Out of the Dark

by Robert W. Chambers

  ‘The harbor-master!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, that slate-colored thing with gills, that looks like a man – and, by Heaven! is a man – that’s the harbor-master. Ask any quarryman at Port-of-Waves what it is that comes purring around their boats at the wharf and unties painters and changes the mooring of every cat-boat in the cove at night! Ask Francis Lee what it was he saw running and leaping up and down the shoal at sunset last Friday! Ask anybody along the coast what sort of a thing moves about the cliffs like a man and slides over them into the sea like an otter—’

  ‘I saw it do that!’ I burst out.

  ‘Oh, did you? Well, what was it?’

  Something kept me silent, although a dozen explanations flew to my lips.

  After a pause, Halyard said: ‘You saw the harbor-master, that’s what you saw!’

  I looked at him without a word.

  ‘Don’t mistake me,’ he said pettishly; ‘I don’t think that the harbor-master is a spirit or a sprite or a hobgoblin, or any sort of damned rot. Neither do I believe it to be an optical illusion.’

  ‘What do you think it is?’ I asked.

  ‘I think it’s a man – I think it’s a branch of the human race – that’s what I think. Let me tell you something: the deepest spot in the Atlantic Ocean is a trifle over five miles deep, and I suppose you know that this place lies only about a quarter of a mile off this headland. The British exploring vessel, Gull, Captain Marotte, discovered and sounded it, I believe. Anyway, it’s there, and it’s my belief that the profound depths are inhabited by the remnants of the last race of amphibious human beings!’

  This was childish; I did not bother to reply.

  ‘Believe it or not, as you will,’ he said angrily; ‘one thing I know, and that is this: the harbor-master has taken to hanging around my cove, and he is attracted by my nurse! I won’t have it! I’ll blow his fishy gills out of his head if I ever get a shot at him! I don’t care whether it’s homicide or not – anyway, it’s a new kind of murder, and it attracts me!’

  I gazed at him incredulously, but he was working himself into a passion, and I did not choose to say what I thought.

  ‘Yes, this slate-colored thing with gills goes purring and grinning and spitting about after my nurse – when she walks, when she rows, when she sits on the beach! Gad! It drives me nearly frantic. I won’t tolerate it, I tell you!’

  ‘No,’ said I, ‘I wouldn’t either.’ And I rolled over in bed convulsed with laughter.

  The next moment I heard my door slam. I smothered my mirth and rose to close the window, for the land-wind blew cold from the forest, and a drizzle was sweeping the carpet as far as my bed.

  That luminous glare which sometimes lingers after the stars go out threw a trembling, nebulous radiance over sand and cove. I heard the seething currents under the breakers’ softened thunder – louder than I ever heard it. Then, as I closed my window, lingering for a last look at the crawling tide, I saw a man standing, ankle-deep, in the surf, all alone there in the night. But – was it a man? For the figure began suddenly running over the beach on all fours like a beetle, waving its limbs like feelers. Before I could throw open the window again it darted into the surf, and, when I leaned out into the chilling drizzle, I saw nothing save the flat ebb crawling on the coast – I heard nothing save the purring of bubbles on seething sands.

  V

  It took me a week to perfect my arrangements for transporting the great auks, by water, to Port-of-Waves, where a lumber schooner was to be sent from Petite Sainte Isole, chartered by me for voyage to New York.

  I had constructed a cage made of osiers, in which my auks were to squat until they arrived at Bronx Park. My telegrams to Professor Farrago were brief. One merely said ‘Victory!’ Another explained that I wanted no assistance; a third read: ‘Schooner chartered. Arrive New York July 1. Send furniture-van to foot of Bluff Street.’

  My week as a guest of Mr Halyard proved interesting. I wrangled with that invalid to his heart’s content, I worked all day on my osier cage, I hunted the thimble in the moonlight with the pretty nurse. We sometimes found it.

  As for the thing they called the harbor-master I saw it a dozen times, but always either at night or so far away and so close to the sea that of course no trace of it remained when I reached the spot, rifle in hand.

  I had quite made up my mind that the so-called harbor-master was a demented darky – wandered from, Heaven knows where – perhaps shipwrecked and gone mad from his sufferings. Still, it was far from pleasant to know that the creature was strongly attracted by the pretty nurse.

  She, however, persisted in regarding the harbor-master as a sea creature; she earnestly affirmed that it had gills, like fish’s gills, that it had a soft, fleshy hole for a mouth, and its eyes were luminous and lidless and fixed.

  ‘Besides,’ she said, with a shudder, ‘it’s all slate-color, like a porpoise, and it looks as wet as a sheet of india-rubber in a dissecting room.’

  The day before I was to set sail with my auks in a cat-boat bound for Port-of-Waves, Halyard trundled up to me in his chair and announced his intention of going with me.

  ‘Going where?’ I asked.

  ‘To Port-of-Waves and then to New York,’ he replied tranquilly.

  I was doubtful, and my lack of cordiality hurt his feelings.

  ‘Oh, of course, if you need the sea-voyage,’ I began.

  ‘I don’t; I need you,’ he said savagely; ‘I need the stimulus of our daily quarrel. I never disagreed so pleasantly with anybody in my life; it agrees with me; I am a hundred per cent better than I was last week.’

  I was inclined to resent this, but something in the deep-lined face of the invalid softened me. Besides, I had taken a hearty liking to the old pig.

  ‘I don’t want any mawkish sentiment about it,’ he said, observing me closely; ‘I won’t permit anybody to feel sorry for me – do you understand?’

  ‘I’ll trouble you to use a different tone in addressing me,’ I replied hotly; ‘I’ll feel sorry for you if I choose to!’ And our usual quarrel proceeded, to his deep satisfaction.

  By six o’clock next evening I had Halyard’s luggage stowed away in the cat-boat and the pretty nurse’s effects corded down, with the newly-hatched auk-chicks in a hat-box on top. She and I placed the osier cage aboard, securing it firmly, and then, throwing table-cloths over the auks’ heads, we led those simple and dignified birds down the path and across the plank at the little wooden pier. Together we locked up the house, while Halyard stormed at us both and wheeled himself furiously up and down the beach below. At the last moment she forgot her thimble. But we found it, I forget where.

  ‘Come on!’ shouted Halyard, waving his shawls furiously; ‘what the devil are you about up there?’

  He received our explanation with a sniff, and we trundled him aboard without further ceremony.

  ‘Don’t run me across the plank like a steamer trunk!’ he shouted, as I shot him dexterously into the cock-pit. But the wind was dying away and I had no time to dispute with him then.

  The sun was setting above the pine-clad ridge as our sail flapped and partly filled, and I cast off and began a long tack, east by south, to avoid the spouting rocks on our starboard bow.

  The sea-birds rose in clouds as we swung across the shoal, the black surf-ducks scattered out to sea, the gulls tossed their sun-tipped wings in the ocean, riding the rollers like bits of froth.

  Already we were sailing slowly out across that great hole in the ocean, five miles deep, the most profound sounding ever taken in the Atlantic. The presence of some heights or great depths seen or unseen, always impresses the human mind – perhaps oppresses it. We were very silent; the sunlight stain on cliff and beach deepened to crimson, then faded into somber purple bloom that lingered long after the rose-tint died out in the zenith.

  Our progress was slow; at times, although the sail filled with the rising land-breeze, we scarcely seemed to move at all.

  ‘Of course,’ said
the pretty nurse, ‘we couldn’t be aground in the deepest hole in the Atlantic.’

  ‘Scarcely,’ said Halyard sarcastically, ‘unless we’re grounded on a whale.’

  ‘What’s that soft thumping?’ I asked. ‘Have we run afoul of a barrel or log?’

  It was almost too dark to see, but I leaned over the rail and swept the water with my hand.

  Instantly something smooth glided under it, like the back of a great fish, and I jerked my hand back to the tiller. At the same moment the whole surface of the water seemed to begin to purr, with a sound like the breaking of froth in a champagne-glass.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Halyard sharply.

  ‘A fish came up under my hand,’ I said; ‘a porpoise or something—’

  With a low cry, the pretty nurse clasped my arm in both her hands.

  ‘Listen!’ she whispered. ‘It’s purring around the boat.’

  ‘What the devil’s purring?’ shouted Halyard. ‘I won’t have anything purring around me!’

  At that moment, to my amazement, I saw that the boat had stopped entirely, although the sail was full and the small pennant fluttered from the mast-head. Something, too, was tugging at the rudder, twisting and jerking it until the tiller strained and creaked in my hand. All at once it snapped; the tiller swung useless and the boat whirled round, heeling in the stiffening wind, and drove shoreward.

  It was then that I, ducking to escape the boom, caught a glimpse of something ahead – something that a sudden wave seemed to toss on deck and leave there, wet and flapping – a man with round, fixed, fishy eyes, and soft, slaty skin.

  But the horror of the thing were the two gills that swelled and released spasmodically, emitting a rasping, purring sound – two gasping, blood-red gills, all fluted and scolloped and distended.

  Frozen with amazement and repugnance, I stared at the creature; I felt the hair stirring on my head and the icy sweat on my forehead.

  ‘It’s the harbor-master!’ screamed Halyard.

  The harbor-master had gathered himself into a wet lump, squatting motionless in the bows under the mast; his lidless eyes were phosphorescent like the eyes of living codfish. After a while I felt that either fright or disgust was going to strangle me where I sat, but it was only the arms of the pretty nurse clasped around me in a frenzy of terror.

  There was not a firearm aboard that we could get at. Halyard’s hand crept backwards where a steel-shod boat-hook lay, and I also made a clutch at it. The next moment I had it in my hand, and staggered forward, but the boat was already tumbling shoreward among the breakers, and the next I knew the harbor-master ran at me like a colossal rat, just as the boat rolled over and over through the surf, spilling freight and passengers among the seaweed covered rocks.

  When I came to myself I was thrashing about knee-deep in a rocky pool, blinded by the water and half suffocated, while under my feet, like a stranded porpoise, the harbor-master made the water boil in his efforts to upset me. But his limbs seemed soft and boneless; he had no nails, no teeth, and he bounced and thumped and flapped and splashed like a fish, while I rained blows on him with the boat-hook that sounded like blows on a football. And all the while his gills were blowing out and frothing, and purring, and his lidless eyes looked into mine, until, nauseated and trembling, I dragged myself back to the beach, where already the pretty nurse alternately wrung her hands and her petticoats in ornamental despair.

  Beyond the cove, Halyard was bobbing up and down, afloat in his invalid’s chair, trying to steer shoreward. He was the maddest man I ever saw.

  ‘Have you killed that rubber-headed thing yet?’ he roared.

  ‘I can’t kill it,’ I shouted breathlessly. ‘I might as well try to kill a football!’

  ‘Can’t you punch a hole in it?’ he bawled. ‘If I can only get at him—’

  His words were drowned in a thunderous splashing, a roar of great, broad flippers beating the sea, and I saw the gigantic forms of my two great auks, followed by their chicks, blundering past, in a shower of spray, driving headlong out into the ocean.

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ I said. ‘I can’t stand that,’ and, for the first time in my life, I fainted peacefully – and appropriately – at the feet of the pretty nurse.

  It is within the range of possibility that this story may be doubted. It doesn’t matter; nothing can add to the despair of a man who has lost two great auks.

  As for Halyard, nothing affects him – except his involuntary sea-bath, and that did him so much good that he writes me from the South that he’s going on a walking-tour through Switzerland – if I’ll join him. I might have joined him if he had not married the pretty nurse. I wonder whether— But, of course, this is no place for speculation.

  In regard to the harbor-master, you may believe it or not, as you choose. But if you hear of any great auks being found, kindly throw a tablecloth over their heads and notify the authorities at the Zoological Gardens in Bronx Park, New York. The reward is ten thousand dollars.

  THE DEATH OF YARGHOUZ KHAN

  In our second extract from The Slayer of Souls, Victor Cleves and his wife Tressa, the West’s last hope against the Yezidee, are in Florida, on the run from the Yezidee assassins sent to kill Tressa. A sinister man in white is shadowing them, who has in his possession a stolen phial of Lewisite, the deadliest poison known to man …

  The night grew sweet with the scent of orange bloom, and all the perfumed darkness was vibrant with the feathery whirr of hawk-moths’ wings.

  Tressa had taken her moon-lute to the hammock, but her fingers rested motionless on the strings.

  Cleves and Recklow, shoulder to shoulder, paced the moonlit path along the hedges of oleander and hibiscus which divided garden from jungle.

  And they moved cautiously on the white-shell road, not too near the shadow line. For in the cypress swamp the bloated gray death was awake and watching under the moon; and in the scrub palmetto the diamond-dotted death moved lithely.

  And somewhere within the dark evil of the jungle a man in white might be watching.

  So Recklow’s pistol swung lightly in his right hand and Cleves’s weapon lay in his side-pocket, and they strolled leisurely around the drive and up and down the white-shell walks, passing Tressa at regular intervals, where she sat in her hammock with the moon-lute across her knees.

  Once Cleves paused to place two pink hibiscus blossoms in her hair above her ears; and the girl smiled gravely at him in the light.

  Again, pausing beside her hammock on one of their tours of the garden, Recklow said in a low voice: ‘If the beast would only show himself, Mrs Cleves, we’d not miss him. Have you caught a glimpse of anything white in the woods?’

  ‘Only the night mist rising from the branch and a white ibis stealing through it.’

  Cleves came nearer: ‘Do you think the Yezidee is in the woods watching us, Tressa?’

  ‘Yes, he is there,’ she said calmly.

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Recklow stared at the woods. ‘We can’t go in to hunt for him,’ he said. ‘That fellow would get us with his Lewisite gas before we could discover and destroy him.’

  ‘Suppose he waits for a west wind and squirts his gas in this direction?’ whispered Cleves.

  ‘There is no wind,’ said Tressa tranquilly. ‘He has been waiting for it, I think. The Yezidee is very patient. And he is a Shaman sorcerer.’

  ‘My God!’ breathed Recklow. ‘What sort of hellish things has the Old World been dumping into America for the last fifty years? An ordinary anarchist is bad enough, but this new breed of devil – these Yezidees – this sect of Assassins—’

  ‘Hush!’ whispered Tressa.

  All three listened to the great cat-owl howling from the jungle. But Tressa had heard another sound – the vague stir of leaves in the live-oaks. Was it a passing breeze? Was a night wind rising? She listened. But heard no brittle clatter from the palm-fronds.

  ‘Victor,’ she said.

&n
bsp; ‘Yes, Tressa.’

  ‘If a wind comes, we must hunt him. That will be necessary.’

  ‘Either we hunt him and get him, or he kills us here with his gas,’ said Recklow quietly.

  ‘If the night wind comes,’ said Tressa, ‘we must hunt the darkness for the Yezidee.’ She spoke coolly.

  ‘If he’d only show himself,’ muttered Recklow, staring into the darkness.

  The girl picked up her lute, caught Cleves’s worried eyes fixed on her, suddenly comprehended that his anxiety was on her account, and blushed brightly in the moonlight. And he saw her teeth catch at her underlip; saw her look up again at him, confused.

  ‘If I dared leave you,’ he said, ‘I’d go into the hammock and start that reptile. This won’t do – this standing pat while he comes to some deadly decision in the woods there.’

  ‘What else is there to do?’ growled Recklow.

  ‘Watch,’ said the girl. ‘Out-watch the Yezidee. If there is no night-wind he may tire of waiting. Then you must shoot fast – very, very fast and straight. But if the night-wind comes, then we must hunt him in darkness.’

  Recklow, pistol in hand, stood straight and sturdy in the moonlight, gazing fixedly at the forest. Cleves sat down at his wife’s feet.

  She touched her moon-lute tranquilly and sang in her childish voice:

  ‘Ring, ring, Buddha bells,

  Gilded gods are listening.

  Swing, swing, lily bells,

  In my garden glistening.

  Now I hear the Shaman drum;

  Now the scarlet horsemen come;

  Ding-dong!

  Ding-dong!

  Through the chanting of the throng

  Thunders now the temple gong.

  Boom-boom!

  Ding-dong!

  ‘Let the gold gods listen!

  In my garden; what care I

  Where my lily bells hang mute!

  Snowy-sweet they glisten

  Where I’m singing to my lute.

  In my garden; what care I

  Who is dead and who shall die?