Gather Darkness

by Fritz Leiber

  His voice immediately became serious then—in so far as such a bubblingly mirthful voice ever could.

  "I'm afraid it's now or never, Armon Jarles. What do you say to joining the Witchcraft? Yes or no?"

  Jarles hesitated, looking around at the circle of black, phosphorus-touched forms that were now very close. They would probably kill him if he refused. He knew too much.

  And then there was Naurya, whom he had thought lost to him forever. If he went through with this, he would be near her. And she seemed to want him. Weren't Dis and Persephone king and queen of Hell?

  And then all these people—the Black Man and the rest of them. His feelings toward them were mixed. He might dislike what they did, but he couldn't hate them personally. They had saved his life.

  He was terribly tired, he realized suddenly. He couldn't be expected to dare death, of his own free will, twice in one day.

  And Naurya's fingers were conveying an insistent, anxious message. "Say yes! Say yes!"

  When he opened his lips, it was to say "Yes."

  But—just as had happened in the Great Square—his idealist's white-hot anger at all shams and supernatural mummery, like some possessing demon, seized control of him.

  "No! What I said I meant! I will not compromise with hypocrisy! I will have no part in your Black Hierarchy!"

  "Very well, Armon Jarles! You have made your choice!" rang the Black Man's answer.

  The hands let go his arms. The Black Man seemed to spring at him. He flailed out wildly. The picture that had been painted indistinctly in blackness and phosphorescence now whirled with movement, became a formless chaos.

  He was seized by other hands—smooth, rubbery-hided, and very strong. He sensed in them the pressure of some kind of field, though different in texture from the inviolability fields of the scarlet robes. He struggled futilely.

  Something small and furry, but with claws, grabbed his bare leg. He kicked out convulsively. He heard the Black Man order, "Back, Dickon! Back!" His leg was free.

  He had time to cry out, "It's all shams and lies, Naurya! All shams and lies!" And to hear from the darkness her angry laughter and her scathing cry, "Idiot! Idealist!"

  Then he was being rushed along by a power he could not resist. Out of the room, down some narrow corridor that turned and turned again, and then reversed, like a maze. Staggering, stumbling, his shoulders buffeted by unseen walls. Then upstairs. A blindfold quickly whipped over his eyes. Another corridor. More stairs. His thoughts whirling as dizzily as he.

  Finally, cold night air thrusting up his nostrils and chilling his sweaty skin. The feel of cobbles under his feet.

  And, in his ear, the mocking voice of the Black Man.

  "I know idealists never change their minds, Brother Jarles. But if you should prove the exception to the rule, come back to the spot at which I shall release you, and wait. We might contact you. We might give you a second chance."

  A few more steps and they halted.

  "And now, Brother Jarles," said the Black Man, "go practice what you preach!"

  A shrewd push sent Jarles spinning, so that he stumbled and fell painfully on the cobbles. He jerked himself up, whipping off the blindfold.

  But the Black Man was nowhere in sight.

  He was in the mouth of one of the streets that opened on the Great Square.

  In the sky was the first faint suggestion of dawn, magnifying the empty immensity of the square, touching with lovely shades of opalescence the towering domes and spires of the Sanctuary, paling a little the blue nimbus of the Great God.

  And from the hillside farmlands, gathering power in its sweep across the Great Square, came a bitter wind that cut his naked flesh to the bone.

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  Chapter 5

  The silver clashing of unseen cymbals and a mighty choir of invisible voices, stirring yet heavenly sweet, heralded the approach of the exorcisers to the haunted house. The commoners blocking their way drew back to let them pass. But since the streets enclosing the square were wedged tight with commoners, and since other commoners crowded in to get a closer view of the procession, and since none of the commoners were willing to encroach on the unkempt and accursed grounds surrounding the haunted house, and frantically resisted being shoved in that direction, there were several of them gently cuffed aside by inviolable, red-gloved priestly hands, and one or two children knocked down, before the exorcisers issued into the square.

  An excited murmur greeted them. Megatheopolis was astir with rumor of mighty doings in the supernatural world and the close presence of dread Sathanas, who had once again risen from Hell to challenge the omnipotence of his master.

  Early this morning had come word that the Hierarchy would cleanse the haunted house of evil. This seemed an exceedingly wise and logical procedure, since the haunted house was a relic of the Golden Age and therefore a likely lair of Sathanas and his friends, who dearly loved those ancient, overweening, star-storming sinners. No matter how hard and wearisome an age this might be, it was certainly a very exciting one with regard to manifestations of the supernatural. That couldn't be denied.

  The music and the pomp of the procession of exorcisers were well designed to whip up the mob's anticipations to a high pitch.

  First came four young priests, handsome and tall as angels, each bearing before him, like a truncheon, a gleaming rod of wrath.

  Then two deacons bearing censers from which a sweet incense dispersed.

  Next a priest who walked alone, apparently the one in charge. Rather short and dumpy he seemed, but well puffed out and carrying his head high. The Fifth Ward goggled to see their ghostly counselor, Brother Chulian, in such a position of authority.

  After him, almost a score of priests, some with the lightning-and-coil insignia of the Fourth Circle emblazoned on their chests, bearing all manner of awe-inspiring implements—globes that glowed even in the bright sunlight, tubes, canisters, and oddly shaped metal boxes—all of them ornately decorated and bejeweled, and decked with religious emblems.

  Last of this group, four grim-faced priests, easing along something that resembled a gigantic metallic snailshell. It floated unwieldily at shoulder height. They guided it to the top of a tiny knoll on the desolate grounds and stepped away. Then, while the crowd gaped, one of them made mystic passes in the air, whereupon it slowly sank, crushing the weeds and bushes beneath, until it came to rest with its flaring muzzle pointing toward the haunted house.

  But the rear guard of the procession rather distracted from this exhibition. The excited babbling of the crowd dropped momentarily into a whispering, as those in front told those behind about the presence of the little man in black. Cousin Deth had quite a reputation.

  And at sight of the object borne behind him, several children set up a wail. It looked like a large, deep bowl, tightly covered. From it trailed downward a white mist, and it was dripping slowly, leaving a trail of little white pellets, which melted to nothingness but were bad to step on with bare feet, because they stuck and burned. The commoners in the front ranks felt an icy wave pass.

  Such containers of holy water normally flanked the doorway of the Cathedral, chilling the entry. More than one child had had skin torn from his fingers, when he had inquisitively touched one of them and then been jerked away by a screeching mother. No wonder the priests carrying it exerted their inviolability to the fullest!

  The invisible music rose to an exalting climax, then broke off. The murmuring of the crowd was hushed. For a moment there was silence. Then one of the young priests strode with great dignity toward the house, bearing his rod of wrath above his head like a gleaming sword. Heads turned as, breathlessly, every commoner watched his approach.

  "This place is evil!" he cried suddenly in a great voice. "It is offensive to the nostrils of the Great God. Tremble, Sathanas! Cower, ye fiends! For, lo, I inscribe here the brand of the Hierarchy!"

  He stopped directly in front of the oddly wrinkled doorway. There gushed from the ext
ended rod a violet brilliance of the same hue as his halo, which was almost invisible in the sunlight. Slowly he traced a burning circle above the doorway.

  What happened next did not seem to be part of the program. He leaned forward suddenly to peer through the irregular orifice of the doorway, leaving the fiery circle unclosed. He must have seen something of exceptional interest, for he thrust in his head. Instantly the doorway puckered and snapped tight around his neck, leaving him frantically kicking and plunging, while his rod, still gushing violet light, set the green weeds smoking.

  There were gasps and scattered screams and a few shrieks of hysterical laughter from the crowd. The three other young priests dashed forward to help their companion, one of them snatching up the fallen rod, which instantly ceased to flame. They tugged and pushed at him violently and pried at the doorway. The wall gave a little, as if semi-elastic. That was all.

  Then the door opened wide of its own accord and they all sprawled backward in the smoking weeds. The young priest who had been trapped sprang up and darted into the house before the others could stop him. The door clenched shut behind him.

  The house began to shake.

  Its slack walls tightened, bulged, were crossed by ripples and waves of movement. Its windows all squeezed shut. One wall stretched perceptibly, another contracted. There were other distortions.

  An upper window dilated and through it the young priest was ejected, as if the house had tasted him and then spat him out. Halfway down he exerted his inviolability, so that his fall was slowed and cushioned. He bounced gently.

  This time the laughter of the crowd did not sound entirely hysterical.

  The house became quiescent.

  There was a flurry of activity among the priests tending the instruments. Hurried consultations. Two of them darted over toward Cousin Deth. Those tending the great coiled tube atop the knoll looked inquiringly toward him.

  But of all the exorcisers, none felt so futile and confused as Brother Chulian. Why must things like this happen to him? Thrust into a position of seeming importance by Deth's malicious whim, he knew less of what was going on than any of the others. If only he hadn't forgotten himself last night and insulted the cruel little deacon!

  The four young priests, retreating at last from the haunted house, stopped near him. Made careless of dignity by excitement, they argued together. The one who had been tossed from the upper window was being questioned by the others.

  "Who wouldn't have looked inside?" he asserted, heatedly. "Two bare feet scampering, that's what I saw, I tell you! Just those two little bare feet, with nothing on top of them. When they danced off, I just had to see where they were going! Then, when I was caught in the door, a lot of ratty little commoners came in from somewhere and began making the most insulting remarks about my head. As if it were something stuffed and hanging on the wall! You'd have lost your temper, too! I wanted to chastise them. That's why I ran inside."

  "But what made you jump out the window?"

  "The house, I tell you! I didn't see the commoners anywhere. But it all began to heave and shake. The floor lifted under my feet and knocked me against a wall. The wall bounced me to another. Then the floor got me again. Before I knew it I was upstairs, I got a last bang, and a window opened in the wall just before I hit it. I couldn't help myself!"

  Chulian did not want to listen. It was all too disturbing and confusing. Why did the Hierarchy want to do things like this? Why, the commoners had laughed! The deacons in the crowd had shut them up pretty quickly. But they had laughed.

  Cousin Deth strolled up, followed by priests.

  "And now that your reverences have edified the mob with this little display," he was saying, "perhaps we can carry through the original instructions given us by the archpriest Goniface."

  "Given you, you mean!' one of the young priests retorted hotly. "We all had our orders from Sanctuary Control Center and the Apex Council. We were told to proceed in the usual manner."

  Deth surveyed him coolly. "But you see, your reverence, this is not the usual haunted house, set up for you to knock down. This, I fear, is a kind of war, your reverences. And perhaps war is something that only a contemptible and misbegotten deacon knows how to dirty his hands with. Unlimber the zero-entropy spray, Brother Sawl!"

  A long, light, slim projector was attached to the container which had originally been carried behind Deth. Brother Chulian felt the chill strike through his inviolability field, and he edged away, shivering.

  "A brief medium spray over the whole building," Deth was directing. "Enough to stiffen the outer walls. Then full intensity straight ahead. We'll make our own doorway. Ready? Very well. Brother Jafid, speak your piece!"

  Brother Jafid's voice, mightily amplified, was unpleasantly sweet.

  "Let the Waters of Perfect Peace infold this place. Let them lull its unrest. Let them draw from it all motion and all evil."

  With a faint screaming sound of almost inaudibly high pitch, suggestive of ice scraping ice, the zero-entropy projector opened up. Snowflakes and flakes of frozen air traced the widening path of its spray. The haunted house was engulfed in a swirling miniature snowstorm. Back from it rebounded a blast of arctic cold. The crowd, tight-packed as it was, seemed to draw back still farther, huddling.

  The path of the spray narrowed, concentrated around the doorway, crusted it frostily. Then the faint screaming ceased.

  A priest walked up to that gleaming, icily opalescent patch and rapped it smartly with his rod of wrath. The hyperfrozen materials shattered, leaving a large, jagged-edged hole. The priest ran his rod around the edge, knocking down splinters, which tinkled like icicles as they fell.

  "Now we can proceed," said Deth sharply. "Projector and rods first. Keep together. Watch for traps. Wary of doors. Listen for my orders. If the young witch is found, inform me at once."

  Then, just as they were starting, he noticed Brother Chulian standing to one side.

  "Oh, your reverence, I had almost forgotten! This was the very thing you wanted so much to see. You shall have the place of honor. Lead the way, Brother Chulian!"

  "But—"

  "We are waiting for you, Brother Chulian. All Megatheopolis is waiting."

  Reluctantly Chulian picked his way through the frostbitten weeds. Cold pushed upward around his ankles through the lower orifice in his inviolability field, urging his knees to tremble.

  Unwillingly he studied the house, whose frosted walls were already beginning to steam in the hot sunlight. Even in its present dilapidated state, the haunted house had a certain beauty of proportion. But its potential fluidity was very repugnant to one used to the ponderous, rigid plastics of Hierarchic architecture.

  Somewhere he had read of the adjustable houses of the Golden Age, with elastic walls made tense by force fields, akin in structure and motivation to the mobile figure of the Great God on the cathedral.

  But the idea did not appeal to Brother Chulian. To a considerable degree he shared the commoners' fear and awe of the Golden Age and its proud inhabitants. They must have been as unpredictable and self-willed as their houses—rebellious and critical like Brother Jarles, brazen and mocking like that witch woman.

  Chulian believed that it would have been extremely unpleasant to have lived in the Golden Age, with your own free individuality continually threatened by that of everyone else and with no Hierarchy to plan your life and guarantee your security.

  He was very close to the ice-rimmed opening. What if the ancient dwellers had come alive with the house? Silly thought. And yet—

  "If the interior shows signs of movement, we'll be giving it a light entropy spray to freeze it, your reverence," he heard Deth call to him. "You'd better step lively if you don't want your inviolability field to go into stasis, your reverence."

  Hurriedly Chulian entered the haunted house and ducked through the first interior doorway he caught sight of. It would be just like the mean little deacon to carry out his threat and the thought of being held helpless in a rig
id field in this place, even temporarily, was distinctly disturbing.

  The feeble glow of his halo partly revealed a domed chamber of moderate size, with furnishings whose colors had faded with the centuries, but whose general lines still conveyed an impression of graciousness and comfort. Chulian coughed. Dust, churned up by the recent commotions, was everywhere resettling thickly. The floor gave slightly under his feet.

  Despite his general revulsion, the room exercised an odd fascination on Brother Chulian. Some features seemed almost attractive. Particularly a certain couch, which looked rather like the bed in his luxurious little cell in the Sanctuary.

  A chilling sound, as if someone had grated his teeth just behind him, made him whirl around. There was no one there.

  But the door had vanished. He was cut off from the others.

  His first thought was, "What if the walls should close in, and in, and in."

  The couch which had first attracted his attention began to creep toward him, oozing across the dusty floor like a gigantic snail.

  With a little gasp of choking, panic-inspired laughter Chulian dodged past it. It changed its course to follow him. Faster.

  There were no doors. He tried to get solider pieces of furniture between him and the thing. It shoved them aside. He darted past it again. It swerved toward him quickly, as if it were a very intelligent, evil slug. He tripped, fell awkwardly, managed to scramble up, dart blindly forward.

  It had him trapped in a corner. Very slowly now, as if gloating over his terror, the couch writhed closer, suddenly reared up, quaking obscenely, and thrust out stubby arms toward him—a vile personification of the fleshly comforts so dear to Chulian. Then it embraced him.

  Its pressure against his chest activated the controls of his inviolability field, switching it off. His halo, carried by the funnellike extension of the field above his head, was automatically extinguished.

  Darkness, then, and the suffocating, obscene endearments of the thing. Desperately he fought against it, straining his head backward, pushing out wildly.