Slowly she forced herself to look again, then just as quickly jerked her head away.
“He is there — kneeling,” she insisted. “In hood and cassock! Don’t ask me to look again. I dare not —”
This time I did not deny her assertion. There was something very real, very terrible, which she could see and yet I could not. Involuntarily my mind went back to the filed legend. Hereditary influence? The assassin Cleggye operating through her?
Then there came back that sinking sense of overwhelming evil, so much so that I shrank from before it. It was as much as I could do to keep a grip on Enid. I wanted to hurl her away from me in loathing as though she were the cause of my sensations.
“It’s gone now,” she said presently, straightening up. “Yes — it’s gone.” She stared wide-eyed down the nave at the distant lightning-bright altar. “Perhaps … perhaps it was only a shadow.”
The way she said it convinced me she did not believe it. She knew she had seen something, and it left her badly shaken.
“Perhaps we’d better get back to our crypt,” I said.
She nodded assent so we stole back through the flashing, rumbling gloom, across the stretch of rain-lashed cloister, and so back into our sanctuary. Now we beheld the most incredible thing.
The file, which had been left open on the table at the legend, had gone. Automatically our eyes switched to the shelf. It was back in place among the other files.
“The figure I saw — the monk — he must have done it,” Enid said hoarsely. “Only he could have done it.”
“Good Heavens, Enid, do you realize what you are saying?” I cried. “You are suggesting a supernatural power returned the file to the shelf.”
“Yes — I am!” she declared fiercely. “Oh, I know that ghosts are absurd; that phantoms can’t happen — That’s all right in the city; but here there is something different, a vast and malignant power abroad in this very storm. Trying to reach me. I know it is. Bob, I know it is. You’ve got to help me.”
“But what against?” I shouted. “How can any man attempt to fight the impalpable?”
“You must help me to be strong,” she implored desperately; and it was horrible for me to see how completely all the worldly sophistication had been torn away from her.
“This storm is not a natural one: I can sense that now. In it is the age-long struggle between good and evil forces, the battle of spirits long dead to mortal eyes, still centered over this Abbey. The battle of Dranwold the monk with my remote ancestor Cleggye. I know that is the truth. Don’t ask me how I know — Perhaps it is instinct, hereditary knowledge stirred by occult forces … But it is there.”
Slowly, in the light of her statement, I began to understand my own emotions. If indeed long-dead enmity was being fought out in the furious clash of the storm, it was equally possible — as I had already vaguely realized — that the spirit of Cleggye was alive again through Enid. And his evil power was doing everything possible to protect his own, to protect her. Therefore this force had tried to overwhelm me: it had prompted me to restrain her from reading that file so the truth about Cleggye would never be known. That was it. An unholy reincarnation in which the very elements themselves had a part.
“It is the eternal cry of vengeance.” Enid said in a hollow voice. “Echoing down the centuries. And I am the pawn …”
She relaxed then against the hard table, somewhat calmer now she had solved the psychic implications of her plight. We stood in silence for a long time, our fares patterned by the unceasing rage of lightning as we gazed at each other.
“Perhaps,” I said, making an effort, “if we ran out and took a chance we might get away from this storm? It only seems to be concentrated around here —”
“We cannot get away,” she replied, shaking her head dully. “Surely you have realized it by now? Psychic compulsion, nothing more or less, brought us here. The same compulsion caused us to picnic near the Abbey — the same evil forces brought about a storm: we came here. And now …”
I forced myself out of this quagmire of inexplicable things. I took hold of Enid and shook her violently.
“Enid, do you realize what you are saying?” I shouted, over the roaring of the thunder. “Do you realize to what ridiculous dimensions we have allowed our imaginations to wander? To a summer storm we have applied occult explanations: to a shadow we find — you find anyway — a monk who has been dead for centuries …
“We’re a modern man and a modern woman, sheltering in an Abbey. The mere coincidence of a name cannot — shall not! — bring about the total defeat of our sanity. It’s — it’s just an attack of nerves.”
“No, Bob.” Her face was ashy gray. “No; it is truth. There is too much in it for it to be just coincidence —”
Suddenly she stopped, the words stricken from her lips. For the briefest moment the roaring of the thunder had died and there was a sepulchral, crushing calm. It flayed our tautened nerves like a whip — then out of this vast unnatural hush came a sound — the deep, solemn clanging of a bell from somewhere over our heads. It tolled once — twice — three times, filling the very echoes with its quivering pure-east strokes.
“Judgment Bell,” I hardly realized I said the words.
“No! No! No!” Enid screamed. “I can’t stand it, I can’t —”
She flung herself to the crypt doorway as yet another stroke clanged through the gloomy silences. Then thunder rolled again; but the bell kept on chiming, relentlessly, implacably, though, so far as we knew, there was no human hand to toll it.
“Enid!” I shouted huskily: then I darted after her fleeing figure. She seemed to have gone demented with fright. Once she had gotten into the church again she went blundering along up the aisle between the pews, obviously making for the porch and outer door.
“Enid!” I yelled again, but she took no notice of me.
Then I drew up short as she suddenly halted midway up the church and threw up her hands as though to shut out some monstrous obscene vision. She wheeled, clearly visible to me in the lightning; she came racing back towards the altar as though Lucifer himself were behind her.
“Monk Dranwold!” she shrieked. “Behind me. Seizing me — No! No!”
The echoes were brimming with her shouts and cries — the cries of the damned indeed. I was paralyzed with horror at the dreadful enactment going on, this pursuit of a helpless girl by something I could not even see.
Stumbling, gasping, I saw her at last on her knees before the altar
“Mercy!” she gasped helplessly. “In God’s name — mercy —”
Abruptly, I found myself and jumped forward, determined to seize her by force and get her out of this damnable hole; but at that very moment there came a flash of lightning such as I had never known.
A blinding purple fork stabbed clean through the mighty stained window at one side of the altar, splintering it instantly. For the briefest moment I saw Enid crouched in frozen terror on the very spot where centuries before Dranwold had been slain at prayer — Then that terrible sizzling bolt struck clean upon Enid.
The awful shock to my nerves sent me reeling helplessly, my ears stunned by the most unholy din. Thunder, the clamor of the Judgment Bell, the noise of splitting stone and Enid’s dying shriek were all woven together.
Sickened, half-blinded by the flash, I went reeling forward, caught her body up in my arms. It was a. terrible sight upon which I gazed. One half of her body was charred to the bone!
“Enid!” I screamed. “Enid —”
The absurdity of shouting to this poor, dead, blackened corpse blasted in upon me. I lowered her again gently, sprang up with my fists clenched. What inhuman devilry was going on in here?
“Fiend!” I shrieked. “Fiend! Wherever you are come out and face me. Come out, I say —”
Silence — utter silence. The clanging of the giant bell had ceased now: even the thunder seemed to have died away miraculously. The blinding flashes of lightning were beginning to lose their power; throug
h the smashed window I saw a clearing streak in the violet of the storm clouds.
“Trickery.” I spat the word out. “Filthy trickery. Some escaped lunatic is in this place; he slew Enid —”
I think, from the things I said, that I was half crazy with fear and grief. I remember I went tearing around looking for a way to the belfry, and at last I found it — ancient stone steps. I hurtled up them three at a time, swung open the unbolted door and stepped inside. It was empty, ropes swinging in the fresh wind blowing through open windows.
What was I thinking, of, anyway? The Judgment Bell had a separate belfry. Of course! I wheeled and went to the only other door at this high point of the Abbey. It was locked. I slammed on it with bruised and bleeding fists.
“Devil of devils, come out!” I thundered. “Come out! You shall not escape me —!”
I thumped and kicked and yelled until my heart felt as though It would burst from exertion and hysteria. Gulping, I fell back against the wall, my head whirling. Then I stiffened as I caught the sound of footsteps on the stone staircase. I waited, my fingers outspread like claws …
The footsteps came nearer — slow and deliberate. They stopped suddenly — yet it was no other-world visitor upon which I gazed, no demoniac being or a monk in hood and shroud, but a man in soft hat and dripping mackintosh. He came towards me slowly, and I saw he had a very pale, drawn face.
“My dear man, whatever are you doing here?” he asked in wonder. Then his face saddened a little. “But I think I can guess. That poor girl below, by the altar — She was struck by lightning?”
“Either that or there’s some brutally clever trickery going on in this place,” I grated back. “Who the devil are you, anyway?”
“I am David Bolton, Vicar of this Abbey,” he answered quietly. “I heard the clanging of the Judgment Bell. But then” — he gave a little shrug — “I expected it when I saw the storm had come again.”
“Again?” I echoed, startled. “It has been — before?”
“Yes; twelve years ago.” His voice was very quiet, “That time a man died in very similar circumstances to that girl below. The Abbey was struck by lightning while he and a party of friends were sheltering. He was the victim of electric shock. His name … was Roland Cleggy.”
I stared at the Vicar with gaping mouth. I was remembering that Enid had said her Uncle had dropped dead in a church twelve years before. At that time she would have been too young to know the full circumstances and —
“This girl,” the Vicar said. “She too was named Cleggy?”
I nodded stupidly.
“So,” he muttered, “it will always be, until every descendant of the accursed Cleggye is destroyed. Five have died in this very Abbey, through the centuries. Others will die here, too — forced here by occult power — unless that girl was the last of the line. We cannot deal with things like this, my friend — they are the powers of Darkness. The Monk Dranwold, as he died, placed an everlasting curse of retribution upon his assassin and successors. Always the curse has stricken down. There is always the Storm — a terrible Storm — in which the soul of Cleggy and the curse of Dranwold are still at grips; but always a Cleggy is vanquished …”
He laid a gentle hand on my arm.
“From records of past deaths I can imagine just what must have happened. You were directed by unseen powers to the crypt wherein lie the Abbey files. There the girl saw the Legend. Later, perhaps, she would imagine she saw the ghost of Dranwold himself praying at the altar. When at last she was stricken down where Dranwold himself died the powers of darkness abated; the Storm began to recede. The Judgment Bell ceased its tolling …”
“It isn’t true, any of it!” I cried suddenly.
“It is true,” he stated quietly. “Implacably true, but in a setting you or I can never understand this side of Eternity.”
“Human agency rang that damned Judgment Bell,” I shouted. “It was not one of the ordinary bells: it had a different sound — I say Enid Cleggy was murdered, that perhaps the lightning was — was a flash of magnesium or something. I demand to see inside this Judgment Bell belfry. It’s the last hiding place and the door is locked!”
He smiled gravely. “The power that put the file back on its shelf also rang this bell,” he said.
“How did you know about the file?” I flashed at him.
“I know because it has always happened the same way. However, you shall have your wish granted. Just a moment.”
He went downstairs and obtained a massive key, came back and, twisted it in the door lock. The door swung open. But this — the last and only hiding place — was empty.
“To the world,” said the Vicar, “Miss Cleggy died by lightning: but we know that vengeance struck her down. I mention this point so you will know what to say at the inquest. You see, nobody would believe this.”
In those seconds I realized how right he was, realized what he had meant by saying the same power had put the file back on the shelf.
For there was no bell.
I turned stupidly, framed words. “No — bell?”
“There has never been a bell,” the Vicar said. “Where it really rings, or who rings it — No man knows.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
These stories were previously published as follows, and are reprinted by permission of the author’s estate, and his agent, Cosmos Literary Agency:
Outcasts of Eternity first published in Fantastic Adventures in 1942. Copyright © 1942 by John Russell Fearn; copyright © 2001 by Philip Harbottle.
The Devouring Tide first published in Thrilling Wonder Stories in 1944. Copyright © 1944 by John Russell Fearn; copyright © 2001 by Philip Harbottle.
The Ultimate Analysis first published in Thrilling Wonder Stories in 1944. Copyright © 1942 by John Russell Fearn; copyright © 2001 by Philip Harbottle.
Wanderer of Time first published in Startling Stories in 1944. Copyright © 1944 by John Russell Fearn; copyright © 2001 by Philip Harbottle.
The Unbroken Chain first published in Startling Stories in 1944. Copyright © 1944 by John Russell Fearn; copyright © 2001 by Philip Harbottle.
Black Saturday first published (as Black-out) in Science Fantasy in 1950. Copyright © 1950 by John Russell Fearn; copyright © 2001 by Philip Harbottle.
Brief Gods first published (as Rim of Eternity) in Vargo Statten Science Fiction Magazine in 1954. Copyright © 1954 by John Russell Fearn; copyright © 2001 by Philip Harbottle.
Alice, Where Art Thou? First published in in Vargo Statten Science Fiction Magazine in 1954. Copyright © 1954 by John Russell Fearn; copyright © 2001 by Philip Harbottle.
Judgment Bell first published in Weird and Occult Library in 1960. Copyright © 1960 by John Russell Fearn; copyright © 2001 by Philip Harbottle.
Waters of Eternity
Edited by Philip Harbottle
Introduction by Philip Harbottle
John Russell Fearn (1908-1960) was an English author who began his career as a science fiction writer in the American pulp magazines in 1933, when his first novel The Intelligence Gigantic was serialised in AMAZING STORIES. The following year he sold a short story “The Man Who Stopped the Dust” to ASTOUNDING STORIES, the first of many outstanding ‘thought variants’ he was to contribute to the magazine over the next several years.
Over the next 15 years, Fearn published some 120 magazine stories in all of the leading pulp magazines under his own name and numerous pseudonyms, creating a variety of plot-forms under different styles that ranged from universe-destroying thought variants to the intensely human story. His most popular pen names were Thornton Ayre and Polton Cross. As Ayre he introduced detective story techniques to science fiction and also created the first female super-heroine, Violet Ray (the ‘Golden Amazon’) with four stories in FANTASTIC ADVENTURES (1939-43).
Post-war, using numerous pseudonyms, Fearn increasingly began to write novels for UK book publication, mainly science fiction, but he had equal success with westerns, detective thrillers an
d romances. When he died of a sudden heart attack, aged only 52, he had published over 150 books, most of them over a ten year period.
His grief-stricken widow fell seriously ill herself, and was unable to promote his work, or answer publishers’ letters. His work quickly fell out of print, and since much of it was under pseudonyms that were not generally known to be his, Fearn was in danger of becoming completely forgotten.
His reputation was only revived by the publication in 1968 of the present writer’s biography of Fearn, The Multi-Man, which included a detailed bibliography and revealed dozens of pseudonyms for the first time, and in 1970 his widow asked me to take over his representation.
Over the next 45 years, publishers on both sides of the Atlantic began an extensive ongoing reprinting of his novels in all of the genres in which he had worked—this time under his own name.
They are now joined by Venture Press, who are issuing new collections of his best early science fiction pulp stories, beginning with The Best of John Russell Fearn in two volumes.
In recent years several posthumous Fearn collections have appeared, but there yet remains a large number of Fearn’s early science fiction stories that have not so far been reprinted simply because they are now known to be ‘scientifically impossible’ in that they feature Martians and the like, and as such have become fantasy. What was still possible to speculative writers in the past is no longer believable today.
But should such entertaining stories be allowed to slip into oblivion and be entirely forgotten? Cannot such stories, with due allowances made for the time when they were written, still entertain and amuse modern readers willing to suspend their disbelief and simply enjoy these stories in their historical context?
Gathered together for the first time in Waters of Eternity are three vintage Fearn novelettes.
John Russell Fearn Omnibus Page 43
