by Anthology
He was ready for the Senestro.
XLI
THE PROPHECY
Reaching the top of the jade steps, Chick found the landing to be a great dais, nearly a hundred feet across. On the right and left this dais was hedged in by the silver walls, on each of which was hung a huge, golden scrollwork. These scrolls bore legends, which for the moment Chick ignored. At the rear of the dais was a large object like a bronze bell.
The floor was of the usual mosaic, except in the centre, where there was a plain, circular design. Chick took careful note of this, a circle about twenty feet across, as white and unbroken as a bed of frozen snow. Whether it was stone or not he could not determine. All around its edge was a gap that separated it from the dais, a gap several inches across. Chick turned to Geos:
"The Spot of Life?"
"Even so. It is the strangest thing in all the Thomahlia, my lord. Can you feel it?"
For Watson had reached out with his toe and touched the white surface. He drew it back suddenly.
"It has a feeling," he replied, "that I cannot describe. It is cold, and yet it is not. Perhaps it is my own magnetism."
"Ah! It is well, my lord!"
What the Rhamda meant by that Chick could not tell. He was interested in the odd white substance. It was as smooth as glass, although at intervals there were faint, almost imperceptible, dark lines, like the finest scratches in old ivory. Yet the whiteness was not dazzling. Again Watson touched it with his foot, and noted the inexplicable feeling of exhilaration. In the moment of absorption he quite forgot the concourse about him. He knew that he was now standing on the crux of the Blind Spot.
But in a minute he turned. The dais was a sort of nave, with one end open to the stairway. Seated on his left was the frail Aradna, occupying a small throne-like chair of some translucent green material. On the right sat the Bar Senestro, in a chair differing only in that its colour was a bright blue. In the centre of the dais stood a third chair—a crimson one—empty.
The Senestro stood up. He was royally clad, his breast gleaming with jewels. He was certainly handsome; he had the carriage of confident royalty. There was no fear in this man, no uncertainty, no weakness. If confidence were a thing of strength, the Senestro was already the victor. In his heart Chick secretly admired him.
But just then the Aradna stood up, She made an indication to Watson. He stepped over to the queen. She sat down again.
"I want to give you my benediction, stranger lord. Are you sure of yourself? Can you overcome the Senestro?"
"I am certain," spoke Watson. "It is for the queen, O Aradna. I know nothing of the prophecy; but I will fight for you!"
She blushed and cast a furtive look in the direction of the Senestro.
"It is well," she spoke. "The outcome will have a double interpretation—the spiritual one of the prophecy, and the earthly, material one that concerns myself. If you conquer, my lord, I am freed. I would not marry the Senestro; I love him not. I would abide by the prophet, and await the chosen." She hesitated. "What do you know of the chosen, my lord?"
"Nothing, O Aradna."
"Has not the Rhamda Geos told you?"
"Partly, but not fully. There is something that he is withholding."
"Very likely. And now—will you kneel, my lord?"
Watson knelt. The queen held out her hand. Behind him Chick could hear a deep murmur from the assembled multitudes. Just what was the significance of that sound he did not know; nor did he care. It was enough for him that he was to fight for this delicately beautiful maiden. He would let the prophecy take care of itself.
Besides these three on the dais there were only the Rhamda Geos and the Jan Lucar. These two remained on the edge nearest the body of the temple, the edge at the crest of the stair. The empty chair remained so.
Suddenly Chick remembered the warning of Dr. Holcomb: "Read the words of the Prophet." And he took advantage of the breathing- spell to peruse the legends on the great golden scrolls:
THE PROPHECY OF THE JARADOS
Behold! When the day is at hand, prepare ye!
For, when that day cometh, ye shall have signs and portents from the world beyond. Wisdom cometh out of life, and life walketh out of wisdom. Yea, in the manner of life and of spirit ye shall have them, and of substance even like unto you yourselves.
And it shall come to pass in the last days, that we shall be on guard. By these signs ye shall know them; even by the truths I have taught thee. The way of life is an open door; wisdom and virtue are its keys. And when the intelligence shall be lifted to the plane above—then shalt thou know!
Mark ye well the Spot of Life! He that openeth it is the precursor of judgment. Mark him well!
And thus shall the last days come to pass. See that ye are worthy, O wise ones! For behold in those last days there shall come among ye—
The chosen of a line of kings. First there shall be one, and then there shall be two; and the two shall stay but the one shall return.
The false ones. Them ye shall slay!
The four footed: The call to humility, sacrifice and devotion, whom ye shall hold in reverence even as you hold me, the Jarados.
And on the last day of all—I, the Jarados!
Beware ye of sacrilege! Lest I take from ye all that I have given ye, and the day be postponed—beware ye of sacrilege!
And if the false ones cometh not, ye shall know that I have held them. Know ye the day!
Sixteen days from the day of the prophet, shall come the day of the judgment; and the way shall be opened, on the last day, the sixteenth day of the Jarados.
Hearken to the words of the Jarados, the prophet and mouthpiece of the infinite intelligence, ruler of justice, peace, and love! So be it forever!
Chick read it a second time. Like all prophecies, it was somewhat Delphic; but he could get the general drift. In that golden script he was looking into the heart of all Thomahlia—into its greatness, its culture, its civilisation itself. It was the soul of the Blind Spot, the reason and the wherefore of all about him.
He heard someone step up behind him, and he turned. It was the Senestro, going over the words of the prophecy.
"Can you read it, Sir Phantom?" asked the handsome Bar. His black eyes were twinkling with delight. "Have you read it all?"
He put a hand on Chick's shoulder. It was a careless act, almost friendly. Either he had the heart of a devil or the chivalry of a paladin. He pointed to a line:
"'The false ones. Them ye shall slay.'"
"And if I were the false one, you would slay me?" asked Watson.
"Aye, truly!" answered the splendid prince. "You are well made and good to look upon. I shall hold you in my arms; I shall hear your bones crack; it shall be sweeter music than that of the temple pheasants, who never sing but for the Jarados. I shall slay you upon the Spot, Sir Phantom!"
Watson turned on his heel. The ethics of the Senestro were not of his own code. He was not afraid; he stood beside the Jan Lucar and gazed out into the body of the temple. As far as he could see, under and past the fourteen great pillars and right up to the far wall, the floor was a vast carpet of humanity.
It was become dark. Presently a new kind of light began to glow far overhead, gradually increasing in strength until the whole place was suffused with a sun-like illumination. The Rhamda Geos began to speak.
"In the last day, in the Day of Life. We have the substance of ourselves, and the words of the prophet. The Jarados has written his prophecy in letters of gold, for all to see. 'The false ones. Them ye shall slay.' It is the will of the Rhamdas that the great Bar Senestro shall try the proof of the occult. On this, the first of the Sixteen Days, the test shall be—on the Spot of Life!"
He turned away. The Bar Senestro stripped off his jewels, his semi-armour, and stood clad in the manner of Watson. They advanced and met in the centre of the dais, two athletes, lithe, strong, handsome, their muscles aquiver with vitality and their skins silken with health. Champions of two worlds, to wrestle for tr
uth!
A low murmur arose, increasing until it filled the whole coliseum. The silver-bronze pheasants flitted above the heads of all, flashing like fragments of the spirit of light. And all of a sudden—
One of them fluttered down and lit on Watson's shoulder.
The murmur of the throng dropped to a dead silence. Next moment a stranger thing happened. The little creature broke forth in full- throated song.
Watson instantly remembered the words of the Bar Senestro: "They sing but for the Jarados." He quietly reached up and caught the songster in his hand, and he held it up to the astonished crowd. Still the song continued. Chick held him an instant longer, and then gave him a toss high into the air. He shot across the temple, a streak of melody, silver, dulcet, to the far corner of the giant building.
But the thing did not jar the Senestro.
"Well done, Sir Phantom! Anyhow, 'tis your last play! I would not have it otherwise. I hope you can die as prettily! Are you ready?"
"Ready? What for?" retorted Watson. "Why, should I trouble myself with preparations?"
But the Rhamda Geos had now come to his side.
"Do your best, my lord. I regret only that it must be to the death. It is the first death contest in the Thomahlia for a thousand circles (years). But the Senestro has challenged the prophecy. Prove that you are not a false one! My heart is with you."
It was a good word at a needed moment. Watson stepped over onto the circular Spot of Life.
They were both barefooted. Evidently the Thomahlians fought in the old, classic manner. The stone under Watson's feet was cool and invigorating. He could sense anew that quiver of magenetism and strength. It sent a thrill through his whole body, like the subtle quickening of life. He felt vital, joyous, confident.
The Senestro was smiling, his eyes flashing with anticipation. His muscled body was a network of soft movement. His step was catlike.
"What will it be?" inquired Watson. "Name your choice of destruction."
But the Bar shook his head.
"Not so, Sir Phantom. You shall choose the manner of your death, not I. Particular I am not, nor selfish."
"Make it wrestling, then," in his most off-hand manner. He was a good wrestler, and scientific.
"Good. Are you ready?"
"Quite."
"Very well, Sir Phantom. I shall walk to the edge of the Spot and turn around. I would take no unfair advantage. Now!"
Chick turned at the same moment and strode to his edge. He turned, and it happened; just what, Chick never knew. He remembered seeing his opponent turn slowly about, and in the next split second he was spinning in the clutch of a tiger. Even before they struck the stone, Chick could feel the Senestro reaching for a death-hold.
And in that one second Watson knew that he was in the grip of his master.
His mind functioned like lightning. His legs and arms flashed for the counterhold that would save him. They struck the Spot and rolled over and over. Chick caught his hold, but the Senestro broke it almost instantly. Yet it had saved him; for a minute they spun around like a pair of whirligigs. Watson kept on the defensive. He had not the speed and skill of the other. It was no mere test to touch his shoulders; it was a fight to the death; he was at a disadvantage. He worked desperately.
When a man fights for his life he becomes superhuman. Watson was put to something more than his skill; the sheer spirit of the Bar broke hold after hold; he was like lightning, panther-like, subtle, vicious. Time after time he spun Chick out of his defense and bore him down into a hold of death. And each time Chick somehow wriggled out, and saved himself by a new hold. The struggle became a blur—muscle, legs, the lust for killing—and hatred. Twice Watson essayed the offensive; first he got a hammer lock, and then a half-Nelson. The Bar broke both holds immediately.
Whatever Chick knew of wrestling, the Senestro knew just a bit more. It was a whirling mass of legs and bodies in continuous convulsion, silent except for the terrible panting of the men, and the low, stifled exclamations of the onlookers.
And then—
Watson grew weak. He tried once more. They spun to their feet. But before he could act the Senestro had caught him in the same flying rush as in the beginning, and had whirled him off his feet. And when he came down the Bar had an unbreakable hold.
Chick struggled in vain. The Bar tightened his grip. A spasm of pain shot through Chick's torso; he could feel his bones giving way. His strength was gone; he could see death. Another moment would have been the end.
But something happened. The Senestro miraculously let go his hold. Chick felt something soft brush against his cheek. He heard a queer snapping, and shouts of wonder, and a dreadful choking sound from the Bar. He raised dizzily on one arm. His eyes cleared a bit.
The great Bar was on his back; and at his throat was a snarling thing—the creature that Chick had seen in the clover leaf of the Jarados.
It was a living dog.
XLII
PAT MACPHERSON'S STORY
To Watson it was all a blur. He was too weak and too broken to remember distinctly. He was conscious only of an uproar, of a torrent of multitudinous sound. And then—the deep, enveloping tone of a bell.
Some time, somewhere, Chick had heard that bell before. In his present condition his memory refused to serve him. He was covered with blood; he tried to rise, to crawl to this snarling animal that was throttling the Senestro. But something seemed to snap within him, and all went black.
When he opened his eyes again all had changed. He was lying on a couch with a number of people about. It was a minute before he recognized the Jan Lucar, then the Geos, and lastly the nurse whom he had first seen when he awoke in the Blind Spot. Evidently he was in the hands of his friends, although there was a new one, a red-headed man, clad in the blue uniform of a high Bar.
He sat up. The nurse held a goblet of the green liquid to his lips. The Bar in blue turned.
"Aye," he said. "Give him some of the liquor; it will do him good. It will put the old energy back in his bones."
The voice rang oddly familiar in Watson's ears. The words were Thomahlian; not until Chick had drained his glass did he comprehend their significance.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The Bar with the red hair grinned.
"Whist, me lad," using Chick's own tongue. "Get rid of these Thomahlians. 'Tis a square game we're playin', but we're takin' no chances. Get 'em out of the way so we kin talk."
Watson turned to the others. He made the request in his adopted tongue. They bowed, reverently, and withdrew.
"Who are you?" Chick asked again.
"Oi'm Pat MacPherson."
"How did you get here?"
The other sat on the edge of the bed. "Faith, how kin Oi tell ye? 'Twas a drink, sor; a new kind av a high-ball, th' trickery av a friend an' th' ould Witch av Endor put togither."
Obviously Watson did not understand. The stranger continued: "Faith, sor, an' no more do Oi. There's no one as does, 'cept th' ould doc hisself."
"The old doc! You mean Dr. Holcomb?"
Watson sat up in his bed. "Where is he?"
"In a safe place, me lad. Dinna fear for th' doctor. 'Twas him as saved ye—him an' your humble sarvant, Pat MacPherson, bedad."
"He—and you—saved me?"
"Aye—there on th' Spot of Life. A bit of a thrick as th' ould doc dug oot o' his wisdom. Sure, she dinna work jist loike he said it, but 'twas a plenty t' oopset th' pretty Senestro!"
Watson asked, "What became of the Senestro?"
"Sure, they pulled him oot. Th' wee doggie jist aboot had him done for. Bedad, she's a good pup!"
"What kind of a dog?"
"A foine wan, sor, wit a bit stub av a tail. An' she's that intelligent, she kin jist about talk Frinch. Th' Thomahlians all called her th' Four-footed, an' if they kape on, they'll jist aboot make her th' Pope."
Watson was still thick headed. "I don't understand!"
"Nor I laddie. But th' ould doc does. He's got a foine head
for figgers; and' he's that scientific, he kin make iron oot o' rainbows."
"Iron out of—what?"
"Rainbows, sor. Faith, 'tis meself thot's seen it. And he's been watchin' over ye ever since ye came. 'Twas hisself, lad, that put it into your head t' call him th' Jarados."
"You don't mean to say that the professor put those impulses into my head!"
"Aye, laddie; you said it. He kin build up a man's thoughts just like you or me kin pile oop lumber. 'Tis that deep he is wit' th' calculations!"
Watson tried to think. There was just one superlative question now. He put it.
"I dinna know if he's th' Jarados," was the reply. "But if so be not, then he's his twin brother, sure enough."
"Is he a prisoner?"
"I wouldna say that, though there's them as think so. But if it be anybody as is holdin' him, 'tis the Senestro an' his gang o' guards."
Watson looked at the other's uniform, at the purple shako on his head, the jewelled weapon at his side, and the Jaradic leaf on his shoulder—insignia of a Bar of the highest rank.
"How does it come that you're a Bar, and a high one at that?"
The other grinned again. He took off his shako and ran his hand through his mop of red hair.
"'Tis aither th' luck of th' Irish, me lad, or of th' Scotch. Oi don't ken which—Oi'm haff each—but mostly 'tis th' virtoo av me bonny red hair."
"Why?"
"Because, leastways, in th' Thomahlia, there's always a dhrop av royalty in th' red-headed. Me bonnie top-knot has made me a fortune. Ye see, 'tis th' mark av th' royal Bars themselves; no ithers have it."
Watson said: "If you have come from Dr. Holcomb, then you must have a message from him to me."
"Ye've said it; you an' me, an' a few Rhamdas, an' mebbe th' wee queen is goin' t' take a flight in th' June Bug. We're goin' afther th' ould doc; an' ye kin bet there'll be as pretty a scrap as ever ye looked on. An' afther thot's all over, we're goin' t' take anither kind of a flight—into good old Frisco."
Chick instantly asked Pat if he knew where San Francisco might be.
