
And then, suddenly, the answer came. Heath’s answer rang back. “I will not create—but I will destroy!”
Once again he threw the strength of his mind against the Moonfire but this time there was no unhealthy lure to what he did. There was no desire in him but his love for Alor and the need to keep her safe.
The hands of the shadow-people reached out and dragged him away from Alor. He heard her scream and he knew that if he failed they would both be torn to pieces. He summoned all the force that was in him, all the love.
He saw the faces of the shadow-people grow distorted and blurred. He felt their grip weaken and suddenly they were only shadows, a dim multitude in a crumbling castle of dreams.
Broca’s goddess faded with the dragon throne and Broca’s kingly harness was only a web of memories half seen above the plain leather.
Broca leaped to his feet with a wild, hoarse cry.
Heath could feel how their two minds locked and swayed on that strange battleground. And as Broca fought to hold his vision, willing the particles of energy into the semblance of matter, so Heath fought to tear them down, to disperse them. For a time the shadows held in that half-world between existence and nothingness.
Then the walls of the castle wavered and ran like red water and were gone. The goddess Alor, the dancers and the slaves and the chieftains, all were gone, and there were only the golden fog and a tall barbarian, stripped of his dreams, and the man Heath and the woman Alor.
Heath looked at Broca and said, “I am stronger than you, because I threw away my godhead.”
Broca panted. “I will build again!”
Heath said, “Build.”
And he did, his eyes blazing, his massive body shaken with the force of his will.
It was all there again, the castle and the multitude of feasters and the jewels.
Broca screamed to his shadow-people. “Kill!”
But again, as their hands reached out to destroy, they began to weaken and fade.
Heath cried, “If you want your kingdom, Broca, let us go!”
The castle was now no more than a ghostly outline. Broca’s face was beaded with sweat. His hands clawed the air. He swayed with his terrible effort but Heath’s dark eyes were bleak and stern. If he had now the look of a god it was a god as ruthless and unshakeable as fate.
The vision crumbled and vanished.
Broca’s
head dropped. He would not look at them from the bitterness of his defeat. “Get out,” he whispered. “Go and let Vakor greet you.”
Heath said, “It will be a cleaner death than this.”
Alor took his hand and they walked away together through the golden mist. They turned once to look back and already the castle walls were built again, towering magnificent.
“He’ll be happy,” Heath said, “until he dies.”
Alor shuddered. “Let us go.”
They went together, away from the pulsing heart of the Moonfire, past the slopes of the crater and down the long way to the harbor. Finally they were aboard the Ethne once again.
As they found their slow way out through the island maze Heath held Alor in his arms. They did not speak. Their lips met often with the poignancy of kisses that will not be for long. The golden mists thinned and the fire faded in their blood and the heady sense of power was gone but they did not know nor care.
They came at last out of the veil of the Moonfire and saw ahead the green sail of the Lahal, where Vakor waited.
Alor whispered, “Goodbye, my love, my David!” and left the bitterness of her tears upon his mouth.
The two ships lay side by side in the still water. Vakor was waiting as Heath and Alor came aboard with the other Children of the Moon beside him. He motioned to the seamen who stood there also and said, “Seize them.”
But the men were afraid and would not touch them.
Heath saw their faces and wondered. Then, as he looked at Alor, he realized that she was not as she had been before. There was something clean and shining about her now, a new depth and a new calm strength, and in her eyes a strange new beauty. He knew that he himself had changed. They were no longer gods, he and Alor, but they had bathed in the Moonfire and they would never again be quite the same.
He met Vakor’s gaze and was not afraid.
The cruel, wolfish face of the priest lost some of its assurance. A queer look of doubt crossed over it.
He said, “Where is Broca?”
“We left him there, building empires in the mist.”
The Best of Leigh Brackett Page 18
