The Weird Fiction Megapack

by Various Writers

  “Gunnar, darling, can’t you explain? People don’t have to go on serving masters they hate unless—unless—”

  “Exactly! Unless they’re slaves. Well, I am his slave.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “Thank heaven for it, and don’t try! It’s because you must never, never understand such things that I wanted you and Dale to go away that night at Sollum.”

  “If you owe the sheykh your time, can’t you buy him off? Surely any contract can be broken.”

  “Not the one that binds me to him. Listen, Merle, my own! I can’t—I daren’t say more than this. Think of him as a poison—as something that blackens and burns like vitriol. Will you do what may seem a very childish thing, will you do it to please me?”

  “What is it?”

  “Tie this across the entrance of your sleeping-tent at night.” He held out a little colored plait, four threads of green, white, red, and black, from which a seal depended. “Once more, I daren’t explain, but use it. Promise me!”

  * * * *

  Taken aback by his tone and manner, she promised. What, she thought, had a bit of colored string to do with all this mystery about him and the sheykh? A fleeting doubt as to his sanity came to her.

  “No,” he answered the look. “I was never more sane than now—when it’s too late. Too late for myself, at least. You—nothing shall happen to you!”

  “Won’t you talk to Dale? He’s such a queer wise old thing, I’m sure he could help if only you’d explain things to him.”

  “No. Not yet, at any rate. Not until we get to Siwa. I’ll explain everything then. Silence is the price I’ve paid to be with you on this trip.”

  “But, really Dale is—”

  “If you don’t want him to die suddenly, say nothing to him. Anyone that interferes with El Shabur gets rubbed out like this!”

  Gunnar stamped a small pebble deep into the sand.

  “All right,” she promised with a shiver. That quick vicious little movement had given her a sudden horrid fear of the sheykh—more than all Gunnar’s words. “I’ll say nothing. But Dale is pretty hard to deceive. There never seems any need to tell him things; he just knows them. I expect he’s burrowing away underground about El Shabur already, just like an old ferret! I happen to know he loathes him.”

  “Nobody’d think so to see them chinwagging.”

  “He behaves like a garrulous moron when he’s putting salt on anyone’s tail, and I’ve seldom seen him wallowing quite so idiotically as now.”

  “Much more likely the sheykh’s putting salt on his tail by pretending to believe Dale’s a fool.”

  “You don’t know Dale.”

  “You don’t know El Shabur.” Gunnar had the last word—it proved to be accurate.

  They found the two in camp and deep in talk.

  “Arguing about our pet werewolf.” Dale was bland. “Will you sit up with me and try a pot shot at the beast, Gunnar?”

  The tall Icelander stood in silence. His face was a gray mask, his sunken eyes stared hard and long into the other’s blank smooth face. He turned to the sheykh at length.

  “You suggested this?”

  Merle shivered at his voice.

  The Arab shrugged. “On the contrary. It would be wisdom to sleep before tomorrow’s march. If the effendi desires to hunt it would be well to wait until we reach the hills of Siwa.”

  “Well,” Dale seemed determined to prolong the discussion, “what do you vote for, old man? The werewolf tonight, or the Siwa hills later?”

  “The hills—definitely, the hills,” the young man’s voice cracked on a laugh, “According to legend, you can’t kill a werewolf. No use wasting our shots and a night’s sleep too.”

  “Thwarted!” moaned Dale. “The hills of Siwa, then. You can promise good hunting there, Sheykh?”

  “By my sacred wasm.”

  “Wasm?” Dale lighted a cigarette with casual air.

  “My mark, my insignia, my tribal sign. It is like heraldry in your land.”

  “Heavens above! I must remember to call my little label a wasm in future. Intriguing word, that! And what is your mark?”

  El Shabur leaned forward and traced it in the sand. Dale regarded it with a smile that masked deep uneasiness. He recognized the ghastly little sign; he was one of the very few who had the peculiar knowledge to do so. A smoke-screen from his eternal pipe shielded his face from the watchful Arab. Was El Shabur trying to trick him into exposing his very special and intimate knowledge of the occult; or did he make that deadly mark feeling sure that only an initiate would recognize it?

  El Shabur was a Yezidee, a Satanist, and worshipped Melek Taos. The symbol was unmistakably the outspread tail of the Angel-Peacock. Dale recoiled inwardly at having his darkest fears confirmed; he knew of no tribe on earth more vicious and powerful than the Yezidees. Their name and their fame went back into mists of time. Seldom did one of them leave his hills and rock-dwelling up beyond Damascus. Once in a century or so, throughout the ages, a priest of the Yezidees would stalk the Earth like a black destroying god to acquaint himself with the world and its conditions. He would return to teach his tribe. So they remained, a nucleus of evil power that never seemed to die out.

  “Nice little design; looks like half a ray-fish,” he commented. Impossible to fathom what was going on behind the sheykh’s carven, immobile features. “Wasm—did you say? Wait, I must write that down.”

  The whites of the Arab’s eyes glinted as he glanced at Merle. “Are you like your cousin in this—do you also suffer from loss of memory?”

  “I—we—what do you mean?”

  “You have a saying in your Book of Wisdom, ‘Thy much learning doth turn thee to madness.’ The effendi is like to that man, Paul. For who, after years and years of study, could forget so simple a thing as a wasm?”

  Dale didn’t move a muscle. His bluff was called. All right! On with the next dance! Too late he realized why the Arab had started the absorbing wasm topic. It had been intended to shock and distract his own thoughts from Gunnar—to prevent his keeping an eye on him.

  The Icelander had got up and gone over to his tent a minute ago with a murmur about tobacco. He had not returned. Dale was on his feet and peering into Gunnar’s tent in a flash. No one there. He looked at the western horizon—the sun had dipped beyond it. He scanned the desert. It offered no shelter for Gunnar’s six feet of height. He looked into every tent; saw that only the servants crouched before their fires, that only baggage lay heaped upon the ground.

  Shadows were melting into dusk. But one long shadow seemed to move over there among the dunes not far away! Were his own dark thoughts inventing the thing that fled across the desert?

  The darkest thought of all came as he went back to Merle and the silent watchful Arab. Was he a match for this man?

  * * * *

  “You needn’t worry about Gunnar. The Arab’s at the back of these nightly disappearances, I’m quite certain, although the reasons he gave were of his own invention.”

  “Then you think he’ll come back?” Merle looked tired and anxious in the light of her small lamp.

  “He’ll come back,” asserted the man. “Good night, old lady. If you feel nervous or want anything, just give a yelp. I’ll be awake—got to finish a bit of research work.”

  She caught a look that belied his cheerful voice. “Why d’you look round my tent like that? Is there any special danger—that wolf?”

  “Well, I don’t mind telling you there is a spot of danger. You’re not the sort that goes off like a repeating-rifle at being warned. But—have you got your doodah handy?”

  She showed the automatic underneath her pillow. “Perhaps I ought to tell you that Gunnar warned me too. No. Not about the wolf, but El Shabur.”

  “Worse than a whole pack of wolves,” he agreed. “Know where you are with those noisy brutes, but the sheykh’s another cup of tea, entirely.”

  “He gave me this. Told me to tie up my tent with it. Que
er, don’t you think?”

  He examined the plait of colored string with profound interest.

  “Jerusalem the Golden! If we ever reach dry land again, this will be an heirloom for you to hand on. That is, unless you’re hard up and want to sell it to some Croesus for a sack of diamonds. This, my dear Black-eyed Susan, is a relic dating back thousands of years. The seal, of course, not the threads. It’s an emerald. And that’s the Eye of Horus cut in it.”

  “Emerald! It must be fearfully valuable. How on earth d’you think Gunnar got it?”

  “From his master the sheykh. It’s the sort of thing he’d need, poor fellow! It’s a safeguard—oh, quite infallible.”

  “I never know when you’re serious or when you’re just being idiotic. Protection from what? What does it mean?”

  “It means that El Shabur’s a cabalist. And that Gunnar is an initiate and pretty far advanced too, to be in possession of this very significant thing. He’s gone a long, long way on the road—poor lad!”

  “He’s in danger?”

  “Extreme and imminent danger; there’s scarcely a chance to cut him free now. Better face the thing, dear. Gunnar’s not in a position to love or marry any woman; he’s tied body and soul to El Shabur. It’s a hideous, deplorable, ghastly mess, the whole affair.” He sat down beside her on the little truckle bed and took her hand. “This is my fault. I knew well enough even at Solium that there was something abnormal about Gunnar.”

  “I love him,” she answered very quietly, “and nothing can ever alter that. Whatever he’s done, or is—I love him.”

  He stared at her a long minute. “And that’s the damndest part of the whole show,” he remarked with immense gravity.

  He turned back at the tent opening. “About that thing Gunnar gave you. Fasten the tent-flap with it if you value your soul; wear it under your dress by day, never let the sheykh catch a glimpse of it. We reach Siwa the day after tomorrow. Try not to let El Shabur know we suspect anything, meantime. Sure you’re all right—not afraid?”

  “Not for myself. I don’t understand what it’s all about. But I’m afraid for my poor Gunnar. He’s the sort that can’t stand alone. Not like you and me, we’re too hard-headed old things!”

  “You’re a wonder. Any other girl stranded here with a half-mad native sorcerer would go right up the pole. Tie up your tent, though, d’you hear?”

  “The moment you’ve gone. Cross my heart!”

  * * * *

  Night wore swiftly on. Dale sat smoking in his own tent, fully dressed, alert and expectant. He felt convinced that something was in the wind tonight. The sound of shots far off across the desert took him outside, rifle in hand. Sleep held the camp; not a man had stirred. The black Bedouin tent in which the sheykh slept was closed. No one seemed to have been disturbed except himself. Again came that queer little tug of his senses—a warning of danger near.

  His grip tightened on his weapon. He went on more slowly. A shadow seemed to move round the great mass of rock which had sheltered him a few hours ago. He halted half-way between rock and camp. Should he go back and rouse the ment? Or should he go closer and inspect for himself? He walked on.

  A high, piping wind blew clouds across the sky. A black mass obscured the moon. He halted once more, turned back to camp in a sudden certainty of peril. Too late. A rush. A scuffle. An arm of steel clasped him from behind, a hand like a vise was clamped across his lips before he could call out. His big body was enormously muscular and he fought like a tiger, threw off his assailant, shouted loudly. The strong wind shouted louder, tore his voice to shreds. It swept the black cloud from the moon too, and he saw a small band of natives, their faces veiled, knives glinting, burnooses bellying out like sails as they shouted and ran at him.

  They were too close to take aim. He made for the rock. Unencumbered, and a good sprinter, he reached it safely, stood with his back to it and coolly picked out one after another of his enemies. It was only a momentary advantage; they were too many for him, and ran in again with savage yells.

  To his amazement, a dark long swift body flung itself upon his attackers. A great wolf, huge, shaggy, thin and sudden as a torpedo. In vain the men plunged their knives into its rough pelt. Again and again Dale saw the wicked twisted blades drop as the brute caught the wrists of the raiders in its teeth.

  The fight was short. Not a man was killed, but none escaped a wound. Some had faces slashed so that blood ran down and blinded them; some dragged a maimed foot; some a mangled arm. In terror of the swift, silent punishing creature that stood between them and their victim, the raiders turned and fled.

  The wolf itself had been damaged in the savage encounter; an ear was torn, and it limped as it ran at the heels of the raiders, chasing them to their camels behind the huge rock pile.

  The great panting beast looked full at Dale as it passed by. The man felt his heart beat, beat, beat in slow painful thuds against his chest. The creature’s yellow, bloodshot eyes turned on him with a glance that cut deeper than any raider’s knife. He leaned back. He felt very sick. The vast desert seemed to heave.

  Slowly, soberly he made his way back to camp. He did not so much as glance back at the wolf. He knew now. He knew!

  * * * *

  Siwa! Actually Siwa at last! The strange fort-like city loomed before the thin line of camels and their dusty weary riders. Like a vast house of cards Siwa had risen up and up from the plain. On its foundation of rock, one generation after another had built; father for son, father for son again; one story on another, the sun-baked mud and salt of its walls almost indistinguishable from the rock itself.

  Tiny windows flecked the massive precipitous piles. Vast hives of life, these buildings. Layer upon layer, narrowing from their rocky base into turrets and towers and minarets.

  Dale’s eyes were for Merle, however. She rode beside him, her face so white and strained, her eyes so anxious that he was torn with doubt. Ought he to have told her Gunnar’s secret? He had not turned up since the desert fight. Merle was sick with anxiety. Sheykh El Shabur smiled in his beard as he saw her quivering underlip, her glance that looked about with ever increasing fear.

  “Where is he? Where is he?” She turned upon the sheykh. “You said he would be here at Siwa, waiting for us. Where is he?” she demanded.

  Dale could have laughed had the situation been less grave and horrible. She loved as she hated, with her whole strong vigorous soul and body. She tackled the sinister, haughty Arab, demanding of him the man she loved, with the fearlessness of untried youth.

  She was worth dying for, his little Merle! And it looked as though he, and she too, would make a finish here in this old barbaric city. If he had to go, he would see to it that she was not left behind, to be a sacrifice on some blood-stained ancient altar hewn in the rock beneath the city, to die slowly and horribly that the lust of Melek Taos should be appeased, to die in body—to live on in soul, slave to Sheykh Zura El Shabur.

  And Gunnar? It was unnerving to think what might be happening to him. Dale knew that Gunnar had saved his life as surely as that El Shabur had plotted to kill him two nights ago. It was not nice to consider how the cabalist might punish this second interference of his young disciple.

  They rode on through an endless warren of twisting dark lanes. Dale dropped behind Merle and the Arab when only two could ride abreast; he liked to have El Shabur before his eyes when possible. He could see Merle talking earnestly. Her companion seemed interested, his hands moved in quick eloquent gesture, he seemed reassuring her on some point. Gunnar, surely! No other subject in common could exist between those two.

  Past the date-markets, under the shadow of the square white tomb of Sidi Suliman, past palm-shaded gardens, until they reached a hill shaped like a sugar-loaf and honeycombed with tombs.

  “The Hill of the Dead!” El Shabur waved a lean dark hand.

  “Quite,” replied Dale. “It looks like it.”

  The Arab pointed to the white Rest-House built on a level terrace cut in t
he hillside. “It is there that travelers stay—such as come to Siwa.”

  “Very appropriate. One does associate test with tombs, after all.”

  Merle looked up at the remarkable hill with blank, uninterested gaze.

  “Ilbrahaim will take your camels. If you will dismount here! The jonduk is on the other side of the city.”

  The sheykh dismounted as he spoke. He sent the servant off with the weary beasts, and left the cousins with a salaam to Dale and a deep mocking obeisance to the girl. They watched him out of sight. The hood of his black burnoose obscured head and face; its wide folds, dark and ominous as the sable wings of a bird of prey, swung to his proud free walk. They sighed with relief as the tall figure vanished in Siwa’s gloomy narrow streets.

  “What were you two chinning about on the way here?” Dale steered the exhausted girl up the steep rocky path. “You seemed to goad our friend to unusual eloquence.”

  “I was asking about Gunnar. What else is there to say to him? Oh, do look at that!”

  Below stretched rolling sandy dunes, palm groves, distant ranges of ragged peaks, the silver glint of a salt lake, and a far-off village on the crest of a rocky summit in the east.

  He looked, not at the extraordinary beauty of desert, hill and lake, but at Merle. She had switched the conversation abruptly. Also, she was gazing out over the desert with eyes that saw nothing before them. He was certain of that. She was keyed up—thinking, planning, anticipating something. What? He knew she’d made up her mind to action, and guessed it was concerned with Gunnar. Long experience had taught him the futility of questioning her.

  They found the Rest-House surprisingly clean and cool. Ilbrahaim presently returned to look after them. No other guests were there.

  It was getting on toward evening when Dale was summoned to appear before the Egyptian authorities and report on his visit. He knew the easily offended, touchy character of local rulers and authorities, and that it was wise to obey the summons. But about Merle!