They gathered possessions of many kinds. They had a sense of owning the earth. Not knowing what the winter conditions would be, and expecting vaguely something much worse than is the lot of that favoured land, they had made a store of grapes dried in the sun. They knew nothing of the making of wine, so that there was fair hope that its curse would long be kept from the lips of men.
They had gathered a store of fuel against the same fear of winter storms and a freezing air; having already learned the making of fires and roasting conies’ flesh. They did this on the altar where human victims had groaned and burned countless centuries earlier.
Vinetta looked at the gathered skins of the conies, stiff and foul as they were, and dreamed of garments against the cold. “It is done,” she said, “with the bark of some tree. If only I knew which!”
“There is not much choice here,” Wyndham replied. “The only trees are those that have endured on the heights, above the belt of the barren ground; and the fruit trees below.”
“Well,” she said, “we must try with all.”
So they struggled to regain fragments of long forgotten knowledge, blundering on through many failures towards infrequent success. But oh, the joy of the gain achieved, of the discovery made.
And, in all things, the five dogs were their faithful servants and friends, as they had been from the day when they had watched their two enemies destroyed by the powerful protectors that they had found. They were such companions that Vinetta did not feel as much alone when Wyndham left her now as she otherwise must have done. And so the time went on, until the night when Wyndham did not return.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Wyndham had said with truth that the world was wide. He was right in that. He had guessed that the plot which Munzo and Pilwin had made against Vinetta’s life had largely assumed that it was to Mount Ida that they would go. So it had. He was right again. But he was not right in concluding either that they had depended upon that assumption, or that the alternative was that Vinetta should be pursued blindly throughout the world.
When Munzo’s pencil had traced its plans beneath Pilwin’s understanding eyes, he had expected that it was to Mount Ida that they would go, and he had provided that Vinetta’s end would be speedy there. But he had left nothing to chance. The Major Killers were less numerous than they had been at an earlier day, but he knew that there must still be from half a dozen to twice that number which would be in condition for instant service. He arranged for each of these to have a shred of one of Vinetta’s garments inserted into its scenting organ in such a way that it would be a continual irritation, urging it, as its construction required, to suck the blood of the woman whose scent it knew.
The whole number of these were sent to Mount Ida to make Vinetta’s destruction sure, but, if she were not there, they would not scatter in search over the wide range of the earth, but go systematically to the various points at which the plane could alight, in the neighbourhood of one of which she would be certain to be. They would travel by roads along which they would be able to pause at regular intervals to refuel themselves, as they were designed to do, and so long as these depots should supply their infrequent needs, and their mechanism remained sound, there could be no change or diminution in the blind, fierce impulse that drove them on.
This plan, ordered by Pilwin with his usual careful efficiency, had worked with no more than a single accident. The Major Killers in working order being less numerous than the stations to which the plane might possibly have been directed, Pilwin had had each of them set so that they would visit a second, if the search of the first should find no victim to satisfy their unconscious chemical thirst. This had resulted, with a humour which lacked the audience it deserved, in two of them meeting, while hurrying in opposite directions, and attacking each other with destructive fury as they perceived a whiff of the scent they sought. But there was no safety for Vinetta in this, though one of those destroyed in this fratricidal strife had made Taormina its goal.
It did no more than delay the event, a second killer, which had spent many weeks in hunting round Lake Garda’s shores, coming to the Sicilian mole in the early afternoon of a day that was bright and still. The mole was scarred and battered, and looked unlikely to survive through another year, but it was yet whole. There was no wind-driven weight of sea to sweep over it, and wash the deadly invader off. It trotted on at its invariable pace upon level ground, which was about seven miles an hour. When Wyndham saw it, it was advancing along the shore road, at a point which they had often overlooked, but where, he was glad to think, Vinetta and he had never had occasion to go. Wyndham, in no danger himself, stood for one moment of indecision, resolving what he would do. Should he warn Vinetta? There were two objections to that. He was some miles away from the cave, and there would be extra effort, which might be beyond his strength; and the killer might come on Vinetta’s track before he should find it again.
He had long formed a most desperate plan against the danger which was now here. In fact, they had talked it over together, and, in its simpler, original form it had seemed as good as, or better than that which had been fatal to the Minor Killer within the cave.
But that had assumed that a good distance would be maintained as the scent was laid. It had assumed that Vinetta herself—Wyndham not being far off—would be the bait of a cunning trap. Wyndham saw that it must be the endurance of human muscles that would be tested against the killer’s mechanical strength in a most equal duel. His human wit against the chemical purpose which drove it on.
“Well,” he thought, “she must wait my return, till the dusk at least. There is no help for that. It will be well for her if the dusk do not fall and I have not come.” He would save himself if he could and he hoped he might, but he could not call it better than a poor chance. Thinking this, he began to descend the hill, so that he would come to the path upon which the killer advanced.
As he did this he began to tear off his garments, of which he now wore several, feeling the chill of the cooling evenings, which, though they were temperate enough, he faced for the first time. He threw most of them away, but kept the one which Vinetta had worn as she had toiled and sweated beside him, bearing fuel into the cave for their winter store.
He had not thought it necessary to tell her that he had taken this, nor that he wore it when he went out by himself, as he sometimes did in these last days.
He descended till he was near the killer, which took no notice of him. He had not seen one of this pattern before, and he liked its looks even less than he had expected. It had the height and girth of a tall man, and its metal body was supple, and smooth, and bright. It had a man-like face, but that which should have been its nose was a cruel beak. Its eyes shone with an inward light, and had for lashes a kind of antennae, which would warn it of, any obstruction while it was still some yards away. It had hairs of a similar utility on its knees. When it fought, its eyes would close metal lids to a narrow slit. Its lower jaw was very large, with long pointed teeth.
Wyndham saw that his sword might as well have been left behind for any use it would be. He knew that the smooth toughness of the metal in which the killer was sheathed would blunt its edge without its own surface showing a mark of the hardest blow. He cast it from him, and stood holding Vinetta’s garment in his hand.
He had no wish to interfere with the killer so long as it continued upon the southward road. It was the way he would have it go. He sought only to save his strength, which could be done by crossing a bluff of the higher ground where the road took a wide outward sweep. Doing this, he went at half the killer’s pace, and yet arrived on the road ahead, so that he had leisure to sit on a stone and rest for a short time.
While he did so, he tore a long strip from the garment that Vinetta had worn, and laid it in the midst of the road.
Immediately that he saw the killer appear, he stepped forward to the spot where the rag lay. He laid the remainder of the garment beside it, and then commenced to run away, trailing it along th
e path.
He looked back, and saw that the killer had stopped and picked up the rag. He ran on again, seeking to lengthen the distance the most he could, so long as he could be sure that he was pursued.
He saw the killer swallow the rag, which was fuel to it, though it would have thrived better on living flesh. It went on its knees, smelling the dust. Then it came on again. At a place where Wyndham had trailed the garment a few paces aside, it made a similar bend.
That was conclusive. It had picked up the scent. Wyndham turned and ran. He was no longer concerned to make sure that he would be followed. He had only to keep ahead. But could he do that? Many miles away, he saw Mount Etna’s ridge, snow-white and jagged, with one black column of smoke that rose straight upward to a windless sky. The sun was still high overhead. When the sky reddened to sunset behind that ridge, would there have been an end of the race of men? He ran on.
After a time, he looked back. There was half a mile of bare road in view, but the killer was not in sight.
He continued at a hard run towards the mountain which, as the sun sank in the sky, seemed ever to recede. But yet, as the hours passed, it became higher, more forbidding against the sky. There was hope in that, though also a warning threat.
For the last hour he had feared to look back. He knew that he must have gained some ground at first. But since then he had slackened pace, as feet faltered and muscles ached on an upward way. He did not seek to foil the pursuer by any wile, for it was his object to lead it on, and though he knew that he might save himself by casting the garment aside, he did not consider that, for he knew that, should he fail now, fate might not allow him a second chance.
Should he fail now, the next pursuit might be on Vinetta’s track, and it was easy to guess how small her chance of escape would be likely to be—even apart from the final risk, which must be perilously taken, whether by him or her.
He did not have to climb the mountainside by the rough tracks which he must have used in more ancient days, a broad zigzag path having been laid by those who, at one time, had made great use of the mountain’s volcanic power. But the ascent was steep and long, and by this time he had looked backward and down, and had seen the pursuer less than a quarter of a mile behind.
That would have been margin enough had he been fresh, but now he was urging reluctant limbs, and panting at every step.
On the height of the black and rugged edge, Wyndham left a path which was crusted with frozen snow. The extremity of his exertions had made him indifferent to the icy temperature. Rather, it had served to brace his exhausted muscles for the final peril which was to come.
For a moment, he faced the sunset light that told him that the summit was won. With the next, he had plunged downward into a deepening gloom that yet shone with a shifting glow. The air was hot to breathe, and dry with volcanic dust. The cold of the windswept summit was left behind, and the temperature rose with each slippery downward step.
Soon, as his eyes adjusted themselves to the sombre gloom, he was aware of a pool of liquid lava, blacking and bubbling below. He breathed with labour, a foul, gaseous vapour choking his lungs. Vinetta’s garment, now soiled and ragged, was still trailing behind his steps. He heard the killer descending, now twenty yards in his rear. Its muscles did not ache, its speed was not lessened. If the next minute did not shake it off, he would be a dead man, and there would be and end to the human race.
It was not how he had meant it to be. He had imagined Vinetta and himself together, laying a trail which would have ended below, and going away in safety while the killer was still miles behind. This was different, as imagination and actually are ever likely to be.
The killer was now close behind; the hot liquid lava was close before. Already his feet were scorched on a shaking soil. He threw the garment forward, and leaped aside. After he had gone a few yards, he stood still.
For good or evil, success or failure, the game was played. If he had thrown the garment too far—if the killer should elect to follow him rather than it—then it was lost. He knew that he could never struggle up from that crater-mouth at the pace that the unwearied automaton could command, for his strength was done.
For a moment the issue paused. The killer, as though impossibly aware of its danger, or doubtful of the direction in which to pursue its prey, slackened its steps. It stood still. Then the scent of that fatal garment must have reached it through the fumes of the naphtha’d air. It rushed forward. Its legs plunged in the molten fire. Even as it sank, its claws closed on the soiled rag. Its jaws tore, and swallowed, and tore again. So it sank from sight.
Wyndham became conscious that his feet were slipping. His sandals smoked. Wrenching them free, he turned to struggle up from the hot gloom of that sulphurous pit.
He mounted slowly and with panting gasps, having become aware of how spent he was. But his heart sang.
He did not know that he shivered on the cold summit, where the light or the sunset failed. He had no after-memory of how his stumbling feet descended, crunching the snow, with no better light to aid than the stars could give.
It was wide dawn when he came again to the cave, to be met by the barking dogs, and Vinetta’s arms.
In the lonely night, she had learned the meaning of prayer.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sydney Fowler Wright (1874-1965) penned over seventy volumes of science fiction, fantasy, classic mysteries, historical novels, poetry, and non-fiction, many of them being published by the Borgo Press Imprint of Wildside Press.
BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY S. FOWLER WRIGHT
Arresting Delia: An Inspector Cleveland Classic Crime Novel
The Attic Murder: An Inspector Combridge & Mr. Jellipot Classic Crime Novel
The Bell Street Murders: An Inspector Combridge & Mr. Jellipot Classic Crime Novel
Beyond the Rim: A Lost Race Fantasy
Black Widow: A Classic Crime Novel
The Blue Room: A Novel of an Alternate Future
The British Colonies: No Surrender to Nazi Germany!
The Capone Caper: Mr. Jellipot vs. the King of Crime: A Classic Crime Novel
Cortéz: For God and Spain: An Historical Novel
Crime & Co.: An Inspector Cleveland Classic Crime Novel
Dante’s Inferno
Dante’s Paradiso
Dante’s Purgatorio
David the King: An Historical Novel
Dawn: A Novel of Global Warming
Dead by Saturday: An Inspector Cleveland Classic Crime Novel
Deluge: A Novel of Global Warming
Dream; or, The Simian Maid: A Fantasy of Prehistory (Marguerite Cranleigh #1)
Elfwin: An Historical Novel of Anglo-Saxon Times
The End of the Mildew Gang: An Inspector Cauldron Classic Crime Novel (Mildew #3)
Four Callers in Razor Street: An Inspector Combridge & Mr. Jellipot Classic Crime Novel
Four Days’ War: The Alternate World War II, Book Two
The Hanging of Constance Hillier: An Inspector Cleveland Classic Crime Novel
The Hidden Tribe: A Lost Race Fantasy
Inquisitive Angel: A Novel of Fantasy
The Island of Captain Sparrow: A Lost Race Fantasy
The Jordans Murder: An Inspector Combridge & Mr. Jellipot Classic Crime Novel
The King Against Anne Bickerton: A Classic Crime Novel
The Last Days of Pompeii: An Historical Novel
The Life of Sir Walter Scott: A Biography
The Lord’s Right in Languedoc: An Historical Novel
Marguerite de Valois: An Historical Novel
Megiddo’s Ridge: The Alternate World War II, Book Three
The Mildew Gang: An Inspector Cauldron Classic Crime Novel (Mildew #1)
Murder in Bethnal Square: An Inspector Combridge & Mr. Jellipot Classic Crime Novel
The Ordeal of Baratá: A Political Fantasy
The Police and the Public: Some Thoughts on the British System of Justice
Post-Mortem Evidence: An Inspector
Combridge & Mr. Jellipot Classic Crime Novel
Power: A Political Fantasy
Prelude in Prague: The Alternate World War II, Book One
Red Ike: A Novel of Cumberland (with J. M. Denwood)
The Return of the Mildew Gang: An Inspector Cauldron Classic Crime Novel (Mildew #2)
The Rissole Mystery: An Inspector Combridge & Mr. Jellipot Classic Crime Novel
The Screaming Lake: A Lost Race Fantasy
The Secret of the Screen: An Inspector Combridge & Mr. Jellipot Classic Crime Novel
Seven Thousand in Israel: A Novel
The Siege of Malta: An Historical Novel
The Song of Songs and Other Poems
Spiders’ War: A Novel of the Far Future (Marguerite Cranleigh #3)
Three Witnesses: A Classic Crime Novel
Too Much for Mr. Jellipot: An Inspector Combridge & Mr. Jellipot Classic Crime Novel
The Vengeance of Gwa: A Fantasy of Prehistory (Marguerite Cranleigh #2)
Was Murder Done? A Classic Crime Novel
Who Murdered Reynard? A Classic Crime Novel
The Wills of Jane Kanwhistle: An Inspector Combridge & Mr. Jellipot Classic Crime Novel
With Cause Enough?: An Inspector Combridge & Mr. Jellipot Classic Crime Novel
The World Below: A Novel of the Far Future
Wyndham Smith: His Adventures in the 45th Century: Science Fiction Novel
Wyndham Smith Page 21
