The professor delicately attached two new discs, similar to those used in his dental operations, to the bottom of his paving beetle, between three supporting claws. But this time he regulated the composition of the two metals so as to set up a much weaker magnetic field; for indeed it was only a matter of picking up teeth that were simply strewn on the ground, without any need to extract them from their sockets. As they flew through the air, conveying their light spoils from one place to another, a pair of discs as powerful as the original ones would have snapped up any teeth on the ground touched by their magnetic field, with each newcomer leaping up to fasten itself beneath its predecessors; but there was no danger of this supreme inconvenience occurring because the new discs, though identical with the first in size and individual shade, had only just power enough to summon an unresisting tooth at very close range. A chronometer fitted to the bottom of the aluminium bar operated a vertical rod which caused the two metals to join or separate alternately, at certain precise moments, thereby making the magnetism intermittent.
Canterel would have obtained similar results by using variously colored pieces of soft iron for his mosaic; an electromagnet could easily have picked these up, then dropped them, by means of a discontinuous current. But this process would have called for the arduous installation in the flying punner of a weighty system of batteries, which would have been attended by many serious disadvantages.
So the professor preferred his first idea which, while exploiting in an original manner the previous discovery, of which he was justly proud, also attracted him because of the novelty the projected picture would derive from the use of fragments shaped and colored entirely by chance, with no artistic desire or premeditation.
After completing the punner by the addition of the giant compass needle, Canterel found that he still had one indispensable condition to fulfil. It was necessary for the roving apparatus to be capable of remaining perfectly erect during its intervals of repose in the various regions of the future work. Now the further the mosaic progressed, the greater was the risk of the three claw supports encountering teeth as they came to rest, and upsetting the general equilibrium; by leaning over, the paving beetle would seriously compromise the very precise orientation of the mirrors with their regular motions, and any further ascent would become impossible.
To settle this vitally important matter, Canterel made the lower part of the three claws hollow and fitted each with a diminutive chronometer, whose clockwork, at the appropriate moment, was to activate a special internal needle with a rounded tip, capable of being temporarily lowered. Whenever a claw was about to alight on a tooth already forming an integral part of the mosaic, the other two would be lengthened beforehand by their respective needles, whose tips would reach the ground. Sometimes two claws would settle on teeth and only the third would use its needle.
The fine supplementary rods would protrude to a greater or lesser extent, according to the level of the teeth, whose thickness was very variable. Indeed, the molars and incisors, adult teeth and milk teeth, once set out would provide an immense variety of heights, which the individual characteristics of each jaw would increase. This fact would not harm the final result, since the mosaic’s artistic vigor would not suffer from a mere unevenness of its surface; but in order to regulate the three needles chronometrically, Canterel would be forced to make an additional major calculation. Between the grinder of a man and the incisor of a child, to take the two extremes, the relative difference in level would be considerable and, depending on which of the two was chosen by the claws, the two remaining ones would have to make their internal appendices go a longer or shorter way to reach the ground; furthermore, whenever the two claws were simultaneously aimed at two teeth of different thickness, one of them would have recourse to its needle. During the final days, when some isolated gap was being filled and the three claws swooped down together on three teeth, one would often observe that one or two of the mobile accessories were involved, despite the fact that there was no contact with the ground at all.
Given these various characteristics, the adjusting of the three lowest chronometers could hardly fail to be an exceptionally arduous task. Fortunately the professor only had to concern himself, as far as the needle extensions were concerned, with the actual site of the mosaic and not with what lay around it. Here, where there were no spatial restrictions, he could scatter the teeth in a way that would enable the paving beetle to set its three claws on the ground in the normal manner and carry each one off. Although he would be limited to the directions of the air currents that were susceptible of being used, Canterel could at least have his own way in choosing the point, upon a straight line of indefinite extent, at which each aerial migration toward the outside of the dental picture would arrive; to do that he had only to make the action of the valve’s chronometer take place earlier or later. This freedom would enable him, even in the early stages of the experiment, to avoid any kind of crowding over the vast area to be cleared bit by bit, and the paving beetle would never make use of the needles in its claws during the prehensile part of its function.
For the work to be executed, Canterel determined to adopt some rather murky subject, on account of the browns and yellowish shades that would necessarily predominate among the mosaic’s materials; a picturesque scene in the depths of some deep and ill-lit crypt seemed to him the most likely setting. Then he remembered a certain Scandinavian tale which Esaias Tegnér, in his Frithiofs Saga, entitles Den Rytter.* The principal episode of this popular morality tale answered his requirements perfectly; the French folklorist, Fayot-Roquensie, had been inspired to make the following translation of it.
About 1650, Duke Gjörtz, a rich Norwegian nobleman, fell madly in love with the beautiful Christel, wife of Baron Skjelderup, one of his vassals.
Gjörtz summoned to his side the warrior Aag, an unscrupulous rogue who would stop at nothing provided he was well-paid. In passionate terms the feudal lord disclosed the irresistible love which wrung his heart — and promised the warrior a fortune on the blessed day that he discreetly kidnapped and brought back, alone and defenceless, the girl who obsessed him even in his dreams.
To avoid compromising himself in any way, Gjörtz was to wear a velvet mask as he satisfied his desires. He knew that a complaint addressed to the King would expose him to the most appalling reprisals, so he wished to deprive Christel of all proof or even suspicion.
Aag set out on his mission and took lodging near the baron’s residence in order to watch for a favorable opportunity.
One evening, as the warrior lay hidden in the castle park, which he kept under constant surveillance, he caught sight of Christel on a solitary walk that chanced to bring her near him. At the opportune moment he threw himself upon the wretched young woman in a single bound, but his hands were unable to stifle her first cry. Skjelderup heard this call of distress and, after summoning several henchmen to his aid, arrived in good time to free his bride and seize the aggressor.
At a command from the nobleman, who was mad with rage, Aag was instantly dragged into the depths of an enormous crypt that extended beneath the park — and the secret entrance of which, as it happened, lay in the middle of a thicket near the scene of the attempted crime. This retreat, long fallen into disuse, had once communicated with the castle cellars, so that in case of a successful attack it provided a secret refuge for a considerable number of people, who could always hope to escape at night by the exit in the thicket.
On reaching the middle of the cave with his men and their prisoner, Skjelderup ordered a certain resinous branch, cut and lit as they began their descent, to be stuck upright in the ground, which, being loam, was easily penetrated.
In the cave, heavy with damp and noxious vapors, there was a stagnant pool.
Abandoning the warrior in this silent lair that was to be his tomb, the baron ascended again by the same route, followed by his henchmen, who in his presence, sealed up the crypt’s entrance
with huge red stones, too heavy for the arms of a single man to move; these came from some almost ruined rock gardens bordering one of the avenues of the park not far away. For over half a century the underground communication with the castle had been blocked by falls of rock and there was no way for the condemned man to escape the cruel, lingering death that awaited him, far from all human aid.
After vain attempts to move the red stones piled up against the opening by which he had entered, the warrior made a circuit of his enormous prison — a careful tour of inspection that at once removed all hope of getting out.
In a dark corner, during his explorations, he had picked up an ancient and considerably rotted volume, the only fairly intact remnant from a pile of books in lamentable condition, thrown there as rubbish and almost destroyed by mildew and rats. On returning to the torch he examined the work and made out the following title: Collection of the Kaempe Viser, published for Queen Sophia by Sorenson Wedel — 1591.
In the hope of dispelling for a while the mournful thoughts that were assailing him, Aag stretched himself out on the ground and, opening the volume at random, came across this artless legend called “The Tale of the Watery Globe.”
Once upon a time, near Eidsvold, there lived a prince named Rolfsen, famous for his loyalty and the nobility of his soul.
Rolfsen, who was immensely wealthy, adored his daughter Ulfra, a chaste girl whose virtues were proverbial. His eleven sons on the other hand were treacherous young men, full of base and cruel instincts, whom he was obliged to repudiate.
When Rolfsen died, the good Ulfra, though she was the youngest, came into possession of all her father’s property, for he had named her as his sole heir.
Mad with rage, the eleven brothers sought out the wicked fairy Gunvere and begged her to bring about Ulfra’s death by means of a spell. She was at once won over to the petitioners’ wicked cause, but regretfully admitted that her power was too limited to bring about the girl’s death directly. She could only change her into a dove for the space of a year, during which time the eleven brothers would easily be able to kill her if they managed to find her in the Fuglekongerige — or Kingdom of the Birds — the refuge where she would spend the whole period of her exile.
The young men accepted Gunvere’s offer, and after intoning a magical formula through her nose she informed them that Ulfra, suddenly changed into a dove, had just taken wing, leaving the field clear for them to seize her treasures.
With endless advice, the fairy handed them a cage containing a linnet which, once set free, would flutter ahead of them and lead them to the kingdom of the birds — then taught them a kabbalistic word to protect them from a mortal danger just as they reached their goal. For the Fuglekongerige was guarded by a terrible genie, in the shape of a medium-sized aerial globe of water, who denied adventurous huntsmen access. Any living creature touched by the strange globe’s shadow would instantly die. During the night the danger still remained, for the moon and stars shone brightly enough in the perpetually cloudless sky of that favored clime for their occultation to be noticeable. Spoken in a loud voice, the magic syllable revealed to them by Gunvere would compel the liquid globe to flee far away.
The eleven brothers left the fairy, who warned them to hurry, for if they did not take her life, Ulfra would swiftly abandon the Fuglekongerige at the end of the year, regain her former shape, occupy her rank once more and enjoy her fortune at the expense of the despoilers.
First of all the young men went to take possession of the paternal fortune, which their sister’s disappearance had just left unclaimed. Forgetting that Gunvere had advised them to make haste, they led a life of wild carousal for almost a year, spending gold by the handful and making the most of the joyous present, without thought for the morrow.
Just a few days before the fatal date they suddenly remembered the danger threatening them, and set out, freeing the linnet whose cage had always, from the very beginning, been provided with a variety of nourishing seeds. They traveled several long stages, following the bird which was well acquainted with the route and always fluttered on in the same direction, until at last they were confronted with an immense wood, alive with chirping and the rustle of feathers. The linnet halted, thus informing them that they had reached the Fuglekongerige.
It was broad daylight and the sun was sparkling in a radiant sky.
Suddenly the eleven brothers were terrified to behold the sphere of water appear just as the fairy had predicted; in vain they ransacked their minds for the word of salvation, which had long ago been forgotten in the midst of innumerable orgies.
The globe approached, sketching on the ground a pale shadow that first eclipsed the linnet, reduced by weariness to hopping along without the use of its wings. As though struck by a thunderbolt, the bird dropped dead without a single cry of distress.
Then a fearful chase began. The eleven brothers, cringing with fear, sought to escape the aerial destroyer that was furiously pursuing them. The struggle could not last long, for the liquid globe was becoming very agile in forestalling the sudden feints by which the doomed men sought to evade its deadly shadow.
However a dove, which had risen from the Fuglekongerige a few moments before, began to fly headlong toward the clearing where this agonizing scene was being enacted. The new arrival, hovering above the sphere to avoid its murderous shade, dipped its beak and avidly drank the terrible wandering water down to the last drop.
The eleven brothers, who realized that they were in Ulfra’s presence, fell to their knees, moved and repentant.
The dove, guiding them in the linnet’s place, led them on the way home, whither they meekly followed her.
Once in sight of the family demesne, the period of the spell elapsed and gentle Ulfra resumed her female form — then, stretching out her arms toward her brothers, she uttered a few touching words of reconciliation, for she had understood all their sinister machinations.
The young men were reformed and lived ever after with their sister, who, having recovered her immense property, treated them with the utmost kindness and generosity.
In the depths of the cave in which Baron Skjelderup had so recently buried him alive, Aag had achieved a certain oblivion in his reading. When he found himself becoming drowsy, he laid the book down beside him, stretched himself out at random and quickly fell asleep.
Under the influence of the story he had just assimilated, he was soon dreaming of the eleven brothers in the legend crouching in terror of the watery globe whose shadow had mortally blotted out the guiding linnet — while far away a snowy dove was flying to her persecutors’ aid. Little by little the dove became more distinct, until the warrior felt it brush against him. When he opened his eyes, he saw Christel at his side pressing his hand to rouse him.
In a few words the young woman told him what had transpired after the red stones had been placed over the crypt’s mouth.
Obsessed by the thought of the frightful death awaiting her assailant, Christel had removed from the castle library, then taken to her room, a collection of old manuscripts interspersed with plans and information concerning the very ancient construction of the Skjelderup estate. She hoped to find among these documents an indication of the existence of some secret passage sufficiently practicable to allow her to visit the warrior alone, thus avoiding the danger of indiscretion that any outside help would have involved. After careful research her wishes were fulfilled.
Once she had impressed each phrase of a long, precise and complicated paragraph upon her memory, she betook herself in the middle of the night to the castle cellars and stretched up her hand to press an invisible spring concealed by one of the many irregularities on a particular dark, uneven wall.
Soon a flagstone in the floor rose up to a fair height of its own accord, without leaning in any way, then stopped, supported above its niche by four stout vertical rods; the opening it disclosed was filled by a sheet of water.
Christel pressed another spring, further to the right on the same area of wall, whereupon the water subsided to reveal some steps ending in an underground corridor. The young woman descended and began to negotiate the tunnel, amid the oozings of the icy water that had filled its whole length a moment before.
Thus she emerged in the warrior’s crypt, just below the normal level of the pool whose initial draining, due to the manipulation of the second spring, had caused the tunnel to empty. By walking carefully along the gentle slope of an inner jetty, she reached the floor of the cave itself — and was able to approach the prisoner and drag him from his heavy slumbers.
Aag was quite overwhelmed by the story and impressed, despite himself, by the relationship established at the last moment, in his dream, between Christel and that white dove he had imagined brushing by as he felt the liberating touch that had awoken him. Both were cases of basely persecuted innocence coming, in the hour of victory, to rescue the very instrument of its ills and perils.
While he was giving himself up to these reflections, Christel, by the same sloping jetty, had regained the underground passage that opened in the pool’s damp wall and made a sign for him to follow her.
After a silent journey they both emerged through the mysterious exit hidden in the castle vaults. By the successive operation, first to the right, then to the left, of two hitherto unemployed springs at the very foot of the wall, coinciding vertically with the two previous ones, Christel first of all caused the return of the water, which reached its former level, showing that the pool in the cave was once more filled to the brim — then the descent of the slab, whose even mass tightly filled the narrow, hidden opening. The young woman admired the architect’s foresight of old in contriving this secret passage, useful for some desperate escape, even when an ordinary door — free from rock falls but easy for an intelligent invader to block — had been all that separated the crypt from the castle. In her mind’s eye she visualized the hidden machinery whose operation had been exhibited by means of various sectional views, and an accurate commentary in the text, in the documents from the library that she had leafed through some hours before: a subterranean channel linked the cavern’s pool to Lake Mjösen, which lay at exactly the same level three kilometers east; all the time the second spring was being pressed, it released the jet of a hydraulic duct into a container which became heavy and descended, functioning as a counterpoise; this set a delicate system of rods and levers in motion to obstruct the narrow channel, simultaneously opening an overflow drilled two meters down in a wall of the pool, which at once began to empty itself partially into a natural well. It was then, as a result of the water subsiding, that communication became possible between crypt and castle. The third spring, pressed hard, temporarily forced open the resistant plug, worked by automatic compression, of an outlet contrived in the bottom of the container; this was promptly unballasted of all its liquid and returned to its original position — while the rods and levers undid their earlier work by stopping up the overflow to the well and opening the narrow channel through which Lake Mjösen once more filled the pool. The first and fourth springs, moreover, set the flagstone in motion by an analogous system of water counterpoises alternately filling and running dry.
Locus Solus Page 4
