In the moment before he hit the ground, Mandeville suddenly realised: art, true art, has no urge to escape to the outside, it wants instead to bring the outside in, to make itself the centre of a world that it defines.
The last thing he saw as he fell past the sun corridor’s floor-length windows were the myriad images that the woman had left of herself across the inside of the glass, and he smiled.
Falling, colliding, escaping, these were human things and he was, at least, human and free to fall.
EVANGELINE WALTON
They That Have Wings
EVANGELINE WALTON (1907–96) was the pseudonym used by Evangeline Wilna Ensley. Born to a Quaker family in Indianapolis, Indiana, she suffered from chronic respiratory illness as a child. Treated with silver nitrate tincture, her fair skin absorbed the pigment and turned blue-grey, which continued to darken as she aged.
She grew up reading the works of L. Frank Baum, Lord Dunsany, Algernon Blackwood and James Stephens, and most of her fiction was written between the 1920s and the early 1950s.
Inspired by the Welsh Mabinogi, her first novel, The Virgin and the Swine was published in 1936, but it was not until it was reissued as The Island of the Mighty in 1970, as part of the Ballantine Adult Fantasy Series, that the subsequent three books in the series – The Children of Lyr, The Song of Rhiannon and Prince of Annwn – saw print. All four novels were collected in an omnibus volume, The Mabinogian Tetralogy, in 2002.
Meanwhile, Witch House was published in 1945 as the initial title in the “Library of Arkham House Novels of Fantasy and Terror”, and her other novels include The Cross and the Sword and The Sword is Forged.
More recently, Centipede Press has published a new collection of the author’s work, Above Ker-Is and Other Stories, which includes four previously unpublished tales, and an expanded re-issue of her second novel, Witch House, which again contains bonus material.
During her lifetime, she was honoured with three Mythopoeic Fantasy Awards and two Locus Awards. She also received the World Fantasy Convention Award in 1985 and the World Fantasy Award for Life Achievement in 1989.
At the time of her death, Walton left behind a number of unpublished novels, poems and a verse play. The author’s family has been working with Douglas A. Anderson in going through her papers, where they also discovered a handful of unpublished short stories. These include the tale that follows, which originally appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction.
Although the author had one story published in Weird Tales (“At the End of the Corridor” in the May 1950 issue), it appears from a letter to her agent, dated 8 May that same year, that “The Unique Magazine” rejected “They That Have Wings” for being “too gory”.
So, after more than six decades, it is my great pleasure to present this “lost” Weird Tales story of World War II by one of the genre’s most meticulous practitioners . . .
TWENTY-NINTH MAY: BERT Madden, Ronnie Lingard and I are in flight through the White Mountains. What will happen to us, God knows; we have become lost from the others, and there is no hope of succour. Nobody will come to look for us unless it is the Germans; nobody can come to look for us. We have known, ever since the at tempt to retake the Maleme airdrome failed, that Crete was lost.
We could go faster if it were not for Ronnie. He is British, a flier, who was left behind hospitalized when what remained of our wrecked air force (not over a dozen planes, I think) was or dered out of Crete. He is slight, fair-haired, a boy not yet out of his teens, I am sure, though he casually told us that he is twenty. To say that makes him feel more dignified; I know boys. He has a leg wound that causes him to limp, and Bert and I take turns supporting him. Bert tries to do more than his share; he is a huge man, tough and burly, a stockman from western Queensland. But al though I, John Ogilvy, was only a New Guinea schoolmaster before the war, scrawny and civilised and not used to using my muscles, I am as tough as he. As well able to help the lad.
If and while anybody can help him. There is still snow on the White Mountains. The winds cut like knives, and the barren rocks all about us rise to sharp points. Rocks that a man with two good legs can hardly climb. Not since yesterday have we seen any sign of human habitation, of other living beings. At first we did not mind; it was so good to get out of sight and sound of the Stukas, of the bombs and bullets that had been falling among us like a deadly, fiery hail. Little things that in a moment could change a man to a screaming, mutilated lump of flesh. Or leave no man at all; only a silent, bloody carcass.
But now we are beginning to be afraid. We must rest; we have stopped now; that is how, for the first time in days, I happen to be writing in this diary; it is easier to do that than to keep my hands still. But we cannot stay here; there is not an inch of dryness, of shelter, anywhere. Twice already Bert has helped Ronnie move. The boy does not want to; he wants nothing except to lie still. But if he does so for long at a time the warmth of his body (strange to think of warmth in our bodies!) melts the snow upon the rocks.
He is not strong, as Bert and I are. He will catch pneumonia if we stay here. And he must have food; none of us has eaten in more than forty-eight hours. Before too long we must all have food. A man can go only so long without—
A bird has just flown over us. Queer that the sight of a bird, the dark shadow of its wings upon the snow, should have the power to reduce three grown men to gibbering fear. But we all crouched and covered our faces, and Ronnie screamed; I dropped this book. Anything in the air above us still makes us think of a Stuka. And this was a very large, dark bird.
It has come back. It is circling low above us, as if curi ous. For a second, its dark, beady eyes met mine; more intelli gent, more sinister, than I ever thought a bird’s eyes could be. I cannot think what breed it is; I have never seen one like it, either in reality or in photographs. We cannot be frightened now; we know it is no plane; and yet something in the rustling of its wings, in that dark, moving shadow on the snow—
All of a sudden Bert turned over and fired at it, as it wheeled there in the air above us. I saw the revolver flash fire in his hand. The report, reverberating from rocky height to rocky height, was deafening. But the bird did not even seem frightened. It merely turned again, leisurely and lightly, in the air. Not hit; not disturbed.
Bert leaped to his feet, his face was convulsed with rage and fear. “Damn you!” he yelled. “We’ll get you! – not you us!” He emptied his revolver into it, it seemed – I have never known a better shot than Bert.
Yet still the bird wheeled on, calm, graceful there, low in the sky. Not a feather fell.
Ronnie laughed. “If there’s any eating done, it’s going to do it, old man. Not us.”
That is what we are afraid of, of course. Why our shot nerves did not quiet when we realised that there was no plane above us. The ancient danger, older than planes. The fate that, through the ages, has come upon unlucky travellers in deserts and upon men left dying upon battlefields. Rustling wings and tear ing beaks.
I laughed, but it was not a good laugh. I said, “Shut up, Ronnie. It’s not as bad as that, yet. Sit down, Bert.”
Bert sat down. His tanned, leathery face looked queerly pale; a kind of yellowish, mottled grey. He licked his lips.
“I can’t understand,” he said. “I ought to ’ve hit that thing. I ought to have hit it several times over.”
“It must be deaf,” I said, frowning. “I never heard of a bird so tame it wouldn’t run from gun-fire.”
We were all silent a moment, digesting that. The unnatural thing, the thing that has bothered me from the beginning. Then Bert cursed.
“That – thing ain’t no pet!” he said feelingly. “I’d hate to think who’d have it for a pet.”
And somehow, at those last words, we all shuddered; I do not know why.
“It seems to be watching us,” Ronnie said. “Look.”
And we did. We are. The bird is staying near us. For the last quarter of an hour it has been flying back and forth, ba
ck and forth, between the two great, snow-rimed cliffs that tower above us. Sometimes it flies lower, sometimes higher, yet always I have the feeling that it is edging a little nearer to us, a lit tle closer. I do not think it is healthy to watch it; its movements are like a queer kind of dance; they fascinate. And yet, somehow, I do not like to look away. To turn my back . . .
Soon the sun will be setting. We will not be able to see the creature so well then. To know exactly where it is.
There is already a rim of fire above the western cliffs. And as I noticed that, the bird’s small, beady eyes seemed to catch mine again; jewel-bright, night-black, like tiny corridors of pol ished jet leading down, down, into unfathomable darkness.
Perhaps Bert saw them too, for he caught my arm. “Give me your gun, Johnny! I ain’t got no more bullets. And the light’ll soon be gone!”
But I shook my head. I said slowly, “What’s the use?”
Ronnie spoke dreamily. His eyes have become fixed, staring at the bird. “I wouldn’t try to hurt it. I think maybe it wants to help us. To lead us somewhere, like in the old stories.”
Bert laughed raucously; I was silent. I know the stories Ron nie means, the fairy tales he must have listened to, not so long ago, at his mother’s or his nurse’s knee; the old formula of the Helpful Beast or Bird. But I have never believed in those stories; I don’t now. And this imperturbable creature of darkness is not my idea of a helper.
But it is true that the pattern of its movements is changing. It flies farther and farther toward the north. And then, every time we hope that it is really leaving, it will stop and turn and hang in the air a moment. Then it will fly back toward us, swift and straight as an arrow, and halt, circling low, just above our heads. The last time that happened Bert cried out and ducked, putting his hands over his eyes.
Twilight: It has happened again. And worse this time. The creature hurtled itself upon us almost as a dive-bomber might. Its flapping wings, its sharp, bright beak, almost raked my face and Bert’s. Its beady eyes gleamed red as they glared into ours; demanding, commanding. But it only circled gently above Ronnie’s head. Tenderly.
It has flown off to the north again now. But it will be back. It does want us to follow it. And the light is going. Dare we risk a real attack, in the dark? We cannot stay here anyhow; not unless we want Ronnie to freeze. After all, can the bird lead us to a worse place than this may be if we stay?
5th June: I could laugh now, reading that last entry I made here. What queer tricks nerves can play on men who are starving and sick and unbalanced by the shock of events no man ever ought to see! No doubt there was a bird that had been deafened by the din of the Stukas, or by some natural cause. No doubt its failure to be start led by gunshots startled us and set our diseased imaginations off. Certainly it was blessed chance, no bird, that led us to the peace of this little house on the heights. Indeed, only Ronnie claims that he saw any bird during the last half of that terrible night-journey. Bert and I, sick, stumbling, holding him up as best we might, saw only low-hanging clouds about us; mists through which sometimes gleamed two tiny, luminous red points, like eyes.
But all troubles, real and imagined, seem far from us now. We need not fear that the Germans will ever find us, in this little place above the clouds. It is high enough to be a bird’s nest, guarded by almost impassable slopes of rock and ice. And the two women here are themselves like birds; they have the same light swiftness of motion, the same high, sweet voices, the same bright, dark eyes.
Aretoúla, the younger, has also a face that might have been carved on some ancient Greek coin. Her grandmother has the same delicate profile, grown beaky now, so that it reminds one a little of a bird of prey. Just as the thinness of her brown, wrinkled old hands sometimes makes one think of claws. But forty years ago I imagine that her body moved and curved with the same singing grace as Aretoúla’s.
They are very good to us. They are forever feeding us, con tinually bringing us tempting little trays because they knew that, at first, our shrunken stomachs could not hold much at a time. Forever apologising for the poor quality of what they have. They do not know how good their bread and honey and olives taste after the days of battle and flight and fear. When we try to tell them how good the old woman only shakes her head and says, almost fiercely, “There is no meat!” a hungry gleam in her black eyes.
It is natural, especially at her age, that she should crave, need meat. When I am a little better I will go out and set traps, as I used to do as a boy in New Guinea. We must give her meat; she has done a great deal for us.
Aretoúla never seems hungry. Aretoúla only holds out her lit tle trays and smiles and says softly: “See the sweet honey, kyrie. The honey and the good bread and the strong olives. The kyrios must eat, eat all he can, and grow well and strong again. Well and fat and strong.”
She has smiles enough for all of us; they bring out the dimples around her lovely mouth just as the sun brings out the unfolding petals of a flower. But the smiles in her eyes are warmest and deepest for Ronnie. Sometimes they make her dark eyes truly soft, take the hardness out of their brightness. I never realised, until this last week, that bright eyes are always hard.
But I am talking like the poet I always wanted to be. The po et very few poor school-teachers get to be. Aretoúla makes a poet of a man. I only hope she is not going to make a lovesick fool of Ronnie. It would be a great pity to repay old Kyra Stamata’s hospi tality with any kind of hurt. Too bad that the women speak so much English; I am the only one of us three who knows Greek. Perhaps young people do not need a common language.
They are very lonely up here. No neighbours ever seem to visit them; which, perhaps, it not too strange, considering at what an almost inaccessible height their little house is perched. Yet it seems a little queer that nobody ever comes.
Bert said so once, to the old woman; I would not have. And she looked down at her hands and said sadly:
“We are considered unlucky. My man died when we were both young, leaving me with but one child, a girl. And Aretoúla’s mother, too, lost Aretoúla’s father early. People are afraid to come, lest our ill-luck reach out to them.”
A strange thought, that. Of ill-luck as a dark, cloaked presence brooding above the house and ready to stretch out long, invisible arms to clutch anybody who may enter. And how cruel, that such a superstition should isolate two women.
Bert and I were both awkwardly sympathetic. We told old Kyra Stamata that when the war was over she ought to take Aretoúla and go down to some town or village. Where both of them could live nearer other women; where Aretoúla could meet young men.
But she shook her head. “No. In this house I was born, and in this house I will die. As my father and mother died, and my four brothers. My four tall, strong brothers. And after them my husband and my daughter’s husband.”
Bert said: “That’s hard on the girl. Never getting any where, never meeting any other young people.”
The old woman smiled. A sudden broad smile, so deeply amused that it lit her dark beady eyes, the few yellow teeth still showing under her jutting, beak-like nose, with a red glow oddly like evil. Like a secret, gloating greed.
“If a young man is meant to come to Aretoúla, one will come.”
6th June: I am afraid that Aretoúla thinks that young man has already come. And so does Ronnie. Tonight I heard them whispering together, out on the mountainside. Traces of snow still showed beneath their feet, but around them – so clear and fragrant that even a dried-up, prosaic codger like myself could catch it – was the breath of spring. Their arms were round each other, and his head was bent close to her dark one. I heard him saying:
“There must be a priest we can get to come up here, Aretoúla. My friends can go for him, even if I can’t, because of this blasted leg; I don’t know why it doesn’t mend.”
It is true that Ronnie’s leg is the only one of our ills that this rest here has not mended. He is lamer now than he was when we wandered on the hills. But no doubt
the strength of desperation bore him up then.
Aretoúla’s voice came, tender, velvety as a caressing hand: “Your leg will be well. All of you will be well. Wait, my Ronnie; only wait. With me.”
“I can’t wait much longer, Aretoúla. Not for you. The fel lows’ll be glad to go for a priest. And it’ll be safe. Your Cretans are a good sort – they don’t betray allies.”
She laughed and nuzzled her cheek against his. “Foolish one, my golden love, you do not have to wait! Not for Aretoúla. She is yours. As much so as any priest could make her. We will not ask your comrades to risk their lives among these mountain passes that they do not know. Among, perhaps, the Germans.”
He said stubbornly, very low: “I can’t do that, Aretoúla. What would your granny think? I can’t take advantage of you and her like that; not after all you’ve both done for us.”
She threw back her head then, looked up into his face. Even from where I stood, around the corner of the hut, I could see how the stars shone, reflected in her eyes.
“Listen, my Ronnie. Granny will understand. I see that I must tell you of sad things – things that I had hoped need not yet trouble us. No priest would come here, if your comrades went for him. They hold this place accursed.”
“But why – what—”
“You cannot understand, you who are English and so not superstitious. You do not know how the mother of my grandmother died raving mad, after she had tried to kill my grandmother, whom she called a striga, the murderess of her brothers. For three of them had died indeed, of some wasting sickness, and grief had turned the old woman’s brain, so that she remembered a legend of our people – one that is old, very old, among us. Of how sometimes a girl-child is born with a craving for food that is not meant for man. And with other gifts also – a striga.
“Yes, she would have killed my grandmother, her own child. Her husband and her remaining son had all they could do, strong men though they were, to drag her off her only daughter. And that night she died, raving. And soon they themselves died also, of the same sickness that had taken the others. But the words of the poor mother’s ravings lived, and my grandmother was left alone. None of the neighbours (for we had neighbours then, here on the mountain) would enter this house; none of her kin would take her in. All hated and feared her; all shunned her. Until my grandfather came climbing this way from another village in another valley – tall and strong and laughing, such a man as her brothers had been. And he laughed at the tales and loved her. All might have been different if he had lived – or if my father had lived. But now the curse has settled here, like a black bird brooding above this house forever. No man will ever marry Aretoúla.”
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 23 (Mammoth Books) Page 48
