Less than an hour ago, he, Menegai, had been sitting on an atap mat on the floor of his master’s house. Peteme (Peter Mace) had been studying books, as usual, with his elbows on the table and his head bent over the printed pages. Then, suddenly, without a word, Peteme had pushed back his chair, risen to his feet, and paced toward the ladder which led to the upstairs room.
Menegai had begun to be afraid, then. Always when his master retired to that secret attic, strange things happened. Peteme was never the same after returning from that chamber. He became heva—wrong in the head. He became like a man drunk with tuak, or like a man who had watched the titii e te epo, the dance of love, so long that his mind went mad with desire.
And this time was no exception. Soon, from the room overhead, came sounds without meaning. Voices muttered, and other voices chanted in unison. Louder and louder the sounds grew, until, after an eternity, they were climaxed in a woman’s scream—a horrible scream, as if some poor girl were being torn apart while yet alive. And then had come Peteme’s shrill voice, bellowing in triumph, shouting over and over:
“The seventh time draws near! The sixth ordeal is finished! Hear me, O Hastur! The sixth ordeal is finished!”
Menegai had crouched near the door, trembling and afraid. Never before had his master thundered in a voice so full of triumph. Never before had the woman in that dread room screamed in such agony. Never before had she screamed at all. How could she? He, Menegai, had seen her with his own eyes, one afternoon when he had dared to look into his master’s secret, forbidden chamber. She was a stone woman. How could a stone woman scream?
Terrified, Menegai had waited for his master to come down the ladder; and after a while Peteme had come, reeling and staggering and muttering to himself. Menegai had backed away from him and stared at him. Peteme had stood rigid, returning that stare with eyes full of red madness. Then, all at once, the white man had become like a devil crazed with atae—like a monster in the grip of rea inoeruru, the drug which makes men commit murder. Snarling horribly, he had flung himself forward.
“Damn you!” he had roared. “You’re like every one else on this blasted island! You think I’m mad! You came to spy on me, to laugh at me! By God, I’ll show you what happens to curiosity-seekers! I’ll show them all!”
Only by a miracle had Menegai escaped. The edge of the atap mat, curling under Peteme’s feet, had caused the white man to stumble. Menegai had flung the door open and raced over the threshold, screaming. Peteme had lurched after him. But Menegai had reached the jungle first; and in the jungle the Marquesan had fled to hiding-places where the white man dared not follow.
And now Menegai was here in my house, begging protection, and in my heart I knew that before another twenty-four hours had passed, the whole hideous affair of Peter Mace and the stone woman would reach its awful conclusion. And I was right—but before the twenty-four hours were up, something else occurred.
I was standing on the veranda of my house, and it was morning again, and the sun was a crimson ball of blood ascending from the blue waters of the lagoon. Menegai, the Marquesan, had crept away to his hut in the village. I was alone.
At first the thing I saw was merely a gray speck on the far horizon, so small that it might have been no speck at all, but merely my imagination. I put both hands to my eyes and peered out from under them; but my eyes were blinded from staring into the red sun, and presently I could see nothing but a glare of crimson. Yet that speck was there, and I knew it for what it was—a ship.
Later I saw it again, and while I stood staring at it, Menegai came running up the path, pointing and gesticulating excitedly.
“A schooner, Tavana!” he cried. “A schooner come here!”
Yes, a schooner was coming. But why? What could any tramp trader want with Faikana? In four years only one ship had visited our secluded island, and that ship had brought Peter Mace. It had brought unhappiness and horror, a madman and a woman of stone. Could this one be bringing a similar cargo?
I said nothing in answer to Menegai’s eager questions. In my heart I dreaded the coming of this new messenger from the outside. Menegai, peering up into my face, read my thoughts and ceased his chatter. Bewildered, he left me and hurried down to the beach. Long after he had gone, I stood staring, hoping against hope that the approaching vessel would somehow, at the last moment, change its course and depart again, leaving us to ourselves.
* * * *
Two hours later the schooner dropped anchor outside the reef, close enough to shore so that we on the beach were able to discern its name. It was the Bella Gale—the same Bella Gale which had brought Peter Mace to Faikana. Even while we stared, a small boat swept through the reefs opening and came slowly toward us; and a moment later I was peering into the bearded face of Captain Bruk and shaking the grimy hand which he thrust into mine. And I was wondering, even then, what terrible event or chain of events had happened to put that haunted, desperate glare in Captain Bruk’s eyes.
I soon learned. Without preamble Bruk said bluntly: “I want to talk with you, Father. Alone.”
Together we went to my house, and closed the door upon the inquisitive natives who gathered outside. There, with the table between us, Bruk told his story.
“I’ve got a woman on board, Father,” he scowled. “Go on, tell me I’m crazy. I know it. Tell her she’s crazy! Any woman fool enough to trust herself to a roach-infested scow like the Bella Gale ought to be put in an asylum. This one ought to be there anyway. She’s queer.”
He pulled a bottle from his pocket, offered it to me, and then drank from it. Choking, he rammed the cork back viciously and leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table.
“She was waiting in Papeete when I got back after marooning the boy here,” he grumbled. “Harlan—that’s the Papeete manager—brought her aboard soon as we dropped anchor. He introduced me and gave me a good looking-over to make sure I was sober; then he said: ‘All right, Bruk. You’re going back to Rarioa. This woman wants to find the young fellow you put ashore there.’
“Well, I took her. I had to. But, by heaven, she was an odd one. You’ll see for yourself, when I go back after her. She dresses like a funeral; wears black every damned minute of the day, and a black veil to boot. What does she look like? Don’t ask me! I’ve been on board the same rotten schooner with her for almost ten days, coming straight here from Papeete, and I don’t know yet what kind of a face she has! She don’t speak unless she has to, and then she don’t say more than three words at a time, so help me! And she’s queer. She’s uncanny. I tell you—”
Bruk put his hand on my arm and leaned even farther over the table, speaking in a whisper as if he were afraid of being overheard. I looked into his eyes and saw fear in them. Real fear, which had been there a long time.
“It’s about this Rarioa business, Father,” he mumbled. “Harlan thought I took the boy there, and told me to take the woman there, too. He didn’t know I marooned the boy on Faikana. I didn’t tell him that. If I had, he’d have claimed the money the boy paid me; and I wanted that money for myself. So when I left Papeete this last time, I headed for Rarioa. That’s what he told me, wasn’t it? Take the woman to Rarioa. But we hadn’t been out more than three days when she came to me and said: ‘You’re not taking me to Peter.’ Just like that, Father! How in the name of all that’s holy did she know where Peter was?”
I stared at him. Some of the fear in his eyes must have found its way into my eyes as well. He returned my stare triumphantly.
“She’s not human, I tell you!” he blurted. “She’s not human even to look at! She walks around like she was asleep. She talks in the same tone of voice all the time, like she was tired. By heaven, I won’t have any more to do with her, Father! I brought her here, and I’m leaving her here! It’s up to you, now. You know more about this kind of business than I do.”
“You brought h
er here,” I said slowly, “because you were afraid not to?”
“Afraid?” he bellowed. “I tell you, when she looked at me with those eyes of hers and said, ‘You’re not taking me to Peter,’ I knew better than to double-cross her! I brought her to Peter!”
That was all. Bruk heaved himself up and stood swaying, while he drank again from the bottle of whisky. He glared at me, then laughed drunkenly as he pulled open the door.
“You can have her,” he said. “I’ll put her ashore like I was told to. You’re welcome to her.”
Then he went out.
It was with mingled feelings of fear and apprehension that I awaited his return. Somehow I could not bring myself to go down to the beach. I chose to remain behind the closed door of my house, alone with my thoughts, though I might better have taken myself out of that shadowed room, into sunshine and open air, where my mind would have created visions less morbid.
Who could she be, this woman? A sister, perhaps, of the boy who had established himself in that house of sin in the jungle? A relative, perhaps, of the dead sweetheart whom he had left behind him? I wondered; and wondering, found myself drawing mental pictures of her. Subconsciously, Bruk’s descriptions influenced those pictures. The woman of my imagination was a black-robed nun, uncouth and ungainly, eccentric of speech and action, not at all like the woman who confronted me less than ten minutes later.
Bruk’s throaty hullo startled me out of my reverie, and I drew the door open with a nervous jerk. And there she was—tall and graceful and utterly lovely, in direct contrast to my mental image of her. Quietly she followed him up the steps. Without embarrassment she stood facing me, while Bruk said curtly:
“This is Father Jason, ma’am. He runs the place here.”
The woman nodded. Her eyes, behind an opaque veil which entirely concealed her features, regarded me intently. She was perhaps twenty-five years old, certainly not more. Deliberately she stared about the room. Almost mechanically she stepped past me and sank into a chair. In a peculiarly dull voice she said:
“I am tired. I have come a long way.” She was tired. Though her face was hidden from me, I could sense the exhaustion in it. She seemed suddenly to have lost the power of movement—almost the power of life itself. She sat perfectly still, staring straight before her. I thought, strangely, that she was on the verge of death.
“You—you wish to go to Peter?” I said gently.
“Peter?” she whispered, and raised her head slowly to look at me. “Peter? Yes. In a little while.”
I studied her. Surely this woman loved Peter Mace, or she would not have gone to such trouble to find him. If so, she could help him. He needed help. He needed some one near and dear to him, to talk to him, to convince him that his horrible research was wicked. If this woman could do that, her coming would not be in vain.
“When you are rested,” I said quietly, “I will take you to him. You had better sleep first. It is a long way.”
She smiled, as if she were pitying me for not knowing something I ought to know.
“Yes,” she said. “It is a long way, through the jungle. I know.”
Then she slept.
* * * *
Darkness had fallen when we began that journey to Peter Mace’s house. We were alone. Captain Bruk had departed more than an hour ago, vowing that he wanted no more of her, and that so far as he was concerned he didn’t care if he “never set foot on Faikana’s blasted beach again.” The natives, tired of hanging about the house in hopes of satisfying their childish curiosities, had returned to the village. No one saw us begin that journey which was to have such a terrible end.
But I had no premonition of the end, then. I thought of Peter Mace, living alone in his isolated abode in the jungle, and I thanked God for sending the woman to aid him. Mysterious she was, to be sure—and not once had she given herself a name—but my hopes were high, and a queer confidence possessed me as I led her along the jungle trail. Even the jungle itself, black as death and full of sinister shapes and sounds, could not kill the song in my heart. I refused to consider the possible peril on all sides of us. I refused to be afraid. A merciful God had sent this woman to Faikana, and the same merciful God would conduct her safely to the end of her quest.
She, too, was unafraid. She followed boldly, deliberately, in my steps. She did not speak. Several times, when I turned to assist her through stretches of black morass, or over huge fallen stumps of aoa trees, she merely smiled and accepted my hand without comment.
So, finally, we readied the end of the trail and entered the clearing where Peter Mace’s house loomed high before us. And for the first time, doubt assailed me.
Only one light burned in that grim structure—one light, pale and yellow behind the masked window of the upstairs room. Slowly we walked toward it, and even more slowly we ascended the veranda steps. I knocked hesitantly, and there was no answer. My hand trembled on the latch. The door swung open, and silently we entered.
There in the dark we stood side by side, the woman and I, and neither of us spoke.
In the far corner of the room a feeble shaft of light descended from the ceiling, revealing the top rungs of the ladder and the uneven surface of the wall beside it. The aperture was closed. From the chamber above us came the deep, singsong voice of Peter Mace, uttering words which brought sudden terror to my heart.
There is no need to repeat those words here. Already I have described in detail the ritual for which that room of horror was designed. Enough to say that the horror, this time, was nearing its climax—that other voices, born of lips which had no human form, were slowly and terribly rising in a shrill crescendo, smothering the blasphemies which poured from the boy’s throat. Even while the veiled woman and I stood motionless, those sounds rose to a mighty roar, screaming their triumph. And with them came the shrill, awful outcry of a woman in mortal anguish.
I wish now that I had yielded to the fear in my soul and fled from that evil place. I wish I had seized my companion’s arm and dragged her back across the threshold. Instead, I remained rooted to the floor. I stood rigid, listening to the medley of mad voices that bellowed above me.
The whole house echoed those wild vibrations. Words of terrible significance, of frightful suggestiveness, were flung out of monstrous throats, to wail and scream into the deepest depths of my consciousness. Again and again I heard names hurled out which bore sufficient significance to spike my soul with nameless and uncontrollable dread. And above them all, within them all, shrilled that wild screech of physical agony which tocsined from a woman’s lips!
The awful din reached its climax while I stood there. For a long moment the walls around me, the ceiling above, the floor below, trembled as if in the grip of a great wind. Then, slowly, the sounds subsided. Slowly they died to a sinister whispering and muttering in which I could distinguish no individual words. And finally only one audible sound remained—the low, passionate voice of Peter Mace, speaking in triumphant tones which were, in themselves, all too significant.
Then I moved. Mechanically I turned from the woman beside me and paced toward the ladder in the corner. Fearfully I ascended the wooden rungs, holding myself erect with hands that shook violently as they groped upward at a snail’s pace. From the chamber above me, the boy’s voice came in fitful exclamations, uttering words of triumph, of endearment. Wildly he was saying:
“It is finished! Beloved, it is finished! The agony has destroyed the death; the life is complete! They promised me it would be so, and they have fulfilled their promise. Oh, my beloved, come to me!”
I shuddered, and for a long time clung motionless to my perch, fearing to ascend higher. Had I been aware of the scene which would meet my gaze when I reached up to drag the wooden covering from the aperture above me, I would have flung myself back down the ladder and left that evil chamber for ever undisturbed. But I did not kn
ow. I slid aside the barrier. I heaved myself to the floor above. And I saw.
The room was a well of darkness, illuminated only by the sputtering candle on the table. Before me stood Peter Mace, disheveled and ragged, his head flung back and his bare feet planted on the crude atap mat which covered the floor. In his arms, pressed close against his emaciated body, clung a naked woman—a woman whose skin was as white and as smooth as fine-grained gypsum. Lovely she was. Too lovely. And then I realized the truth.
Abruptly I turned and stared at the cloth-covered pedestal in the corner—the pedestal where the marble woman had sat. Then, in horror, I stared again at the creature in Peter Mace’s embrace. And she was the same woman. God help me, she was the same! Those horrors of outer darkness had given her the power of life! The woman in Peter Mace’s arms, clinging to him, was a woman of living stone!
I stared, unable to believe what I knew to be true. The very frightfulness of it prevented me from assimilating its whole significance. I merely stared, and heard words issuing from her lips, and heard him answering them. Then, after an eternity, I stood erect and said aloud:
“A woman is here to see you, Peter.” Peter Mace turned, very slowly, releasing the naked thing in his arms. He looked at me steadily, as if bewildered by my presence. He peered all around him, as if puzzled even by the room in which he stood. Then he said quietly:
“A woman? To see me?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “She’s waiting.”
He came toward me. He did not understand. His forehead was creased and his lips frowning. Leaving his companion where she was, he stepped past me and slowly descended the ladder. The stone woman said nothing; she stood very still, watching him. Silently I followed him down the creaking rungs to the room below, where the other woman was waiting. And then it was my turn to be bewildered.
Peter Mace and the woman in black stared at each other. Neither moved. For a full moment, neither spoke. The very intensity of their stares—the very completeness of their silence—indicated a climactic something which I did not fully comprehend. I felt that when the woman did speak, she would scream. But she did not. She said calmly:
The Second Cthulhu Mythos MEGAPACK® Page 18
