Walton’s courage perished at that last. Makkara feared the sun! Then desperation and horror steeled him to his bold play. He savored his brandy, wet his tongue, inhaled, swallowed the suave liquor.
“Come with me tonight,” smiled Walton. “I will prove that you are mistaken. You will wait outside the wall. You will listen, while I ask her. Then when I give you the signal—when she denies—you will confront her. With a cross. A holy relic. Something that no such creature could touch. But you must promise not to look at her face.”
Girgis bowed, readjusted his tall black miter. “I swear that I will respect your lady’s honor, if any human woman can be mad enough to live out in the western marches of the dead.”
“Let us go, then,” proposed Walton.
That damned priest would be caught off guard; he could not have anticipated this proposal. There could not be a trap this very night. And Walton now understood enough to know how to settle all at one stroke; he would escape Egypt forevermore, escape the doom over his head, prove Makkara for what she was. Free—free—his soul his own again!
The priest did not suspect the trap. While Walton went to find a hat, he also found a knife. The desert hides every clue but bones…
Walton parked beyond the lake. He deftly edged the priest from the gate, and locked it behind him. Let Girgis snoop. No one had followed. It was a long walk from Cairo.
Makkara was waiting. Had she emerged from the fountain, bare and dripping, agleam in the moonlight, her olive-hued beauty would have dazed him; but that frail mist of silvered-rose was an enchantment that stirred every sense, piqued him by its half concealment, inflamed him by the glimpses its parted folds gave of the flesh beneath.
Makkara had ripened in these weeks. Her ethereal body, at first scarcely more than desire enclosed in form, was full and vibrant, substantial as Bint Anath. “You are late,” she sighed, and the dark flame of that ancient land was in the breath she exhaled into his ear. “I’ve been worried.”
She led him into the house. A hot wind stirred the desert. There was too much fire in her for any that the simun could add. And the glow of tapers kissed her breast and legs, worked magic with her eyes. So that Walton forgot that a priest lurked outside, smiling into his curled beard…
At last she lifted her veiled eyes and murmured, “You’ve kissed the red from my mouth, and my curls are all ruined.”
He knew she would say that. He watched her swaying hips as she glided toward the darkened door with a taper to light her way into the room where age old rouge pots and—no, there were no mirrors in that room! This he knew; and a chill gripped him.
No mirrors. Those who have no shadow can not use a mirror. God…that accursed Girgis had told him something he could not shake off.
“I’ve got to know—I’ve got to—”
His hand trembled so that the taper he seized cast wavering forms on the floor. Makkara always arranged them so that they could not throw his own shadow any more than hers…a thought that forced him on, that made his legs sag beneath him.
But desperation drove Walton into the room where Maât-ka-Ra smiled at the bread cakes at her feet. She ate the astral substance of the loaf. Thus each day it had to be renewed, when Walton brought food from Cairo.
He faced her. He approached. He cursed Girgis, but he could not deny the challenge. He feared Makkara’s woe, but Girgis threatened his life. He had to destroy that mummy. It was wound with linen dried by two thousand torrid years. It was filled with myhrr and olibanum that fire would set aflame. This was the last clue. Destroy it, and mock the law. What if Makkara turned against him, denounced him?
Kiss her—kiss her out of that insane whim—who would believe her?
He drew the mummy cover aside. The woman in the case was a cocoon of brown linen. He plucked at the folds, tore them. God, what horror! A clean skeleton is otherwise; but this thing had leather stretched over the high cheek bones that reminded him sickeningly of Makkara. The lips were drawn back over teeth like Makkara’s, and the curled dead hair was like hers.
The hot breeze stirred the dust of crumbling flesh and cloth. The spicy, fragrant foulness of it was on his lips. He clawed the breast wrappings, exposed the dried mockery of Makkara’s sweet curves. He couldn’t have—
The dead dust swirled. Cassia and cedar and myrrh that was bitter as death. His brain was a whirling ball of fire. But he clawed. And he saw on that withered skin the sacred scarabeus birthmark. The two women were one.
He yelled as the truth seared and froze him. He touched the taper flame to the linen, and fire lapped the wrappings. The resins and aromatic gums crackled to blazing life; dense fumes choked him, reached out to stifle him, make him fall and be consumed by the fire of sacrilege.
Walton reeled. The burning column toppled, scorching his hair. It fell across the gilded lid with its painted hieroglyphs. Time seemed to halt, yet before he flung himself toward the door, a woman’s scream stabbed him, and the dolorous echoes flung it back.
“Oh—you’ve killed me—Eric—Oh, Lord Osiris, father of the Gods—forgive me for seeking life—Great Amen—”
But Makkara’s prayer ended in a shriek that became a dry rattle as of pebbles shaken in a skull. Walton knew then that Girgis told the truth; that the elements of the body could not be kept together when the shell was gone. He had destroyed that old magic, destroyed the wonder that each night kissed him to ecstasy.
And the realization maddened him. “Oh, God—I’ve killed her—Maât-ka-Ra—Makkara—I had to—they made me—I didn’t know—I’d kill you—”
He ran into the other room, but a single taper wavered over pots of rouge. He fled into the garden, screaming, “Makkara—your grandmother’s mummy—Maât-ka-Ra—Maât-ka-Ra—”
He jerked the bolt aside, opened the gate. Deadly sweet fumes of burning surged out after him. A bearded man in a tall miter was running toward Walton’s car. The keys were in the lock.
“Girgis! Wait!” he croaked. “Wait—”
But Girgis had heard. He was waiting for no madman. Walton’s long legs won. He leaped, pulling the priest from the running board.
“You will go to the police,” Walton snarled, shaken by fury that drove out his deadly grief.
But the priest was strong, wiry. Panic made him stronger. And Walton was dying with that woman who had died in flames. He had to kill Girgis quickly, or not at all. He could not reach for his knife; the Copt’s frenzy gave him no chance. He’d run across the desert on foot—
Then Walton knew that he had no chance. A woman was watching the struggle by the moon’s light. Bint Anath, eyes aflame. Bint Anath had followed for vengeance.
Walton stumbled, and the priest was on top of him. Walton’s own knife gleamed in that thin, powerful hand. They grappled, strained; death hovered in the hot wind of the night.
His fury had faded, and desolation seized him; Makkara was gone. Bint Anath was a witness. What the priest did not tell, she would. And Walton could not kill a second woman that night. His soul already was dead within him.
“Help!” wheezed the priest as Walton’s body did what his will could not do. “Help—Bint Anath—God—”
The blade was reversing. Steel gleamed in Bint Anath’s hand. It vanished between the priest’s shoulders. Walton sank with his enemy, tasted the bloody froth coughed from bearded lips. The living and the dead were alike when they fell twitching in the sand, and the sweet stench of burning reached again from the house.
Bint Anath tore the dagger from Girgis’ hand.
The screams that echoed in Walton’s ears made him say, “Strike—I killed your brother—I killed Makkara—”
Bint Anath laughed, flung the blade aside, tugged at the priest’s body until it rolled clear. She knelt beside Walton, and her tears washed the blood from his face.
“Now you’re mine—always mine—he hasn’t told the police—that he rec
ognized your servant’s coat—he had given it to Hassan—he wanted to be sure he had a case—to doom you—”
Walton sat up, bemused. “I know,” sobbed Bint Anath. “He told me about her. I was going to help him avenge Hofni. But I always loved you. And Hofni—Allah curse duty—I have you now—I saw too much of you, trying to trap you, and my love conquered my hate—”
He believed her, for he had seen the passion of that dark land conquer death. They sat there for a long time, and he forgot that she was the desire of all Cairo.
Egypt had taken him. He could not escape, and when Bint Anath’s lips kissed the dust of death from his mouth, he was glad. She drew the dagger from the priest’s body, and as they left the desert, the simun’s flaming breath enticed sand to hide their footprints. Though fire had claimed the woman in the case, her arms reached even from the grave to keep him in that black land.
APPRENTICE MAGICIAN
Originally published in Weird Tales, August 1939.
The minute I saw Uncle Simon, I knew there wasn’t a chance of fooling him about anything. Instead of being tall, like the rest of us Buckners, he was short. His face was pink and babyish, and the hair showing around the edges of his black skull-cap was just like cotton. You can’t ever fool these kind of simple-looking people, not when they’ve lived as long as Uncle Simon.
“So you’re Duke’s boy, Panther Warfield Buckner?” He looked halfway solemn, and halfway amused. “And you came all the way to California to see me. Well, well. That’s nice.”
We hadn’t written him, but he acted like he’d expected me.
He was Grandfather’s brother, but we always called him Uncle when we talked about how rich he was. Dad and the rest of the folks sent me to get friendly with Uncle Simon so he’d will me his property instead of giving it to a college or something. They figured since I’d been to high school I was bright enough to do that, but here I was, feeling doubtful already.
Uncle Simon reminded me of the sheriff who raided Grandfather’s still, back home in Georgia. I hadn’t been born more than a couple of days when that happened, but I saw him later. Then I was old enough to understand that Grandfather wearing stripes so much of the time was why I was named Panther.
“Hit’s because the Buckners don’t never change their stripes,” Dad would say, somewhat sourly.
The preacher said, “Duke, probably you’re thinking of the leopard that doesn’t change his spots.”
But Dad was stubborn. Nobody could tell him anything about the Scriptures. He wouldn’t read, and Grandfather couldn’t, so here I was with Uncle Simon smiling to himself about my name.
“It’s been mighty lonesome, Panther,” he said, looking up suddenly. “I’m getting pretty close to ninety and I’ve got a lot of work to do. Maybe you can help me.”
“I reckon I can, Uncle Simon.” When a man is near ninety, he won’t have long to work a fellow to death. “I can skin mules, and I can run a tractor, like some of these up-to-date plantations have.”
“Do you suppose you can run a still?”
“No, sir, but I can learn; though Dad said times were changing, and I ought to be a preacher or lawyer or something, which is why I went to high school.”
He looked at me and smiled like he was enjoying a good joke. “So instead of sending you to college, he sent you out here to see his Uncle Simon.”
I got red and began fumbling with the arms of my chair. The room was so big I could hardly see the further end of it, and the carpets looked like silk; deep and soft and shiny. A man smart enough to get all those things and a big house was too much for me. I said, “Uh—yes, sir.”
Uncle Simon’s eyes bored right through me, even though he was smiling and friendly. I was wondering why his voice was so young. It wasn’t particularly deep, but it didn’t crack like Grandfather’s.
“You came out here to inherit my money.”
I was sweating. I let out a deep breath, and brushed my cowlick from between my eyes, though it never does any good. Uncle Simon went on, “Well, I need an apprentice to learn my business. Do you know any Latin?”
I nodded, having spent three years on Latin One.
“Any Greek?”
“Yes, sir. A little,” though it wasn’t a thin dime’s worth.
“Any Hebrew?”
There was no use trying to fool him. “What I meant was, if I’d gone to the seminary to be a preacher, I’d have learned those things.”
“That’s all right. It won’t take you long.”
“Uncle Simon,” I blurted out, “what kind of a trade is this, where an apprentice has to know all those languages?”
“I’m a magician. The spells are in dead languages, or ignorant people would run around practising and hurting themselves.”
It was too late to back down. So I became a magician’s apprentice.
The work was interesting, sometimes though for a while I didn’t know but what Uncle Simon was mocking me. He hadn’t promised me I’d be his heir if I did work right, and I couldn’t think of any way to bring the subject up again. Whenever I’d get around to it, he’d start conjuring.
There was the time we were out in the garden. The house was inside of a high stone wall with spikes that sloped in, and some that pointed out, so getting over it from either direction was mighty near impossible unless you could fly. Uncle Simon kept the key to the gate. Anyway, we were standing about ten feet away from the live coals in the bottom of the dry swimming-pool in the yard.
My hands were blistered from chopping wood for the fire. He didn’t have any help, colored or white, excepting me. It was a shame to drain that pool. And the heat of the coals was scorching the leaves of the big fig-tree. I wiped off some sweat and leaned on my rake and said, “Uncle Simon, when a man gets your age, he hadn’t ought to work like you do.”
“Age don’t affect me like it does most folks.” He sat down on a stone bench and untied his shoe laces. “Take off your shoes!”
I guess I looked silly, but Dad taught me to mind when I was spoken to. In a minute I was blinking and barefooted. It’s funny how quick you get used to wearing shoes. But another funny thing was how Uncle Simon had changed the subject. I was still figuring out another way of working up to him changing his will when he beckoned and said, “Now we’re going to take a walk. Won’t hurt you a bit.”
“Shucks, Uncle Simon, my feet are pretty tough.”
He rubbed his hands and chuckled. “We’re walking in that fire. A first-class apprentice has to learn that one. You won’t be burnt unless you’re scared.”
He didn’t argue. He didn’t even look back. He just climbed down the ladder and began walking barefooted across the coals. I could see thin bits of ash crack off where his feet sunk in a little.
When I got to the bottom of a ladder, at the shallow end, I could smell the hot blast scorching the cuffs of his pants. They were frayed a bit, and it was the loose threads that curled up. But Uncle Simon didn’t notice that. He made a funny humming noise, like he was singing with his teeth clenched. It made me dizzy to watch him.
The whole floor of the pool was dancing and waving up and down like a rug getting shook out. I felt like the time I drunk a mason jar of Grandfather’s corn whisky. I got mad, too. Changing the subject every time I aimed to ask him about his will! Trying to mock me and make be act scared!
So I took a step—a long one. I’d seen the blacksmith pick up chunks of red-hot iron, only he dropped them real quick, and maybe that was the trick. But I pretty nearly forgot to keep on walking, I was so surprised.
My feet didn’t feel hot. Just my face and hands. I was hearing music. It was heathen-sounding—deep notes that boomed, and funny little ones like someone whistling and crying at the same time. But it was the brass that made me shake all over. I was shivering, and I wanted to holler and dance and fight. Trumpets yelling, and gongs whanging like they couldn�
��t stop if they wanted to.
The fire began to change color. It got blue and then purple. It seemed like Uncle Simon was walking down a covered bridge all roofed over with flames. A twisting hole reached way beyond the yard. I couldn’t tell whether it was going up, down or straight.
Then I saw things like the postmaster must’ve, when he had the DT’s, only these were so beautiful I couldn’t believe it. There was a green woman, ’way off. Sometimes she had a lion’s head growing right from her neck, and again, she had the prettiest human face I ever saw. She reached her arms toward me, as though she didn’t see Uncle Simon at all.
I couldn’t see him any more, either, and I wasn’t scared. I ran toward her. The music was hitting me like a hammer now, and echoes began telling me what her name was.
Then it all faded out. I was on the bottom of the pool, past the coals. Uncle Simon had his hand on my shoulder. “When your legs are steady enough to climb, get out,” he said. “It’s all-fired hot. You aren’t burnt, are you?”
“Not a bit.” I wasn’t, though I still couldn’t believe it. “Who was that green girl that was changing her face all the time?”
“What’s that?” Uncle Simon looked at me narrow-eyed, and dropped his shoe. “When was this?”
“Back there, when the music started.”
He lifted his black cap and rubbed his bald spot. He hadn’t ever looked as thoughtful, not even when he was giving me lessons in Hebrew and Greek. Then he smiled and said, “You did pretty good for a beginner, Panther. It’s mighty near time for you to study spells and incantations.”
He walked away, like he’d forgotten I was there. If Father knew how I’d missed another chance to ask about that will, he’d beat me with a harness tug. He always claimed that until I was old enough to vote, an occasional whaling was a good way to build character. I hadn’t dared write to tell him I was becoming a magician, but it looked now as if I’d ought to. Uncle Simon sure was a good one.
That evening I got a real surprise. He poked his head out of the library and asked me to come in. This was the first time he ever let me see what was in back of that locked door.
The E. Hoffmann Price Fantasy & Science Fiction Page 12
