Time No Longer

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  “… I can feel a deep and expanding smile in myself; finally, it seems that the whole world is smiling that helpless, evil smile. A dull ache began to move like an independent creature behind my forehead. I felt it moving; I listened to the rustle of its whispering voice. Then the Thing began to caper wildly behind my forehead. I heard a sound as though it had clapped its hands. Everything was listening, the room, my body, the furniture, the lamp with its little bright red licking tongue, the trees, the distant sky. Then the Thing, having aroused all the universe, was satisfied, and listening itself, gloating.

  “… I can feel nothing in myself except implacability, of vengeance to be accomplished, of inexorable purpose. In life there is nothing else. Not even grief.… I am writing here by lamplight. I write. The pen scratches loudly. Now a thousand pens are writing, recording terrible things, and they become thunder in the black silence. I cannot endure the sound. I must stop writing tonight.… I put down my pen, but still the thousand pens go on writing, and the sound scrapes my mind, my soul, all my consciousness until I must scream aloud. I am being flayed. I can see my own flesh, bleeding from countless small wounds.

  “… Tonight there is a storm. I watch those flames darting from the black heavens, listen to the shudder and crash of that thunder, the roaring of that rain, and the bending and groaning of the great trees. It is a beautiful storm. I shriek and howl with it.

  “I am in the storm, part of it, breathing it, thundering in it. Where do I begin, and the storm end? It is very confusing.… What is that voice? Is it only the wind? I strain my ears, and I hear Eric’s voice in it, calling in anguish. But I shall not listen! I am afraid of what he is calling.… I slept deeply for the first time in many months. To awaken was like emerging from the blessed nothingness of death into the torment of life. Then I noticed a curious thing. Every object was suddenly, thickly, outlined with an intense and glowing scarlet, like fire. This scarlet burned every familiar object, the posts of my bed, the window-sills, the curtains, the trees clasped against the sky, my very fingers as I lifted them. My chair by the window was outlined in that red incandescence.… The sun brightened rapidly, and I saw that its rays were also outlined in this bloody light. Was this fire? Was the whole world about to go up into flames? How beautiful, how delightful! How my heart sank with exultation. The whole world, and everything in it, the murderers of Eric, the murderers of Gerda, the murderers of Germany and myself!

  “I opened my door. I remarked to myself on the absence of heat and smoke in this conflagration. All was dark and silent without. I crept down the stairs, went through the house, opening doors, halting, listening. Not a sound. But every object had its outline of glowing and living light. Then I knew. My sight had become prenaturally sharp. What I saw, I was convinced, was the decay, invisible to others, of all things, the slowly eating and remorseless decay of life, going on hour by hour, day by day, year by year, age by age. I laughed with delight. I could see it, this decay. I could watch death eating, burning, dissolving all things. Nothing could escape.… It was soon evident to me that I, myself, could will this decay, or stop it. It was in my hands. But I would not stop it. I would will it to go on, until every last leaf, every last man, every last clod of earth, was dissolved into a river of fire. Then I would be avenged. Eric would be avenged.”

  Tears were running down Therese’s face now. She closed her eyes. She thought she must faint with her horror and grief. She could not bear to read. She stood up, saying to herself: It is all over. There is nothing I can do.

  She stood, looking down at the disordered, stained sheets of paper. She held herself rigid against her trembling. She must go on. She must read to the end. She must follow that tortured soul down into the abyss, to give him her hand, and to die with him if she could not save him.

  She sat down again, and resumed her reading:

  “A strange, pleasing phenomenon has happened, though I hear no comment about it from any one. The sun always shines, now, with a dark bronze light, and the air on the brightest day is spectral. The trees no longer show clear green leaves, but they are brownish and decayed, blasted. The grass is not green, but has the dull copper tinge of autumn fields. At night the moon shines molten. There is a chill over all things, a smell of decay thick in the nostrils. Surely they must have noticed that summer is not here, and that winter has settled eternally over the earth.

  “… Last night I saw Eric. For many days I had been in a sick dark fever, when I never knew whether the horrid images and faces and terrors I saw were real or a dream. And then, last night, the fever left me.

  “A low mournful wind suddenly rose; it crept, murmuring, about the eaves, tried the windows with ghostly hands. Thinly howling, it went on its way, setting the leaves on the trees to a shrill hissing, and then fleeing off into the night. My brain was sharp and clear, and my eyes picked out the red outline on all the dim objects in the room.

  “Then, I saw Eric. He was standing near the window, and was half turned towards it. He had not changed, though he had lain in the earth. The moon had come out, faint and fugitive, and fell on him. He appeared to be thinking, to be utterly oblivious of me. Long moment after moment passed as he stood there, not moving. The wind returned, howling with renewed strength, and the moon fluttered in it.… I noticed a strange thing. The red outline had not touched Eric.

  “Then he lifted his head and looked at me. He smiled. His lips opened, but I could hear no sound. I knew he was speaking to me, and that if I wished, I could hear him. But I cried out: ‘No, Eric, I shall not listen to you! Go back to your grave, which they dug for you. Some day when I have avenged you, I shall listen.’

  “He still spoke, and I refused to hear. I felt a sudden rage. Why had he escaped from the earth into life again? Why had they not sodded him down so that he could not rise into torment and agony once more? Why had they not nailed down his coffin so that he might not have burst the screws, and escaped?

  “We looked steadily at each other, moment by moment, and never did his expression change. Yet I felt in him a sad, understanding pity. I heard him sigh. The sigh was taken up in the wind, which echoed it dolefully, carrying it away over the barren earth, up into the lightless skies. Then he was no longer there.

  “I know why he has come. But he shall not deflect me from my purpose! He was always the Jew, compassionate, forgiving, understanding. Do they not know that they bring death upon themselves? Do they never long for vengeance? But I know, and I shall do what I wish to do, no matter how often he comes and how often he pleads! Pleads for his murderers.… But, perhaps he was pleading for me.…”

  Therese clasped her hands to her breast. She stared passionately about the room. It seemed to her that there was some invisible presence there, warm, steadfast, gentle and comforting. “Eric!” she whispered, aloud. “Eric, Eric, help me!” She sobbed convulsively.

  “The Thing behind my forehead has told me that I must know all dreadfulness, all horrors, if I must avenge Eric.

  “How little men know! They think they are small and impotent and helpless. They do not know that they can will all things. How little they know of my mysterious wisdom, of my new gift to peer behind the thick veil of illusion into the wild and frightful country of reality. Their silly illusions are the illusions of timid childhood. I look beyond. My brain is like a portal through which flow the dread truths of God and creation. I know I can destroy and ruin and bring death and desolation to all the universe.…”

  Therese cound hear the muffled thudding of her heart. She looked about the quiet, lamplit room, wildly. Was this madness? Perhaps it was not! Perhaps it was truth! One man’s insanity, one man’s open burning brain, one man’s mad effluvia flowing out to cover the earth, to pollute, twist, destroy and inundate it. Surely it was not delusion. One had only to think of Adolf Hitler, with his red and howling dream, to know it was not delusion. Suddenly all the air seemed permeated with her own terror and realization. It was possible to project from one’s own brain an engulfing flood o
f death. Karl was seeing clearly. Before the vision of such appalling horror she felt her heart fainting away. What could any one do against it? Against the knowledge of such as Hitler, and Karl Erlich? Against those who could evoke the spectral and monstrous forces behind the little frail wall of human existence?

  She pressed her hands against her temples to stop their agonizing pain. Who knew what was life, and what was death? Man had hung a little curtain at the door of his little house, and shivered behind it. He forgot what went on outside. To reassure his quivering self he laughed childishly at mysteries, scoffed at dread premonitions, denied the shrieking terrors that blew at his curtain and invaded his dreams. He refused to believe that one man, by throwing aside the curtain, by opening his eyes and seeing, could permit entry to every man’s house of the unspeakable things that swirled through the corridors of the universe.

  She could not control her tired and shuddering thoughts. She looked about the study, with bemused and aching eyes. The head of Gilu was alive in the lamplight. It grinned at her; its eye-sockets gleamed. It was the Spirit of Evil, bursting through the thin curtain of reality. She stared back at it, numb and impotent, feeling her consciousness disintegrating. A dark mist fell over her vision.

  She was again in her father’s church. She could hear the rolling and surging of the organ, like a great sea. The waves fell over her, lifted her up, tossed her down, filled her heart and her soul. There was only blackness and death in and about her.

  Then over the thunder and the waves she heard the singing voice of a man, singing as she had heard him sing a hundred times or more. Then she had listened with indifference, even boredom, with an air of politeness. But as she listened now, the voice was a light over the storm, triumphant, rising, breaking through the darkness: like an eternal light:

  “.… But Deliver us from Evil,

  For Thine is the Kingdom, and the power,

  and the glory,

  Forever and ever.…”

  Dawn had come. The sky was suffused in a pale and milky light. The tops of the great garden trees floated in a clear radiance. The radiance brightened, became enhanced. The trees were like prayers in it.

  17

  She bathed, dressed. Her body was laden with an immense fatigue. It felt that it was not a part of her, but a weary burden which she must drag with her. She passed Karl’s door on her way downstairs. She could not control her exhausted thoughts. She had seen doors standing closed all her life. But there was such a finality about this door. It was like a door shut on a corpse.

  Lotte was surprised to see her so early, and was about to mention it when she saw her mistress’ face. “The Herr Doctor has not stirred yet,” she said. “We have heard nothing of him.”

  She added, in a carefully matter-of-fact voice: “He was so restless last night. He walked about for hours. When I brought him his hot milk I put two tablets in it, instead of one.” She went on grimly: “Then he slept.”

  Therese was too tired to speak. She sat down, drank half a cup of coffee. She said at last: “I want the car, Lotte. No, I do not care for anything to eat. I am going out.”

  “So early, Frau Doctor?”

  “So early.”

  Lotte hesitated, eyeing Therese with indecision. “Frau Doctor, do you remember how. I spoke of ghosts? Or, perhaps you think I am a silly old woman, and you do not believe in ghosts, after all?”

  Therese lifted her hollow eyes, and smiled palely. “Did I say that, Lotte? How can one believe, or not believe, in anything?”

  Encouraged, though a little puzzled by this ambiguous remark, Lotte went on, a trifle defiantly, with a wary eye out for incipient amusement from Therese: “You remember, Frau Doctor, that I told you about the Muehlers’ girl, who had seen the ghost of the Herr Professor’s father? She had seen him often. She was not afraid. One is not afraid of a ghost, when one really sees such an apparition. It is the thought of one which is so terrifying. When one comes face to face with a ghost, one can adjust oneself, learn to accept it, even to understand.”

  She paused, doubtful of the effect of her words on Therese. To her intense surprise, Therese had begun to regard her with strangely-bright tired eyes.

  “Yes, yes, Lotte,” she said, in a still, peculiar voice. “I understand, perfectly.” She added, as though speaking to herself: “It is the idea which is so terrifying, the unknown in which one does not really believe.”

  Somewhat disconcerted, but not entirely reassured, Lotte went on:

  “Last night the girl saw the old man’s ghost again. She met him in the dark hallway. She asked him: ‘What are you doing, Herr Muehler?’ You see, she knew him well; she had known him before he died. He smiled at her, and said: ‘I am listening.’ Now, the Herr Professor and the Frau Professor were dining with the General, and there was no one in the house last night but the girl, the cook having left. But the girl was not nervous. It was only in remembering, that she was disturbed. But now she was quite tranquil. She talked to him as though he were alive, and indeed, she told me, he was quite solid, and colored, with his little white beard really distinct. She even wondered, she said, if she ought to invite him into the drawing-room, where they might talk at ease. It was all so very natural!

  “She was even curious. She said: ‘To what are you listening, Herr Muehler?’ And he answered: ‘To my son.’ Now, that was a little absurd. The Herr Professor was not in the house. She began to think. The more she thought, the more it was absurd. She expected the ghost to disappear, but, as she watched it, it went into the Herr Professor’s bedroom and sat down in his chair near the bed. Then she regretted that she had been so impolite, and had not invited him into the drawing-room. But he was always a cosy man, she remembered, and preferred kitchens and bedrooms to drafty drawing-rooms. He looked very satisfied. He picked up a book and began to read. It was very pleasant, seeing him sitting there, under the lamp, reading. She saw how his spectacles shone, and how his beard nodded, as he apparently agreed with the writer. She said, a little nervously: ‘You seem so real, Herr Muehler.’

  “And then she was startled, for he laughed. It was a real and living sound. He looked at her, and answered: ‘But I am real, my girl. I was never so real in my life!’”

  Lotte waited. But Therese was listening with hard attention, her cup in her hand. Lotte shifted on her old aching feet. She continued, more and more defiantly:

  “The Muehlers’ girl, Frau Doctor, is a very sensible creature. She asked herself: ‘How can a ghost be real?’ So she said: ‘But you are dead. I am alive, and I know you are dead.’ And do you know what the ghost answered? He said: ‘No, my child, I am not dead. It is only that you are sleeping. I am awake.’

  “Now, that was ridiculous. The girl knew she was not sleeping. She was standing there, still in her apron, and she had her candle in her hand. She was on the way to her bed, but she was not sleeping. She pinched herself. She felt the pinch quite strongly. But one does not argue with a ghost. There are tales that they can become very unpleasant, when contradicted. So she merely nodded solemnly, as if in agreement. At this, he was very amused. He laughed, quite loudly, and his eyes danced behind his spectacles.

  “She was very sleepy, however. She wanted to go to bed, for she rises early. But it did not seem polite to leave the ghost. So she asked if she could bring him anything. He was so real that she could understand that he could drink coffee and even eat. But he shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I am waiting for my son. I shall never leave him again. When he goes, I shall go, too. But not until he goes. He will need a lot of comfort at the last, and it will comfort him to see me the first of all. We have such a lot to say to each other.’”

  Lotte waited to see the effect of this extraordinary story on her mistress. But Therese did not laugh. She did not even smile. She gazed at Lotte fixedly, and her face paled more than ever. She put down her cup with a clatter, and terror stood in her eyes. “No! No!” she exclaimed, in a low voice. She stood up, abruptly. Lotte saw that she was trembling viol
ently.

  The old woman was seized with compunction and self-reproach. “I have not frightened you, Frau Doctor? If I have, I am a miserable old wretch! You have so much to bear!”

  Therese put her hands to her head. She closed her eyes. She had again that ghastly sensation of disembodiment, of being swirled about in a dark universe where unreality was the only reality, and there was only horror.

  “Oh, Frau Doctor, I have really frightened you!” cried Lotte. “Do not listen to me. Besides, she is a very silly girl, and goes about with her mouth open, constantly. And very stupid, too. She makes up a lot of stories, and most of them are lies.”

  Therese dropped her hands. She forced herself to smile. “I am not frightened, Lotte. But I am really in a hurry. Will you call the car, please?”

  Lotte scurried out, shaking with her passionate self-reproach. While she waited, Therese kept smoothing her hair distractedly with her hands. She put on her hat and coat, which she had brought with her. Her flesh was cold and rigid. “No, no!” she repeated, with a sort of anguish.

  When she was in the car, riding steadily through the clean, wide, sun-washed streets, and breathing deeply though spasmodically of the fresh bright air, she was able to orient herself. She thought to herself that her home had become a dark and airless tomb, in which specters walked, and there was only grief. She felt herself a widow. She felt that she was going down into hell, like Orpheus, to rescue one already dead, and bring him back to the living earth. But first, she must traverse the blood-lit caverns herself; she must learn the way in order to guide him. But have I lost the way? she thought, despairingly. I go deeper and deeper into terror, into loneliness and darkness, and perhaps I will not know the way back. Perhaps I will be trapped down here myself, with Karl. There is no end to the dreadfulness.