The moon was low in the west, and the stars had paled with the first flush of dawn when he came up alone from the sea. Movement in the non-supporting air was difficult, and he reeled as he walked toward the jungle.
A sharp challenge lashed out of the dark, and he halted mechanically. The beach patrol was on the alert. Evest identified himself haltingly.
“Just swimming,” he explained. “Couldn’t sleep.”
The muzzle of the sub-machine-gun lowered and he walked on past the helmeted guard. He found his stacked clothing without difficulty, dressed, and went back to the dugout, to the cold, ugly reality of existence on Sanan.
But there was one difference. Loama—such he had learned her name was. Loama’s intoxicating loveliness confused his troubled mind by day. By night he met with her in the shadows where palm fronds veiled the moon. And afterward they plunged together into the sea—into misty nothingness, for beyond that plunge his memory refused to record details.
* * * *
Night after night they met, she passionate and yearning, he gripped by some power beyond his ability to understand or effort to resist. The moon waned to a shard of gold late in rising, and Loama came to him when it made its appearance in the glittering sky. This was a part of the puzzle, too. What sinister connection had the rising of the moon with their earthly ecstasy?
She came to him hurriedly and fretted at his caresses.
“The day,” she breathed. “Day comes—look, already the sky is pale. Let us go at once, my love…”
He went with her reluctantly, halted stubbornly at the edge of the water. He felt a magnetic urge to continue into the swelling sea, but he fought it off.
“Loama—where are we going? What are you afraid of in the daylight? There are so many things I must know, Loama. I won’t go until I do know…”
Strong, brown fingers clutched his arm impatiently.
“Very well,” she said. “You have been under a spell of confusion, but now it is lifted. You shall see and know and remember. Oh, lover, we must hurry! Already there is red in the sky!”
He yielded to her urgent entreaty, and they flung themselves together into the surf. Indeed, Evest felt a new clearness of mind as a comber dissolved against his chest and crashed upon the sand. He ducked under with her, thrust forward with mighty swimming strokes. Strength and power swelled his muscles. The water parted around him with a speed and lack of resistance that made him marvel. Loama was a flashing dark shape at his side, swimming down and down into the green depths. Water was as easy to breathe as air. It was magic at work, and he knew that somehow Loama was responsible for it. He looked full into her bronze face and was reassured by the shadow of her red-lipped smile.
He slipped his glance aside and started involuntarily. He veered away and regarded her again. The gray light of dawn struggled down through the water, bathed her bronze body in its pallid glow. Her long black hair flowed in an inky cloud behind her, her body twisted as she swam with the supple ease of a fish, or…the thought momentarily horrified him. He glanced again sidewise. From the corner of his eye he beheld the abrupt change that transformed her from a bronze goddess of the sea to a lean, gray shape, sharp-snouted that surged grimly down through the translucent depths.
He knew now, as he had known before, and the spell of confusion had paralyzed his memory from revealing, what she was—good God, what he was! His mind flung back to the first ecstatic night at the edge of the jungle, when the poisonous bite of this strange were-creature had made him like unto herself. The legends told the story. Through some alchemy of Nature, Loama was shark by day, and human by night, when the land was bathed in moon-glow. How, he did not know. Fast returning came memory of the things she had told him on previous journeys beneath the sea.
It was the trace of human remaining in him that caused him to see Loama in her were-shape from the tail of his eye. The were-vision with which he was now gifted showed him her true shape.
What cursed awakening was this? Evest had always cherished a certain amount of doubt about many things. Was he to believe at last that devils roamed the night and shackled mankind to their dire bidding? Was Loama, then, the tool of some dark, unconsecrated power that had snared him into its toils? He was revolted at the thought, yet beneath ran a current of doubt. Knowledge pounded at the gates of memory while he searched in vain for the key.
Down, down, through the blue-green waters they swept. They must nearly have circled the island, Evest guessed. They skimmed above a bottom of white sand, and weird, phantasmagoric coral shapes reared about them. They picked their way through clefts and valleys, over miniature submerged mountain chains, through jungles of rankly growing seaweeds and came at last upon the mouth of a grotto, concealed in wavering green fronds.
Loama pressed his side in sign to enter.
“In here,” she said, “dwell the were-folk of the sea.”
Living polyps covered the walls of the grotto, luminous in their own right, so that the water in the cave vibrated with faint illumination. They followed a twisting passageway deep into the bowels of the island, and came out finally into a subterranean cavern of such immensity that not even the super-acute were-vision could penetrate to its farther end. Standing, walking, swimming, a horde of were-people seethed in the cavern, and when Evest glanced at them from the corner of his eye, he saw gray, torpedo-like shark forms in like number.
* * * *
Dark night pressed down upon the surface world. Skimming the choppy sea overhead, almost hidden in a pall of black smoke pouring from rakish stacks, a swarm of fleet ships steamed slowly toward Sanan. Had Evest, through some inner sight, obtained a glimpse of those dark, steel shapes hugging the water, he should have been recalled to a sterner duty which he had forgotten in his present state of bliss and doubtful agony. But throbbing screws churned by overhead, and Evest was not aware of them.
As they moved about among the were-folk of the cavern, and finally come to rest in a secluded grotto that was their own, Evest had plied Loama with questions concerning these things, and the bits she told him added to others nearly forgotten, and at last the picture was made plain to him.
Once they were of the race of man, Loama told him, and they had lived on a great island in the midst of the sea. Those first men were their ancestors, many, many generations removed. They had spread a mighty culture over the face of the world.
All mankind lived in peace and plenty, and commerce crossed the seas and lands and sped through the air. Now, their history was forgotten. That elder race existed simply as a memory with the were-sharks of the sea.
What had become of them, Evest had wanted to know? The Catastrophe, Loama told him, was responsible.
Scientists of that ancient and mighty island had long known of the vast caverns that underlay their abode. They had realized with grim foreboding that some day rock-ribbed walls would no longer be able to sustain the tremendous pressure of flaming gases seeping in from the bowels of the earth. Their efforts to circumvent the Catastrophe had proven fruitless, and the day had come sooner than expected.
The race-memory was dim among Loama’s people, and she called it a kind of witchcraft employed by the scientists of old to save the population. A certain few had been changed into dwellers of the sea. Evest understood that in some manner science had conquered witchcraft, but his mind groped vaguely at the details. Mostly an experiment, the results had proven gratifying to those experimented upon.
Loama told of the great Catastrophe in simple words. “The newly-invented were-people were distant from the island the day it occurred. They felt the shocks of earthquake, and in terror swam down to the bottom of the sea. From one moon’s waning until the next, giant waves destroyed everything that lived and grew.”
She told of the expeditions that had set out. Those that returned brought the horrifying news that the were-folk were all that re
mained of man. The enraged seas had swept over the low, mountainless lands, turning them into bare mudflats. Of man and his work not one vestige remained.
“They were a mighty folk in that day,” she said, “and they had in their hands knowledge we of the undersea people do not dream of. Long ago, in the early days of my people’s existence, we lost the secret of fire. What need had we of fire where flame will not burn?
“We remain beneath the sea because we must. There are certain laws of existence we dare not defy. We must not go upon land in the day, nor during the dark of the moon. These are tribal laws founded upon the greater natural law which no one understands now. To offend them is punishable by death at the hands of the were-people. We can, and frequently, do bring surface people to live with us. That process cannot be reversed. You, Evest, are now doomed with the were-folk to spend the rest of your life under the sea.”
* * * *
Loama’s story had blasted his fears of superstition. His mind darted to the ancient legends of Atlantis and Mu. He told her that some members of the human face must have been saved from the Catastrophe. Witness the present race of man that overran the earth. He expressed the hope that somewhere in the ruins of that elder civilization, perhaps below the sea, lay buried the vital formula compounded by the wizards of eld, that would some day be found and release the were-folk from their bonds.
Now, as he rested quietly with her in the pellucid waters of the great cavern, he realized that the were-folk still knew and practiced a certain amount of the “sorcery” bequeathed them by the wizards of eld. For instance, there was the “spell of confusion” Loama had cast upon his senses. Mysterious ways of coming and going that she seemed reluctant to discuss with him. He had not yet managed to solve the secret of her disappearance from the sandbagged dugout.
After nightfall the were-folk came out of their cavern and pursued the primal business of hunting and eating upon the sea-bottom. They pursued colorful fishes and ate them raw, and Evest found, strangely enough, that he had developed a new appetite that relished the fishes.
He had discovered a cleft in the coral that was particularly abundant in edible morsels when Loama told him of the ships. The information had been given her by one of the tribes-people. Evest felt an electric thrill course through him.
“What were they like?” he asked excitedly. “Whose ships are they?”
Loama shrugged. “My people know nothing of surface ships. Is there a difference, then, what kind of ships they are?”
There was, indeed, and he tried to explain to her, but the discussion involved too many technicalities. When he told her of the importance of knowing whether the ships were friend or enemy, he found her indifferent to the concept of war. Such was beyond her understanding.
“Danger,” he said irritably. “Do you understand danger? They may be men who want to destroy my friends on the island.” Her expressionless beauty was maddening. She did not understand.
“Is it not more important, my lover, that you are safe from them?”
“It’s my duty,” he cried. “I am their leader. I must protect them. Don’t you see…”
He gave up, realizing the hopelessness of explaining. Brought home to him, too, was the fact that he had failed in his duty. He could not say that he had not walked into his present situation with eyes wide open.
He knew now what he was, and the thought sickened him. He was a deserter—in the same category with the worst brig rat he had ever known. The agony of his realization was unbearable. His crime was punishable by death. He had deserted his post in time of war. Face the music. That was it. The idea drummed in his brain. He had to go back and face the music. What good were honor and duty under the sea? No matter, he had to face the music. He had deserted his men at the time of their greatest need.
“I have to go back,” he burst out. “I have done a great wrong coming here.”
“You can’t go back,” Loama said tonelessly.
“I will go back!” he countered fiercely.
“Not in the dark of the moon.”
“I shall go back and wait for the light of the moon. These ships—I must warn my friends of them.”
“You cannot assume human form except in the light of the moon. By then it will be too late.”
“I can do something. At least, I can see for myself whether something can be done.”
“Very well, my love. I shall go with you.”
He was glad she would come. He was miserable and frightened at what he had done, at the inescapability of his doom. They sped up through the dark water together.
* * * *
Gunnery sergeant Malpek was carrying on in the absence of his lieutenant. He came out of the dugout to inspect the beach defenses. He stopped to smoke a cigarette with the crew of a sea-coast gun. The cold light of dawn fingered at the eastern sky.
“Any word yet of the CO?”
Malpek cast a look askance at the rangy gun captain and ground out his cigarette butt.
“Not a sign. It’s bad dope.”
Malpek was concealing the fact that he had found Evest’s clothes on the beach. He concealed too what only his own eyes had observed—the naked pair of footprints leading down the beach and into the sea.
Malpek finished his round of inspection before sunrise and returned to the dugout. He was not an imaginative man. He could not speculate on the meaning of those footprints. Before he rubbed them out, he had noted well that it was a man and a woman who had walked into the sea. He had looked in vain for some sign of a boat, but there was none. He could have but one opinion—Evest had tired of his responsibility and had left the island with the woman. But how and where? He continued his interrupted search through Evest’s meager possessions.
Perhaps the lieutenant was dead. Perhaps he had gone swimming and had got caught by some treacherous current. This thought was more comforting than that his commander had deserted them. He had suspected from the lieutenant’s actions that he had been meeting the girl at night. He was certain now that Evest had helped her to escape from the dugout. He was a smooth one, all right, pretending ignorance!
Malpek leafed through some papers, came upon a studio portrait of a rather pretty, blonde girl. It was inscribed, “Love, to Blaine—Gloria.” He took up a paper he had sorted out beforehand. It was the letter Evest had tried to write. The paper was blank except for the salutation, “Gloria dearest.” Malpek sighed and laid them aside together. The rest of the material was letters, orders—the usual run of correspondence that comes to a commander’s office in the field. None were newer than two months old. Lieutenant Evest had left nothing in writing to indicate his whereabouts or his intentions.
Malpek sat hunched over the desk for a long time, staring through the sooty chimney at the flickering flame in the lantern. Finally he drew a clean sheet of paper toward him, picked up Evest’s own pen and wrote: “Lieutenant Blaine Evest—missing in action.”
He weighted the paper carefully with the pen and went out of the dugout. He squinted toward the far horizon, blue now with morning’s early light. A smudge of smoke dirtied the blue. He shouted a command and the camp became an anthill of orderly haste. Thudding concussions popped faintly across the water, and high above, the smoke puffs of anti-aircraft fire blossomed. The unseen vessels were being attacked by equally unseen aircraft. But which was friend and which enemy? Malpek gave orders to the gunners to hold their fire.
* * * *
Evest approached the scene of action filled with bitter recrimination. His failure to his duty oppressed him. He realized intensely now the true values of the ideals which he had been sent to this part of the world to protect. Had he been able to return, even if it had meant the maximum punishment, he would have cheerfully done so, in order to find peace with his conscience.
Loama swam close beside him, large eyes examining him w
ith concern. Somehow, she sensed that struggle that went on in his mind, and she knew now that he was not hers—he could never be hers. He was a warrior, and he was returning to the flame for which he had been tempered.
Two triangular fins cut the water around the battling ships, unobserved by the little brown men who fixed anxious eyes on the sky. Evest ascertained that they were indeed enemy vessels, trying to fight off what seemed to be an attack in force from the skies. The water was alive with sound—the mad churning of screws, the concussions of bombs, the booming of anti-aircraft and the crackling of machine-gun fire. The whole enemy task force was in disorder, wheeling and circling madly to escape the vengeance of the slashing war birds above.
The attacking planes were a definite sign to Evest that the American fleet was close, bringing succor to the Marines on Sanan. The knowledge cheered him. He turned and swam in the direction he thought it might lie.
Somewhere on the way he separated from Loama, but then the friendly vessels were in sight, and he lost all thought of her. A flight of planes came in to nest on the broad deck of a carrier that accompanied some smaller, slow-moving transports. Destroyers cut the water near the main group, and the warbirds darted out to do battle with the enemy beyond the horizon. Sight of them was like a tonic in Evest’s veins, and he cruised among the ships with a feeling of belonging.
The 7th Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK®: Manly Banister Page 7
