The A. Merritt Megapack

by Abraham Merritt

  “Oh,” cried Sharane—and half of that cry was a sob—“oh, Satalu, I am ashamed! Liar and coward and slave—still he stirs something in my heart that never yet stirred for man. Oh, I am ashamed—I am ashamed, Satalu!”

  “Lady Sharane, do not weep!” Satalu caught the fluttering hands. “He may be none of these. How do you know? Perhaps he did speak the truth. How know we what has happened in that world of ours so long lost to us? And he is very handsome—and young!”

  “At least,” said Sharane and bitterly, “he is a slave.”

  “Sh-h!” warned Satalu. “Zachel comes.”

  They turned; walked toward Sharane’s cabin out of Kenton’s vision.

  The wakening whistle shrilled. There was a stir among the slaves, and Kenton groaned, raised himself, rubbed eyes, and gripped the oar.

  Exultation was in his heart. There could be no mistaking Sharane’s words. He held her. By a slender thread, it might be; but still—he held her. And if he were not a slave—when slave he ceased to be—what then? By no slender thread then would he hold her. He laughed—but softly, lest Zachel hear. Sigurd looked at him curiously.

  “The sleep horn must have brought you gay dream,” he murmured.

  “Gay, indeed, Sigurd,” he answered. “The kind of dream that will thin our chains until we can snap them.”

  “Odin send more dreams like it,” grunted the Norseman.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Bargaining Of Sharane

  When Zachel blew the horn again Kenton had no need of it to send him to sleep. The sharp eyes of the overseer had seen through Sigurd’s self-sacrificing stratagem, and he had watched Kenton continually, lashing him when he faltered or let the whole burden of the oar fall upon the Norseman. His hands were blistered, every bone and muscle ached, and his mind lay dulled in his weary body. And thus it was between the next five sleeps.

  Once he roused himself enough to ask Sigurd a question that had been going round and round in his brain. Half the rowers in the pit were behind the line that separated black deck from ivory—that line which neither Klaneth and his crew nor Sharane and her women could cross. Yet Zachel roamed at will from one end of that pit to the other; other priests, too, for he had seen them. And although he had not seen Klaneth or Gigi or the Persian there, he did not doubt that they could come and go if they so wished. Why, then, did not the black robes swarm up the farther side and overwhelm the rosy cabin? Why did not Sharane and her women drop into the pit and lay siege to the ebon cabin? Why did they not launch their javelins, their arrows, over the pit of the rowers into the wolfpack of the black priest?

  It was a warlock ship, the Viking had repeated, and the spell upon it no simple one. The slave who had died had told him that he had been on the ship since the gods had launched her, and that the same unseen, mysterious barrier shut off the side of the rowers that rimmed Sharane’s deck. Nor could javelin or arrow or other missile other than those hurled by god and goddess penetrate it.

  Humanly, each opposing camp was helpless against the other. There were other laws, too, the slave had told Sigurd. Neither Sharane nor Klaneth could leave the ship when it hove to in harbor. Sharane’s women could. The black priest’s men, yes—but not for long. Soon they must return. The ship drew them back. What would happen to them if they did not return? The slave had not known, had said that such thing was impossible, the ship would draw them back.

  Kenton pondered over all this as with aching back he pushed and pulled at the oar. Decidedly these were practical, efficient deities who had doomed the ship overlooking no detail, he thought, half amused.

  Well, they had created the game, and certainly they had the right to make that game’s rules. He wondered whether Sharane could roam at will from stem to stern when he had conquered the ship. Wondering still, he heard the drone of Zachel’s horn begin, and pitched, content, into the bottomless oubliette of sleep it opened.

  He awoke from that sixth sleep with mind crystal clear, an astonishing sense of well being, and a body once more free from pain and flexible and vigorous. He pulled at his oar strongly and easily.

  “Strength flows up to you from the sea even as I foretold,” grunted Sigurd.

  Kenton nodded absently, his sharpened mind grappling with the problem of escape from his chains.

  What went on in the pit and on the ship while the rowers were asleep? What chance would offer then to free himself and the Viking if he could stay awake?

  If he could stay awake!

  But how could he close his ears to that horn which poured sleep into them as the sirens of old poured with their songs fatal fascination into the ears of sailors strayed within their ken?

  The sirens! The story of crafty Ulysses’ adventure with those sea women flashed into his memory. How desire had come upon that wanderer to hear the siren song—yet no desire to let it draw him to them. How he had sailed into their domain; had filled his oarsmen’s ears with melted wax; had made them bind him to the mast with open ears, and then, cursing, straining at his bonds, mad with desire to leap into their white arms, had heard their enchanted measures—and sailed safe away.

  A wind arose—a steady wind that filled the sail and drove the ship through gently cresting waves. Came command to rest oars. Kenton slouched down upon the bench. Sigurd was in one of his silent moods, face brooding, gaze far away, filled with dreams of other days when his dragons cleft the Northern Ocean.

  Kenton dropped his hands upon the silken rags upon his legs; his fingers began, seemingly idly, to unravel their threads, twist and knot them into little silken cylinders. He worked on, the Viking unheeding. Now two were finished. He palmed one, rubbed as idly the side of his face, and so rubbing slipped the little silken cylinder into an ear. He waited for a time; slipped in the other ear the second plug. The roaring of the wind sank to a loud whispering.

  Carefully, unhurrying, he drew them out; twisted more threads around them. Again he set them in place. Now the wind’s roar was only a murmuring, faint and far away. Satisfied, he slipped the silken cylinders under his torn girdle.

  On sped the ship. And after a while the slaves came and dashed their buckets over him and the Viking; brought them food and drink.

  On the very edge of the sleep-horn drone Kenton slumped down upon the bench, face on forearms, the silken cylinders hidden under thumbs. Swiftly he slipped them in his ears. Then he let every muscle go limp. The droning diminished to a faint, hardly heard humming. Even so, a languor crept through him. He fought it. He beat the languor back. The humming ceased. He heard the overseer go by him; looked after him through half-raised lids; saw him ascend that pit’s steps and pass over the deck to Klaneth’s cabin.

  The black deck was empty. As though shifting in slumber Kenton rolled over, threw an arm across the back of the bench, rested his head upon it, and through lowered lashes took stock of what lay behind him.

  He heard laughter, golden, chiming. To the edge of her deck, black-haired Satalu beside her, walked Sharane. She seated herself there, unbound her hair, shook the flaming red gold cloud of it over face and shoulders; sat within it as though within a perfumed, silken red gold tent. Satalu raised a shining tress; began to comb it.

  Through that web of loveliness he felt Sharane’s eyes upon him. Involuntarily his own opened wide; clung to her hidden ones. She gasped, half rose, parted the curtains of her hair, stared at him in wonder. “He is awake!” she whispered. “Sharane!” he breathed.

  He watched shame creep again into her eyes—her face grow cold. She raised her head, sniffed daintily.

  “Satalu,” she said, “is there not a stronger taint from the pit?” Again she silted her nose. “Yes—I am sure there is. Like the old slave market at Uruk when they brought the new slaves in.”

  “I—I notice it not, mistress,” faltered Satalu. “Why yes—of course.” Sharane’s voice was merciless. “See there he sits. A new slave; a strange slave who sleeps with open eyes.”

  “Yet he—he looks not like a slave,” again falter
ed her handmaiden.

  “No” questioned Sharane sweetly. “What has happened to your memory, girl? What is the badge of a slave?”

  The black-haired girl did not answer; bent low over the locks of her mistress.

  “A chain and the brand of whips,” mocked Sharane. “These are the slave’s badge. And this new slave has both—in plenty.”

  Still Kenton was silent beneath her mockery; made no movement; indeed scarce heard her, his burning eyes drinking in her beauty.

  “Ah, but I dreamed one came to me with great words, a bearer of promises, fanning hope in my heart,” sighed Sharane. “I opened my heart to him—in that dream, Satalu. All my heart! And he repaid me with lies—and his promises were empty—and he was a weakling—and my girls beat him. And now it seems to me that there sits that liar and weakling of my dreams with brand of whip upon his back and weak hands chained. A slave!”

  “Mistress! Oh, Mistress!” whispered Satalu. But Kenton kept silence, although now her mockery began to sting.

  And suddenly she rose, thrust hands through shining locks.

  “Satalu,” she murmured, “would you not think that sight of me would awaken even a slave? That any slave, so he were young and strong, would break his chains—for me?”

  She swayed, turned; through her thin robes gleamed exquisite, rosy curves of breast and thigh; lithe loveliness. She spread wide the nets of her hair, peered through them at him with wanton eyes; preened herself, thrust out a tiny, rosy foot, a dimpled knee.

  He raised his head recklessly, the hot blood rushing through.

  “The chains will break, Sharane!” he called. “I will break them—never fear! And then——”

  “And then—” she echoed, “and then my girls shall beat you as before!” she mocked, and sped away.

  He watched her go, pulse beating like drums. He saw her halt and whisper to Satalu. The black-haired girl turned, made him a warning gesture. He closed his eyes, dropped head on arm. And soon he heard the feet of Zachel striding down the steps, go by him. The waking whistle shrilled.

  Why, if her mockery had been real, had she warned him?

  Sharane looked down upon him again from her deck.

  Time had gone by since she had stood there mocking him. Time had gone, but how measured in his own lost world Kenton had no means of telling, meshed as he was in the ship’s timeless web.

  Sleep after sleep he had lain on his bench, watching for her. She had kept to her cabin—or if she had not, she had kept herself from his sight.

  Nor had he told the Viking that he had broken the spell of the sleep horn. Sigurd he trusted, heart and soul. Yet he was not sure of the Norseman’s subtlety; not certain that he could feign the charmed slumber as Kenton did. He could not take the risk.

  And now again Sharane stood and looked down upon him from the platform close to the emerald mast. The slaves slept. There was none at watch on the black deck. There was no mockery now in Sharane’s face. And when she spoke she struck straight home to the heart of her purpose.

  “Whoever you are, whatever you may be,” she whispered, “two things can you do. Cross the barrier. Remain awake when the other slaves must sleep. You have told me that you can break your chains. Since those two things you can do—I find belief within me that of the third you also speak the truth. Unless——”

  She paused; he read her thought.

  “Unless I lied to you about that as I lied to you before,” he said levelly. “Well, those were no lies I told you.”

  “If you break your chains,” she said, “will you slay Klaneth?”

  He feigned to consider.

  “Why should I kill Klaneth?” he asked at last.

  “Why? Why?” Scorn tinged her voice. “Has he not set his chains upon you? Had you whipped? Made you slave?”

  “Did not Sharane drive me forth with javelins?” he asked. “Did not Sharane pour salt in my wounds with her mockery—her laughter?”

  “But—you lied to me!” she cried.

  Again he feigned consideration.

  “What will this liar, weakling, and slave gain if he kills the black priest for you?” he asked bluntly.

  “Gain?” she repeated blankly.

  “What will you pay me for it?” he said.

  “Pay you? Pay you! Oh!” The scorn in her eyes scorched him. “You shall be paid. You shall have freedom—the pick of my jewels—all of them—”

  “Freedom I shall have when I have slain Klaneth,” he answered. “And of what use to me are your jewels on this cursed ship?”

  “You do not understand,” she said. “The black priest slain, I can set you on any land you wish in this world. In all of them jewels have value.”

  She paused, then: “And have they no worth in that land from whence you come, and to which, unchained, it seems you can return whenever danger threatens?”

  Her voice was honeyed poison. But Kenton only laughed.

  “What more do you want?” she asked. “If they be not enough—what more?”

  “You!” he said.

  “Me!” she gasped incredulously. “I give myself to any man—for a price! I—give myself to you! You whipped dog!” She stormed. “Never!”

  Up to this Kenton’s play with her had been calculated; but now he spoke with wrath as real and hot as hers.

  “No!” cried Kenton. “No! You’ll not give yourself to me! For, by God, Sharane, I’ll take you!”

  He thrust a clenched, chained hand out to her.

  “Master of this ship I’ll be, and with no help from you—you who have called me a liar and slave and now would throw me butcher’s pay. No! When I master the ship it will be by my own hand. And that same hand shall master—you!”

  “You threaten me!” Her face flamed wrath. “You!”

  She thrust a hand into her breast, drew out a slender knife—hurled it at him. As though it had struck some adamantine wall, invisible, it clanged, fell to her feet, blade snapped from hilt.

  She paled, shrank.

  “Hate me!” jeered Kenton. “Hate me, Sharane; For what is hate but the flame that cleans the cup for wine of love!”

  With no soft closing of her cabin door did she go within it. And Kenton, laughing grimly, bent his head over his oar; was soon as sound asleep as the Norseman snoring beside him.

  CHAPTER 10

  On the Ship A-Sailing

  He awakened to a stirring and humming through all the ship. On ivory deck and black the ship’s folk stood, pointing, talking, gesticulating. A flock of birds, the first he had seen in this strange world, hovered above him. Their wings were shaped like those of great butterflies. Their plumage shone as though lacquered in glowing vermilions and pale golds. From their opened beaks came a chiming tumult as of little tinkling bells.

  “Land!” the Viking exclaimed. “We run into harbor. Food and water must be low.”

  There was a brisk wind blowing and the oars at rest. Careless of Zachel’s lash, Kenton leaped upon the bench, looking over the bow. The overseer gave no heed, his own eyes intent upon what lay before.

  It was a sun yellow isle, high and rounded, and splashed with craters of color like nests of rainbows. Save for these pansied dapplings, the island curved all glowing topaz, from its base in the opalescent shallows of the azure sea to its crest, where feathered trees drooped branches like immense panaches of ostrich plumes dyed golden amber. Over and about that golden isle shot flashes of iridescences from what seemed luminous flying flowers.

  Closer drew the ship. At the bow the damsels of Sharane clustered, laughing and chattering. And upon her balcony was Sharane, watching the isle with wistful eyes.

  Now it was close indeed. Down ran the peacock sail. The ship rowed slowly and more slowly to the shore; not until the curved prow had almost touched that shore did the steersman shift the rudder and bring the ship sharply about. As they drifted, the plumes of the strange trees swept the deck with long leaves, delicately feathered as those the frost etches on the winter pane. Topaz yellow and
sun amber were those leaves; the branches from which they hung glistened as though cut from yellow chrysolite. Immense clusters of flowers dropped from them, lily shaped, flame scarlet.

  Slowly, ever more slowly, drifted the ship. It crept by a wide cleft that cut into the heart of the isle. The sides of this vale were harlequined with the cratered colors, and Kenton saw that these were fields of flowers, clustered as though they filled deep circled amphitheaters. The flashing iridescences were birds—birds of every size from smallest dragon flies to those whose wing-spread was that of condors in the high Andes. Large and small, on each glittered the lacquered butterfly wings.

  The isle breathed fragrance. Of green upon it there was none, save for the emerald glintings of the birds.

  The valley slid behind them. Ever more slowly the feathered trees brushed the deck. The ship slipped into the mouth of a glen at whose end a cataract dropped rain of pearl into a golden-ferned pool. There was the rattling of a chain; an anchor splashed. The bow of the ship swung in; nosed through the foliage; touched the bank.

  Over the rail climbed the women of Sharane, upon their heads great baskets. From her balcony Sharane looked after them with deeper wistfulness. The women melted within the flower-spangled boskage; fainter and fainter came their voices; died away. Sharane, chin cupped in white hands, drank in the land and with wide and longing eyes. Above her red gold hair streaming through the silver crescent a bird hovered—a bird all gleaming emeralds and flashing blues, chiming peals of fairy bells. Kenton saw tears upon her cheeks. She caught his gaze, dashed them away angrily. She half turned as though to go; then slipped down woefully behind one of her balcony’s tiny blossoming trees where he could no longer see her weeping.

  Now her women filed back along the bank, their baskets filled with plunder; fruits, gourds purple and white, and great clusters of those pods he had eaten when first he had broken fast upon the ship. Into the cabin they trooped, and out again with baskets empty. Time upon time they came and went. At last they bore away skins instead of the woven hampers; water bags which they filled from the pool of the cataract. Time upon time they brought them back, swollen full, upon their shoulders.