The End of the Story

by Clark Ashton Smith

  “Wal, Jonas McGillicuddy, so you’ve come back,” exclaimed this individual in raucous tones of unfeigned surprise. “Ye’re a little too late, though,” he went on, without pausing to let Jonas speak. “Everythin’ burnt up clean, day before yestiddy.”

  “But the cabin wuz here las’ night,” stammered Jonas. “I came through the woods ’bout sunset, an’ I saw Matilda an’ the children in front o’ the steps, jus’ as plain as I see you. Then everythin’ seemed to go up in a burst o’ flame, an’ I didn’t know nothin’ till I woke up jus’ now.”

  “Ye’re crazy, Jonas,” assured the neighbor. “There weren’t no cabin here las’ night, an’ no Matildy an’ no children, neither. They wuz all burnt up, along with the rest o’ the countery hereabouts. We heerd yer wife an’ babies

  a-screamin’, but the fire wuz all aroun’ before ye could say Jack Robinson, an’ the trees fell across yer road, an’ no one could git in, an’ no one could git out… I alluz told ye, Jonas, t’ cut them yeller pines down.”

  “My folks wuz all burnt up?” faltered Jonas.

  “Wal, yer little boy died a year ago, so they wuz jus’ Matildy an’ the two gals.”

  A NIGHT IN MALNÉANT

  My brief sojourn in the city of Malnéant occurred during a period of my life that is dim and dubious even as that city itself and the misty regions lying thereabouts. I have no precise recollection of its locality, nor can I remember exactly when and how I came to visit it. But I had heard vaguely that such a place was situated along my route; and when I came to the fog-enfolded river that flows beside its walls, and heard beyond the river the mortuary tolling of many bells, I surmised that I was approaching Malnéant. On reaching the grey, colossal bridge that crosses the river at that point, I could have continued at will on other roads leading to remoter cities: but it seemed to me that I might as well enter Malnéant as any other place. And so it was that I set foot on the bridge of shadowy arches, under which the black waters flowed in stealthy division and were joined again in a silence as of Styx and Acheron.

  That period of my life, I have said, was dim and dubious—mainly so, perhaps, on account of my need for forgetfulness, my persistent and at times partially rewarded search for oblivion. And that which I needed to forget above all was the death of the lady Mariel, and the fact that I myself had slain her as surely as if I had done the deed with my own hand. For she had loved me with an affection that was deeper and purer and more stable than mine; and my changeable temper, my fits of cruel indifference or ferocious irritability, had broken her gentle heart. So it was that she had sought the anodyne of a lethal poison; and after she was laid to rest in the somber vaults of her ancestors, I had become a wanderer, followed and forever tortured by a belated remorse. For months, or years, I am uncertain which, I roamed from old-world city to city, heeding little where I went, if only wine and the other agents of oblivion were available… And thus it was that I came, somewhile in my indefinite journeying, to the dim environs of Malnéant.

  The sun (if ever there was a sun above this region) had been lost for I knew not how long in a sky of leaden vapors; the day was drear and sullen at best. But now, by the thickening of the shadows and the mist, I felt that evening must be near; and the bells I had heard in Malnéant, however heavy and sepulchral their tolling, gave at least the assurance of prospective shelter from the night. So I crossed the long bridge, and entered the grimly yawning gate with a quickening of my footsteps even if with no alacrity of spirit.

  The dusk had gathered behind the grey walls, but there were few lights in the city. Also, few people were abroad, and these went upon their way with a sort of solemn haste, as if on some funereal errand that would admit of no delay. The streets were narrow, the houses high, with overhanging balconies and heavily curtained or shuttered windows. All was very silent, except for the bells, which tolled recurrently, sometimes faint and far off, and sometimes with a loud and startling clangor that seemed to come almost from overhead.

  As I plunged among the shadowy mansions, along the streets from which a visible twilight issued to envelop me, it seemed that I was going farther and farther away from my memories at every step. For this reason I did not at once inquire my way to a tavern but was content to lose myself more and more in the grey labyrinth of buildings, which grew vaguer and vaguer amid the ever-mounting darkness and fog, as if they were about to dissolve in oblivion.

  I think that my soul would have been almost at peace with itself during that first hour in Malnéant, if it had not been for the reiterant ringing of the bells, which were like all bells that toll for the repose of the dead, and therefore set me to remembering those that had rung for Mariel. But whenever they ceased, my thoughts would soon drift back with an indolent ease, a recovered security, to the all-surrounding vagueness, and I would walk the length of many dark alleys, past many of the shrouded and mysterious mansions, in whose interior I could somehow imagine nothing but cobwebs and silence and slumber, before the hateful pealing began once more. Also, I deemed that the sound of the bells receded and became fainter with each repetition; and I hoped that I would presently lose it altogether, along with my troublous memories.

  I had no idea how far I had gone in Malnéant, nor how long I had roamed among those houses that hardly seemed as if they could be peopled by any but the sleeping or the dead. At last, however, I became aware that I was very tired, and bethought me of food and wine and a lodging for the night. But nowhere in my wanderings had I noticed the sign-board of an inn; so I resolved to ask the next passer-by for the desired direction.

  As I have said before, there were few people abroad—how few, I had apparently not realized. For when I made up my mind to address one of them, it appeared that there was no one at all; and I walked onward through street after street in my futile search for a living face.

  At length I met two women, clothed in grey that was cold and dim as the

  folds of the fog, and veiled withal, who were hurrying along the street with the same funereal intentness I had perceived in all other denizens of that city. I made bold to accost them, asking if they could direct me to an inn.

  Scarcely pausing or even turning their heads, they answered: “We cannot tell you. We are shroud-weavers, and we have been busy making a shroud for the lady Mariel.”

  Now, at that name, which of all names in the world was the one I should least have expected or cared to hear, an unspeakable chill invaded my heart, and I felt a dreadful surprise, a dismay like the breath of the tomb. It was indeed strange that in this dim city, so far in time and space from all I had fled to escape, a woman should have recently died who was also named Mariel. The coincidence appeared so sinister, that an odd fear of the streets through which I had wandered was born suddenly in my soul; for the name had evoked, with a more irrevocable fatality than the tolling of the bells, all that I had vainly wished to forget; and the dying coals of my remorse were fanned to a ravening flame.

  As I went onward, with paces that had become more hurried, more feverish than those of the people of Malnéant, I met two men, who were likewise dressed from head to foot in grey; and I asked of them the same question I had asked of the shroud-weavers.

  “We cannot tell you,” they replied. “We are coffin-makers, and we have been busy making a coffin for the lady Mariel.”

  As they spoke, and hastened on, the bells rang out again, this time very near at hand, with a more leaden and sepulchral menace in their dismal tolling. And everything about me, the tall and misty houses, the dark, indefinite streets, the rare and wraith-like figures, became as if part of the obscure confusion and fear and bafflement of a nightmare. Moment by moment, the coincidence on which I had stumbled appeared all too bizarre for belief, and I was troubled now by the monstrous and absurd idea that the Mariel I knew had only just died, and that this fantastic city was in some unsurmisable manner connected with her death. But this, of course, my reason rejected summarily, and I kept repeating to myself: “The Mariel of whom they speak is a
nother Mariel.” And it irritated me beyond all measure that a doubt so enormous and ludicrous should return when my logic had dismissed it.

  I met no more people of whom to inquire my way. But at length, as I fought with my shadowy perplexity and my burning memories, I found that I had paused almost beneath the weather-beaten sign of an inn, on which the lettering had been half effaced by time and the brown lichens. The building was obviously very old, like all the houses in Malnéant; its upper stories were lost in the swirling fog, except for a few furtive lights that glowed obscurely down; and a vague and musty odor of antiquity came forth to greet me as I mounted the steps and tried to open the ponderous door. But the door had been locked or bolted; so I began to pound upon it with my fists, to attract

  the attention of those within.

  At length, after much delay, the door was opened slowly and grudgingly, and a cadaverous-looking individual peered forth, frowning with portentous gravity as he saw me.

  “What do you desire?” he queried, in tones that were both brusk and solemn.

  “A room for the night, and wine,” I answered.

  “We cannot accommodate you. All the rooms are occupied by people who have come to attend the obsequies of the lady Mariel; and all the wine in the house has been requisitioned for their use. You will have to go elsewhere.” He closed the door quickly upon me with the last words.

  I turned to resume my wanderings, and all that had troubled me before was now intensified a hundredfold. The grey mists and the greyer houses were full of the menace of memory: they were like traitorous tombs from which the cadavers of dead hours poured forth to assail me with envenomed fangs and talons. I cursed the hour when I had entered Malnéant, for it seemed to me now that in so doing I had merely completed a funereal, sinister circle through time, and had returned to the day of Mariel’s death. And certainly, all my recollections of Mariel, of her final agony and her entombment, had assumed the frightful vitality of present things. But my reason still maintained, of course, that the Mariel who lay dead somewhere in Malnéant, and for whom all these obsequial preparations were being made, was not the lady whom I had loved, but another.

  After threading many streets that were still darker and narrower than those before traversed, I found a second inn, bearing a similar weather-worn sign, and in all other respects very much like the first. The door was also barred, and I knocked thereon in much trepidation, and was in no manner surprised when a second individual with a cadaverous face informed me in tones of sepulchral solemnity:

  “We cannot accommodate you. All the rooms have been taken by musicians and mourners who will serve at the obsequies of the lady Mariel; and all the wine has been reserved for their use.”

  Now I began to dread the city about me with a manifold fear: for apparently the whole business of the people of Malnéant consisted of preparations for the funeral of this lady Mariel, whether or not she was the same Mariel whom I had known. And it began to be obvious that I must walk the streets of the city all night because of these same preparations. All at once, an overwhelming weariness was mingled with my nightmare terror and perplexity.

  I had not long continued my peregrinations, after leaving the second inn, when the bells were tolled once more. For the first time, I found it possible to identify their source: they were in the spires of a great cathedral which loomed immediately before me through the fog. Some people were entering the cathedral, and a curiosity, which I knew to be both morbid and perilous,

  prompted me to follow them. Here, I somehow felt, I should be able to learn more regarding the mystery that tormented me.

  All was dim within, and the light of many tapers scarcely served to illumine the vast nave and altar. Masses were being said by priests in black whose faces I could not see distinctly; and to me, their chanting was like words in a dream; and I could hear nothing, and nothing was plainly visible in all the place, except a bier of opulent fabrics, on which there lay a motionless form in white. Flowers of many hues had been strewn upon the bier, and their fragrance filled the air with a drowsy languor, with an anodyne that seemed to drug my heart and brain. Such flowers had been cast on the bier of Mariel; and even thus, at her funeral, I had been overcome by a momentary dulling of the senses because of their perfume.

  I became dimly aware that someone was at my elbow. With eyes still intent on the bier, I asked:

  “Who is it that lies yonder, for whom these masses are being said and these bells are rung?” And a slow, sepulchral voice replied:

  “It is the lady Mariel, who died yesterday and who will be interred tomorrow in the vaults of her ancestors. If you wish, you may go forward and gaze upon her.”

  So I went down the aisle of the cathedral, even to the side of the bier, whose opulent fabrics trailed on the cold flags. And the face of her who lay thereon, with a tranquil smile upon the lips, and tender shadows upon the shut eyelids, was the face of the Mariel I had loved, and of none other. The tides of time were frozen in their flowing; and all that was or had been or could be, all of the world that existed aside from her, became as fading shadows; and even as once before (was it aeons or instants ago?), my soul was locked in the marble hell of its supreme grief and regret. I could not move, I could not cry out or even weep, for my very tears were turned to ice. And now I knew with a terrible certitude that this one event, the death of the lady Mariel, had drawn apart from all other happenings, had broken away from the sequence of time and had found for itself a setting of appropriate gloom and solemnity; or perhaps had even built around itself the whole enormous maze of that spectral city, in which to abide my destined return among the mists of a deceptive oblivion.

  At length, with an awful effort of will, I turned my eyes away; and leaving the cathedral with steps that were both hurried and leaden, I sought to find an egress from the dismal labyrinth of Malnéant to the gate by which I had entered. But this was by no means easy, and I must have roamed for hours in alleys blind and stifling as tombs, and along the tortuous, self-reverting thoroughfares, ere I came to a familiar street and was able henceforward to direct my paces with something of surety. And a dull and sunless daylight was dawning behind the mists when I crossed the bridge and came again to the road that would lead me away from that fatal city.

  Since then, I have wandered long, and in many places. But never again have I cared to revisit those old-world realms of fog and mist, for fear that I should come once more to Malnéant, and find that its people are still busied with their preparations for the obsequies of the lady Mariel.

  THE RESURRECTION OF

  THE RATTLESNAKE

  “No, as I’ve told you fellows before, I haven’t a red cent’s worth of faith in the supernatural.”

  The speaker was Arthur Avilton, whose tales of the ghostly and macabre had often been compared to Poe, Bierce and Machen. He was a master of imaginative horrors, with a command of diabolically convincing details, of monstrous cobweb suggestions, that had often laid a singular spell on the minds of readers who were not ordinarily attracted or impressed by literature of that type. It was his own boast, often made, that all his effects were secured in a purely ratiocinative, even scientific manner, by playing on the element of subconscious dread, the ancestral superstition latent in most human beings; but he claimed that he himself was utterly incredulous of anything occult or phantasmal, and that he had never in his life known the slightest tremor of fear concerning such things.

  Avilton’s listeners looked at him a little questioningly. They were John Godfrey, a young landscape painter, and Emil Schuler, a rich dilettante, who played in alternation with literature and music, but was not serious in his attentions to either. Both were old friends and admirers of Avilton, at whose house on Sutter Street, in San Francisco, they had met by chance that afternoon. Avilton had suspended work on a new story to chat with them and smoke a sociable pipe. He still sat at his writing-table, with a pile of neatly written foolscap before him. His appearance was as normal and non-eccentric as his handwriting,
and he might have been a lawyer or doctor or chemist, rather than a concocter of bizarre fiction. The room, his library, was quite luxurious, in a sober, gentlemanly sort of fashion, and there was little of the outré in its furnishings. The only unusual notes were struck by two heavy brass candlesticks on his table, wrought in the form of rearing serpents, and a stuffed rattlesnake that was coiled on top of one of the low bookcases.

  “Well,” observed Godfrey, “if anything could convince me of the reality of the supernatural, it would be some of your stories, Avilton. I always read them by broad daylight—I wouldn’t do it after dark on a bet… By the way, what’s the yarn you are working on now?”

  “It’s about a stuffed serpent that suddenly comes to life,” replied Avilton. “I’m calling it ‘The Resurrection of the Rattlesnake’. I got the idea while I was looking at my rattler this morning.”

  “And I suppose you’ll sit here by candlelight tonight,” put in Schuler, “and go on with your cheerful little horror without turning a hair.” It was well known that Avilton did much of his writing at night.

  Avilton smiled. “Darkness always helps me to concentrate. And, considering that so much of the action in my tales is nocturnal, the time is not inappropriate.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Schuler, in a jocular tone. He arose to go, and Godfrey also found that it was time to depart.

  “Oh, by the way,” said their host, “I’m planning a little week-end party. Would you fellows care to come over next Saturday evening? There’ll be two or three others of our friends. I’ll have this story off my chest by then, and we’ll raise the roof.”

  Godfrey and Schuler accepted the invitation, and went out together. Since they both lived across the bay, in Oakland, and both were on their way home, they caught the same car to the ferry.