The A. Merritt Megapack

by Abraham Merritt

  I studied her, covertly. There was not one thing about her to give a clue to her race. Foundling, I knew, she must have been, the vague man and woman her father and mother. But what had they been—of what country? No more than could her lips, did her eyes or hair, colouring or body hint at answer.

  She was more changeling than I. A changeling of the mirage! Nurtured on food from Goblin Market!

  I wondered whether she would change back again into everyday woman if I carried her out of the Shadowed-land.

  I felt the ring touch my breast with the touch of ice.

  Carry her away! There was Khalk’ru to meet first—and the Witch-woman!

  The green twilight deepened; great fire-flies began to flash lanterns of pale topaz through the flowering trees; a little breeze stole over the fern brakes, laden with the fragrances of the far forest. Evalie sighed.

  “You will not leave me, Tsantawu?”

  If he heard her, he did not answer. She turned to me.

  “You will not leave me—Leif?”

  “No!” I said…and seemed to hear the drums of Khalk’ru beating down the lilting tambours of the Little People like far-away mocking laughter.

  The green twilight had deepened into darkness, a luminous darkness, as though a full moon were shining behind a cloud-veiled sky. The golden pygmies had stilled their lilting drums; they were passing into their cliff lairs. From the distant towers came the tap-tap-tap of the drums of the guards, whispering to each other across the thorn-covered slopes. The fire-flies’ lights were like the lanterns of a goblin watch; great moths floated by on luminous silvery wings, like elfin planes.

  “Evalie,” Jim spoke. “The Yunwi Tsundsi—the Little People—how long have they dwelt here?”

  “Always, Tsantawu—or so they say.”

  “And those others—the red-haired women?”

  We had asked her of those women before, and she had not answered, had tranquilly ignored the matter, but now she replied without hesitation.

  “They are of the Ayjir—it was Lur the Sorceress who wore the wolfskin. She rules the Ayjir with Yodin the High Priest and Tibur-Tibur the Laugher, Tibur the Smith. He is not so tall as you, Leif, but he is broader of shoulder and girth, and he is strong—strong! I will tell you of the Ayjir. Before it was as though a hand were clasped over my lips—or was it my heart? But now the hand is gone.

  “The Little People say the Ayjir came riding here long and long and long ago. Then the Rrrllya held the land on each side of the river. There were many of the Ayjir—and many. Far more than now, many men and women where now are mainly women and few men. They came as though in haste from far away, or so the little people say their fathers told them. They were led by a—by a—I have no word! It has a name, but that name I will not speak—no, not even within me! Yet it has a shape…I have seen it on the banners that float from the towers of Karak…and it is on the breasts of Lur and Tibur when they…”

  She shivered and was silent. A silver-winged moth dropped upon her hand, lifting and dropping its shining wings; gently she raised it to her lips, wafted it away.

  “All this the Rrrllya—whom you call the Little People—did not then know. The Ayjir rested. They began to build Karak, and to cut within the cliff their temple to—to what had led them here. They built quickly at first, as though they feared pursuit; but when none came, they built more slowly. They would have made my little ones their servants, their slaves. The Rrrllya would not have it so. There was war. The Little Ones lay in wait around Karak, and when the Ayjir came forth, they killed them; for the Little Ones know all the—the life of the plants, and so they know how to make their spears and arrows slay at once those whom they only touch. And so, many of the Ayjir died.

  “At last a truce was made, and not because the Little People were being beaten, for they were not. But for another reason. The Ayjir were cunning; they laid traps for the little ones, and caught a number. Then this they did—they carried them to the temple and sacrificed them to—to that which had led them here. By sevens they took them to the temple, and one out of each seven they made watch that sacrifice, then released him to carry to the Rrrllya the tale of what he had seen.

  “The first they would not believe, so dreadful was the story of that sacrifice—but then came the second and third and fourth with the same story. And a great dread and loathing and horror fell upon the Little People. They made a covenant. They would dwell upon this side of the river; the Ayjir should have the other. In return the Ayjir swore by what had led them that never more should one of the Little People be given in sacrifice to it. If one were caught in Ayjirland, he would be killed—but not by the Sacrifice. And if any of the Ayjir should flee Karak, seek refuge among the Rrrllya, they must kill that fugitive. To all of this, because of that great horror, the Little People agreed. Nansur was broken, so none could cross—Nansur, that spanned Nanbu, the white river, was broken. All boats both of the Ayjir and the Rrrllya were destroyed, and it was agreed no more should be built. Then, as further guard, the Little People took the dalan’usa and set them in Nanbu, so none could cross by its waters. And so it has been—for long and long and long.”

  “Dalan’usa, Evalie—you mean the serpents?”

  “Tlanu’se—the leech,” said Jim.

  “The serpents—they are harmless. I think you would not have stopped to talk to Lur had you seen one of the dalan’usa, Leif,” said Evalie, half-maliciously.

  I filed that enigma for further reference.

  “Those two we found beneath the death flowers. They had broken the truce?”

  “Not broken it. They knew what to expect if found, and were ready to pay. There are plants that grow on the farther side of white Nanbu—and other things the Little Ones need, and they are not to be found on this side. And so they swim Nanbu to get them—the dalan’usa are their friends—and not often are they caught there. But this day Lur was hunting a runaway who was trying to make her way to Sirk, and she crossed their trail and ran them down, and laid them beneath the Death Flowers.”

  “But what had the girl done—she was one of them?”

  “She had been set apart for the Sacrifice. Did you not see—she was taluli…with child…ripening for…for…”

  Her voice trailed into silence. A chill touched me.

  “But, of course, you know nothing of that,” she said. “Nor will I speak of it—now. If Sri and Sra had found the girl before they, themselves, had been discovered, they would have guided her past the dalan’usa—as they guided you; and here she would have dwelt until the time came that she must pass-out of herself. She would have passed in sleep, in peace, without pain…and when she awakened it would have been far from here…perhaps with no memory of it…free. So it is that the Little People who love life send forth those who must be sent.”

  She said it tranquilly, with clear eyes, untroubled.

  “And are many sent forth so?”

  “Not many, since few may pass the dalan’usa—yet many try.”

  “Both men and women, Evalie?”

  “Can men bear children?”

  “What do you mean by that?” I asked, roughly enough; there had been something in the question that somehow touched me in the raw.

  “Not now,” she answered. “Besides, men are few in Karak, as I told you. Of children born, not one in twenty is a man child. Do not ask me why, for I do not know.”

  She arose, stood looking at us dreamily.

  “Enough for to-night. You shall sleep in my tent. On the morrow you shall have one of your own, and the Little People will cut you a lair in the cliff next mine. And you shall look on Karak, standing on broken Nansur—and you shall see Tibur the Laugher, since he always comes to Nansur’s other side when I am there. You shall see it all…on the morrow…or the morrow after…or on another morrow. What does it matter, since every morrow shall be ours, together. Is it not so?”

  And again Jim made no answer.

  “It is so, Evalie,” I said.

  She smiled a
t us, sleepily. She turned from us and floated toward the darker shadow on the cliff which was the door to her cave. She merged into the shadow, and was gone.

  CHAPTER X.

  IF A MAN COULD USE ALL HIS BRAIN

  The drums of the sentinel dwarfs beat on softly, talking to one another along the miles of circling scarp. And suddenly I had a desperate longing for the Gobi. I don’t know why, but its barren and burning, wind-swept and sand-swept body was more desirable than any woman’s. It was like strong homesickness. I found it hard to shake it off. I spoke at last in sheer desperation. “You’ve been acting damned queer, Indian.” “Tsi Tsa’lagi—I told you—I’m all Cherokee.” “Tsantawu—It is I, Degata, who speaks to you now.” I had dropped into the Cherokee; he answered:

  “What is it my brother desires to know?”

  “What it was the voices of the dead whispered that night we slept beneath the spruces? What it was you knew to be truth by the three signs they gave you. I did not hear the voices, brother—yet by the blood rite they are my ancestors as they are yours; and I have the right to know their words.”

  He said: “Is it not better to let the future unroll itself without giving heed to the thin voices of the dead? Who can tell whether the voices of ghosts speak truth?”

  “Tsantawu points his arrow in one direction while his eyes look the other. Once he called me dog slinking behind the heels of the hunter. Since it is plain he still thinks me that…”

  “No, no, Lief,” he broke in, dropping the tribal tongue. “I only mean I don’t know whether it’s truth. I know what Barr would call it—natural apprehensions put subconsciously in terms of racial superstitions. The voices—we’ll call them that, anyway—said great danger lay north. The Spirit that was north would destroy them for ever and for ever if I fell in its hands. They and I would be ‘as though we never had been.’ There was some enormous difference between ordinary death and this peculiar death that I couldn’t understand. But the voices did. I would know by three signs that they spoke truth, by Ataga’hi, by Usunhi’yi and by the Yunwi Tsundi. I could meet the first two and still go back. But if I went on to the third—it would be too late. They begged me not to—this was peculiarly interesting, Leif—not to let them be—dissolved.”

  “Dissolved!” I exclaimed. “But—that’s the same word I used. And it was hours after!”

  “Yes, that’s why I felt creepy when I heard you. You can’t blame me for being a little preoccupied when we came across the stony flat that was like Ataga’hi, and more so when we struck the coincidence of the Shadowed-land, which is pretty much the same as Usunhi’yi, the Darkening-land. It’s why I said if we ran across the third, the Yunwi Tsundi, I’d take your interpretation rather than Barr’s. We did strike it. And if you think all those things aren’t a good reason for acting damned queer, as you put it, well—what would you think a good one?”

  Jim in the golden chains…Jim with the tentacle of that Dark Power creeping, creeping toward him…my lips were dry and stiff…

  “Why didn’t you tell me all that! I’d never have let you go on!”

  “I know it. But you’d have come back, wouldn’t you, old-timer?”

  I did not answer; he laughed.

  “How could I be sure until I saw all the signs?”

  “But they didn’t say you would be—dissolved,” I clutched at the straw. “They only said there was the danger.”

  “That’s all.”

  “And what would I be doing? Jim—I’d kill you with my own hand before I’d let what I saw happen in the Gobi happen to you.”

  “If you could,” he said, and I saw he was sorry he had said it.

  “If I could? What did they say about me—those damned ancestors?”

  “Not a damned thing,” he answered, cheerfully. “I never said they did. I simply reasoned that if we went on, and I was in danger, so would you be. That’s all.”

  “Jim—it isn’t all. What are you keeping back?”

  He arose, and stood over me.

  “All right. They said that even if the Spirit didn’t get me, I’d never get out. Now you have the whole works.”

  “Well,” I said, a burden rolling off me, “that’s not so bad. And, as for getting out—that may be as may be. One thing’s sure—if you stay, so do I.”

  He nodded, absently. I went on to something else that had been puzzling me.

  “The Yunwi Tsundi, Jim, what were they? You never told me anything about them that I remember. What’s the legend?”

  “Oh—the Little People,” he squatted beside me, chuckling, wide awake from his abstraction. “They were in Cherokee-land when the Cherokees got there. They were a pygmy race, like those in Africa and Australia to-day. Only they weren’t blacks. These small folk fit their description. Of course, the tribes did some embroidering. They had them copper-coloured and only two feet high. These are golden-skinned and average three feet. At that, they may have faded some here and put on height. Otherwise they square with the accounts—long hair, perfect shape, drums and all.”

  He went on to tell of the Little People. They had lived in caves, mostly in the region now Tennessee and Kentucky. They were earth-folk, worshippers of life; and as such at times outrageously Rabelaisian. They were friendly toward the Cherokees, but kept rigorously to themselves and seldom were seen. They frequently aided those who had got lost in the mountains, especially children. If they helped anyone, and took him into their caves, they warned him he mustn’t tell where the caves were, or he would die. And, ran the legends, if he told, he did die. If anyone ate their food he had to be very careful when he returned to his tribe, and resume his old diet slowly, or he would also die.

  The Little People were touchy. If anyone followed them in the woods, they cast a spell on him so that for days he had no sense of location. They were expert wood and metal workers, and if a hunter found in the forest a knife or arrow-head or any kind of trinket, before he picked it up he had to say: “Little People, I want to take this.” If he didn’t ask, he never killed any more game and another misfortune came upon him. One which distressed his wife.

  They were gay, the Little People, and they spent half their time in dancing and drumming. They had every kind of drum—drums that would make trees fall, drums that brought sleep, drums that drove to madness, drums that talked and thunder drums. The thunder drums sounded just like thunder, and when the Little People beat on them soon there was a real thunderstorm, because they sounded so much like the actuality that it woke up the thunderstorms, and one or more storms was sure to come poking around to gossip with what it supposed a wandering member of the family…

  I remembered the roll of thunder that followed the chanting; I wondered whether that had been the Little People’s defiance to Khalk’ru…

  “I’ve a question or two for you, Leif.”

  “Go right ahead, Indian.”

  “Just how much do you remember of—Dwayanu?”

  I didn’t answer at once; it was the question I had been dreading ever since I had cried out to the Witch-woman on the white river’s bank.

  “If you’re thinking it over, all right. If you’re thinking of a way to stall, all wrong. I’m asking for a straight answer.”

  “Is it your idea that I’m that ancient Uighur, re-born? If it is, maybe you have a theory as to where I’ve been during the thousands of years between this time and now.”

  “Oh, so the same idea has been worrying you, has it? No, reincarnation isn’t what I had in mind. Although at that, we know so damned little I wouldn’t rule it out. But there may be a more reasonable explanation. That’s why I ask—what do you remember of Dwayanu?”

  I determined to make a clean breast of it.

  “All right, Jim,” I said. “That same question has been riding my mind right behind Khalk’ru for three years. And if I can’t find the answer here, I’ll go back to the Gobi for it—if I can get out. When I was in that room of the oasis waiting the old priest’s call, I remembered perfectly well it had b
een Dwayanu’s. I knew the bed, and I knew the armour and the weapons. I stood looking at one of the metal caps and I remembered that Dwayanu—or I—had got a terrific clout with a mace when wearing it. I took it down, and there was a dent in it precisely where I remembered it had been struck. I remembered the swords, and recalled that Dwayanu—or I—had the habit of using a heavier one in the left hand than in the right. Well, one of them was much heavier than the other. Also, in a fight I use my left hand better than I do my right. These memories, or whatever they were, came in flashes. For a moment I would be Dwayanu, plus myself, looking with amused interest on old familiar things—and the next moment I would be only myself and wondering, with no amusement, what it all meant.”

  “Yes, what else?”

  “Well, I wasn’t entirely frank about the ritual matter,” I said, miserably. “I told you it was as though another person had taken charge of my mind and gone on with it. That was true, in a way—but God help me, I knew all the time that other person was—myself! It was like being two people and one at the same time. It’s hard to make clear…you know how you can be saying one thing and thinking another. Suppose you could be saying one thing and thinking two things at once. It was like that. One part of me was in revolt, horror-stricken, terrified. The other part was none of those things; it knew it had power and was enjoying exercising that power—and it had control of my will. But both were—I. Unequivocally, unmistakably—I. Hell, man—if I’d really believed it was somebody, something, besides myself, do you suppose I’d feel the remorse I do? No, it’s because I knew it was I—the same part of me that knew the helm and the swords, that I’ve gone hag-ridden ever since.”