The A. Merritt Megapack

by Abraham Merritt

  “And if you place your foot on three of the fortunate prints and on but one of mine—I forgive you. This in recognition of a certain justice in your parable of the artisan and the faulty tool.”

  I saw Cartright’s tenseness slacken, a shadow of relief pass over his face.

  “If you tread upon two of the fortunate prints and upon two of mine then I will give you a choice of a swift and merciful death or of joining my slaves of the kehjt. In brief, Cartright, you pick between the destruction of your body or slow annihilation of your soul. And that mercy I hold out to you in recognition of your claim that the wise artisan chooses some other use for the untrustworthy tool.”

  Once more the sighing, and Cartright’s face paled.

  “We come now to the last possibility—that on your journey upward you tread upon all three of my dainty little servants. In that case”—the voice chilled—“in that case, Cartright, you die. You die at the hands of Sanchal here by the cord. Not one death, Cartright. No, a thousand deaths. For slowly and with agony Sanchal’s cord shall drag you to the threshold of the gates of death. Slowly and with agony he shall drag you back to life. Again and again…and again…and again…until at last your torn soul has strength to return no more and crawls whimpering over that threshold whose gates shall close upon it…forever! Such is my decree! So is my will! So shall it be!”

  The black horror had grinned evilly as he heard his name and had shaken with a ghastly gesture the cord of braided woman’s hair. As for Cartright, at that dreadful sentence the blood had drained from his face, the cigarette fallen from his fingers. He stood, all bravado gone. And Consardine, who all the while had been beside him, slipped back into the shadow, leaving him alone. Satan pressed down a lever which stood like a slender rod between the two thrones. There was a faint whirring sound. The seven gleaming prints of a child’s bare foot flashed as though fire had shot from them.

  “The steps are prepared,” called Satan. “Cartright—ascend!”

  The white-robed men stirred; they unslung the loops of their ropes and held the nooses ready, as though to cast swiftly. The black horror thrust his head forward, mouth slavering, his talons caressing his cord.

  The silence in the temple deepened—as though all within had ceased to breathe Now Cartright walked forward, moving slowly, studying the gleaming footprints. Satan leaned back in his throne, hands hidden beneath his robe, his huge head having disconcertingly the appearance of being bodiless, floating over the dais as the head in the stone floated above the three Norns.

  And now Cartright had passed by the first print and had walked up the two intervening steps. He set without hesitation his foot upon the second gleaming mark.

  Instantly a glittering duplicate of it shone out upon the white half of the moon globe. I knew that he had trodden upon one of the fortunate steps.

  But Cartright, the globe hidden from him, forbidden to turn—Cartright could not know it!

  He shot a swift look at Satan, seeking some sign either of triumph or chagrin. The marble face was expressionless, the eyes unchanged. Nor was there any sound from the black seats.

  He walked rapidly up the next two steps and again unhesitatingly set his foot on the next print.

  And again another glittered out upon the pale field of the globe. Two chances he had won! Gone from him now was the threat of the thousand deaths. At most he would have his choice of merciful extinction or that mysterious slavery I had heard Satan name.

  And again he could not know!

  Once more he studied the face of his tormentor for some betraying expression, some hint of how his score stood. Immobile as before, it stared at him; expressionless too was the face of the monstrosity with the cord.

  Slowly Cartright ascended the next two steps. He hesitated before the next devilish print, for minutes—and hours they seemed to me. And now I saw that his mouth had become pinched and that little beads of sweat stood out upon his forehead.

  Plainly as though he were speaking, I could follow his thoughts. Had the two prints upon which he had trodden been Satan’s? And would the next condemn him to the torture of the cord? Had he trodden upon only one? Had he escaped as yet the traps that gave him over to Satan?

  He could not know!

  He passed that print and paced upward more slowly. He stood looking down upon the fifth footprint. And then, slowly, his head began to turn!

  It was as though a strong hand were forcing it. The tormented brain, wrestling with the panic that urged it to look…to look behind…to see what the marks upon the moon-globe showed.

  A groan came from his gray lips. He caught his head between his two hands, held it rigid and leaped upon the footprint before him.

  And he stood there, gasping, like a man who has run a long race. His mouth hung open, drawing in sobbing breaths to the laboring lungs. His hair was wet, his face dripping. His haggard eyes searched Satan—

  The white field of the globe bore a third shining symbol!

  Cartright had won—

  And he could not know!

  My own hands were shaking; my body drenched with sweat as though it were I myself who stood in his place. Words leaped to my lips—a cry to him that he need fear no more! That his torment was over! That Satan had lost! The gag stifled them.

  Upon me burst full realization of all the hellish cruelty, the truly diabolic subtlety and ingenuity of this ordeal.

  Cartright stood trembling. His despairing gaze ate into the impassive face now not far above him. Did I see a flicker of evil triumph pass over it, reflected on the black mask of his torturer? If so, it was gone like a swift ripple on a still pond.

  Had Cartright seen it? So it must have been, for the despair upon his own face deepened and turned it into a thing of agony.

  Once more his head began to turn backward with that slow and dreadful suggestion of unseen compulsion!

  He swayed forward, fighting against it. He stumbled up the steps. I knew with what destroying effort he dragged his eyes down to the next shining print. He poised over it a shaking foot—

  And slowly, slowly, ever his head turned…back, back to the telltale globe!

  He drew back the foot. He thrust it forward again…and again withdrew it. He sobbed. And I strained at my bonds, cursing and sobbing with him…

  Now his head was half around, his face turned directly to me…

  He recoiled from the print. His body swung about with the snap of a breaking spring. He looked at the globe and saw.

  The three prints upon the fortunate field!

  A vast sighing went up from the black amphitheater.

  “The tool again betrays its weakness!” It was Satan’s voice. “Lo, deliverance was in your hands, Cartright. And like Lot’s wife, you turned to look! And now you must descend…and all is to do again. But wait. Let us see if you may not have lost something far greater than deliverance. That footprint upon which you could not summon the courage to tread. What was it? I am curious to know.”

  He spoke in some strange tongue to the guard at the right of the print. The man came forward and pressed his foot upon the mark.

  Out upon the pale semi-disk of the globe flashed out another shimmering print!

  Crown and scepter! Empire of Earth! Not only free from Satan—but his master!

  All this Cartright might have won.

  And he had turned to look—and lost.

  A groan went up from the darkness, murmurings. They were stilled by the dreadful laughter that rolled from Satan’s still lips.

  “Lost! Lost!” he mocked. “Go back, Cartright, And climb again. And not twice, I think, will such luck as this come to you. Go back, traitor. And climb!” He pressed the lever and the hidden mechanism whirred and the seven prints flashed out.

  Cartright tottered down the steps. He walked like a puppet whose legs are pulled by strings.

  He stopped at the base of the steps. He turned, and again, like some marionette, began to climb, putting his foot automatically on each mark as he came to
it. His eyes were fixed upon the scepter and the crown. His arms were stretched out to them. His mouth was drawn at the corners like a heartbroken child, and as he climbed he wept.

  One—and a shining print sprang out on the black field of the globe.

  Two—another.

  Three—a print on the white side.

  Four—a print on the black I

  A roar of hellish laughter shook Satan. For an instant I seemed to see his black robe melt, become vaporous and change into an enveloping shadow. A blacker shadow seemed to hover over him.

  And still his laughter roared and still Cartright climbed the steps, his eyes streaming, face contorted, gaze fixed upon the glittering baubles in the golden throne, arms reaching out for them…

  There was a swishing sound. The black horror had leaned forward and cast his cord. It circled over Cartright’s head and tightened about his shoulders.

  A tug, and he had fallen.

  Then hand over hand, unresisting, the torturer pulled him up the steps and to him like a fish:

  The light went out. It left a blackness made darker by the rolling, demonic laughter.

  The laughter ceased. I heard a thin, wailing cry.

  The light came on.

  The black throne was empty. Empty too was the dais. Empty of Satan, of the torturer and of—Cartright!

  Only the orb of the scepter and the crown glittered mockingly on the golden throne between the two lines of watching, white-robed men.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I felt a touch upon my arm, sprang back and faced Consardine. On his face was a shadow of that horror I knew was on my own.

  The bands around my arms and legs sprang back, veil and gag were lifted from me. I leaped from the chair. And again blackness fell.

  The amber glow returned, slowly. I looked toward the back of the temple. Empty now was the amphitheater of all that hidden audience whose sighing and murmuring had come to me. I stared back at the steps.

  Golden throne and its burden had vanished. Gone were all but two of the white-robed figures. These stood guarding the black throne.

  The blue eyes of the stone Satan blazed out at me. The seven shining prints of a child’s foot sparkled.

  “They opened his way into Paradise, and he weakened, and they led him straight into Hell.”

  Consardine stared at the seven shining footsteps, and on his face was that avid look I had seen on faces bent over the rouge-et-noir tables at Monte Carlo; faces molded by the scorching fingers of the gambler’s passion which is a lust exceeding that for women; faces that glare hungrily at the wheel just before it begins to spin and that see not the wheel but the golden booty its spinning may draw for them from Fortune’s heaped hands. Like them, Consardine was seeing not the gleaming prints but that enchanted land to which they led where all desire was fulfilled.

  The web of Satan’s lure had him!

  Well, despite what I had just beheld, so had it me. I was conscious of an impatience, a straining desire to put my own luck to the test. But in it, stronger far than the desire to gain the treasures he had promised was the desire to make that mocking, cold and merciless devil do my bidding as he had made me do his.

  Consardine broke the spell that held him and turned to me.

  “It’s been rather an evening for you, Kirkham,” he said. “Do you want to go to your room now, or will you stop in my quarters and have a night-cap with me?”

  I hesitated. I had a thousand questions to ask. And yet I felt even more the necessity of being by myself and digesting what I had heard and seen since I had been brought to this place. Besides—of my thousand questions how many would he answer? Reasoning from my recent experiences, few. He, himself, ended the uncertainty.

  “You’d better go to bed,” he said. “Satan desires you to think over what he has proposed to you. And, after all, I am not permitted”—he caught himself hastily—“I mean I can add nothing to what he did say. He will want your answer tomorrow—or rather”—he glanced at his watch—“today, since it is nearly two o’clock.”

  “What time shall I see him?” I asked.

  “Oh, not till afternoon, surely,” he answered. “He”—a slight shudder passed over him—“he will be occupied for hours still. You may sleep till noon if you wish.”

  “Very well,” I said, “I’ll go to my room.”

  Without further comment he led me back toward the amphitheater, and up to the rear wall. He pressed, and one of the inevitable panels slid away revealing another of the little elevators. He looked back at the footprints before closing the panel. They glimmered, alertly. The two white-robed guards stood at the sides of the black throne, their strange eyes intent upon us.

  Again he shivered, then sighed and closed the slide. We stepped out into a long, vaulted corridor sheathed with slabs of marble. It was doorless. He pressed upon one of the slabs and we entered a second lift. It stopped and I passed out of it into the chamber where I had changed into evening clothes.

  Pajamas had been laid out for me on the bed, slippers and a bathrobe were on an easy chair. On a table were decanters of Scotch, rye and brandy, soda, a bowl of ice, some fruit and cakes, several boxes of my favorite cigarettes—and my missing wallet.

  I opened the latter. There were my cards and letters and my money all intact. Making no comment, I poured myself out a drink and invited Consardine to join me.

  “To the fortunate steps,” he raised his glass. “May you have the luck to pick them!”

  “May you,” I answered. His face twitched, a haggard shadow dimmed his eyes, he looked at me strangely, and half set down his drink.

  “The toast is to you, not to me,” he said at last and drained his glass. He walked across the room. At the panel he paused.

  “Kirkham,” he spoke softly, “sleep without fear. But—keep away from these walls. If you should want anything, ring the bell there”—he pointed to a button on the table—“and Thomas will answer it. I repeat—do not try to open any of these panels. And if I were you I would go to sleep and do no more thinking until you awaken. Would you like, by the way, a sleeping draught? I am really a doctor, you know,” he smiled.

  “Thanks,” I said, “I’ll need nothing to make me sleep.”

  “Good night,” he bade me, and the panel closed.

  I poured myself another drink and began to undress. I was not sleepy—far from it. Despite Consardine’s warning I went over the walls both of the bed chamber and bathroom, touching them cautiously here and there. They seemed solid, of heavy wood, beautifully grained and polished. As I had thought, there were no windows or doors. My room was, in truth, a luxurious cell.

  I switched off the lights, one by one and, getting into the bed, turned off the last light upon the side table.

  How long I had lain there in the darkness, thinking, before I sensed some one in the room besides myself I do not know. Perhaps half an hour at most. I had heard not the slightest sound, but I knew with absolute certainty that I was no longer alone. I slipped out of the light covering, and twisted silently to the foot of the bed. There I crouched upon one knee, ready to leap when my stealthy visitor had reached its side. To have turned on the light would have put me completely at his mercy. Whoever it was, he evidently thought me asleep and his attack, if attack there was to be, would be made where he would naturally suppose my body to lie. Well, my body was in an entirely different place, and it was I who would provide the surprise.

  Instead of an attack came a whisper:

  “It’s me, Cap’n Kirkham—’Arry Barker. For God’s sake, sir, don’t myke no noise!”

  I seemed to know that voice. And then I remembered. Barker, the little cockney Tommy that I had run across, bled almost white, in a shell-torn thicket of the Marne. I had given first aid to the little man and had managed to carry him to a field hospital. I had happened to be for some days in the town where was the base hospital to which he had finally been taken and had dropped in regularly to talk to him, bringing him cigarettes and other luxuries. His
gratitude to me had been dog-like and touching; he was a sentimental little beggar. Then I had seen him no more. How in the name of Heaven had he come to this place?

  “You remember me, Captain?” the whispering voice was anxious. “Wyte a bit. I’ll show you…”

  There was the flash of a small light held in a cupped hand so that it illuminated for a second only the speaker’s face. But in that second I recognized it as Barker’s—shrewd and narrow, sandy hair bristling, the short upper lip and buck teeth.

  “Barker—well, I’ll be damned!” I swore softly, but did not add that the sight of him was so welcome that had he been close enough I would have embraced him.

  “S-sh!” he cautioned. “I’m fair sure there ain’t nobody watchin’. You can’t always tell in this Gord awful plyce, though. Tyke me ’and, sir. There’s a chair over there just beside where I come through the wall. Sit in it an’ light a cigar. If I ’ear anything I can slip right back—an’ all you’re doin’ is sittin’ up smokin’.”

  His hand caught mine. He seemed to be able to see in the dark for he led me unerringly across the floor and pressed me into the cushioned seat.

  “Light up, sir,” he said.

  I struck a match and lighted a cigar. The flare showed the room, but no Barker. I flicked it out and after a moment I heard his whisper close to my ear.

  “First thing I want to say, sir, is don’t let ’im scare you with that bunk about bein’ the devil. ’E’s a devil right enough, a bloody, blinkin’ one, but ’e ain’t the devil. ’E’s pullin’ your leg, sir. ’E’s a man just like me an’ you. A knife in ’is black ’eart or a bullet through ’is guts an’ you’d see.”

  “How did you know I was here?” I whispered.

  “Seen you in the chair,” he answered. “’Ere’s my ’and. When you want to sye anything, squeeze it an’ I’ll lean my ear close. It’s syfer. Yes, seen you in the chair—out there. Fact is, sir, I’m the one that looks after that chair. Look after a lot of such damned things ’ere. That’s why ’e lets me live. Satan, I mean.”