The haunted dancers, p.19
The Haunted Dancers, page 19
“No. I’ll not change my mind.”
And with a swishing of silk, that sounded strange enough in that tropical, emerald glade, she left him to his thoughts, and his thoughts were agony.
For weeks he slaved in secret to build a great rakish-looking solid raft that grew slowly into shape as it lay concealed amid the dusky green of overhanging branches. He had told no one save Doña Inés of his resolution to escape. The reason was simple; in his heart of hearts he dreaded their bitter mockery, their cynical disbelief in any possible salvation from the trap of the island. Yet he still had faith; once aboard his raft and he would be for ever borne away from those perilous and beckoning shores; he might find death, but this he did not really mind, although he much preferred the thought of life, human life, life with Inés. And then he had to remind himself that the Spanish woman was a thing of dust, to crumble away at the first contact with normal humanity, and that he would, in any event, be better without her, since she meant another mouth to feed.
But he still desired her, and it was as though the Captain knew, for she was very seldom left alone. And so he toiled in secret, and in his spare time nursed Judd, who lay sick of a poisonous snake-bite that swelled his foot, and turned it black, and would have meant death in any other land.
Once, when his raft was nearly completed, he caught Inés alone in the beach, where, against a background of golden rock, she fed a swirling silver mass of seagulls. The birds wheeled, crying harshly, and Dona In& smiled. She wore a knot of scarlet passion-flowers in the dark satin of her hair. Patterson, determined not to miss a second alone with her, advanced triumphantly across the lands. The seagulls scattered.
“Look, you’ve frightened my birds,” she complained indignantly.
“Never mind the birds—they can see you whenever they want. I can’t. In£s, haven’t you changed your mind about coming with me?”
She shook her head.
“Inés, please, please listen! Even if we drown out there together, wouldn’t it be better than this?”
“Oh, yes, if we drowned. But we should not drown. We should come back here—to Micah—and then our lives would not be worth living.”
“My life,” he said, “isn’t worth living now, not while I have to see you with that creature night and day.”
“Be quiet,” she warned in a low voice.
Patterson turned, following her eyes. Behind, only just out of earshot, stood the Captain, watching them sardonically. The breeze lifted the skirts of his green taffeta coat, ballooning them about his slender body. The green, too, seemed reflected in his face, so pale was it; paler, more waxen, even, than a corpse-candle.
“Are you also feeding the birds, Patterson?” inquired the Captain softly.
“No. I am looking for turtles’ eggs.”
“How many have you found?” the Captain wanted to know.
Patterson felt rather foolish.
“None—yet.”
“Then you had better make haste, unless you wish to fast for dinner. Come, my rose.”
And Captain Thunder turned away indifferently, followed by Doha Inés, who walked behind him obediently, her head bent, with no backward look.
That night Patterson thought he heard weeping in the hut that lay only a few hundred yards from his own, and he crouched, perspiring, sleepless, for many hours, until it was dark no longer, and bars of rose and lemon streaked the sky. Then he got up and went forth to the woods to complete his preparations for escape.
He had rigged up a sail upon his raft and had already floated her on a narrow lagoon that led towards the sea. He was taking with him three barrels of water, a barrel of bread, his fishing-tackle, a blanket, and a flint and tinder. He knew he would not starve, since fish were plentiful, but he was aware that he would, probably, unless he were fortunate enough to end in a shark’s belly, die of a thirst that must endure for many days of torment in a pitiless and scorching heat.
Yet he could not wait; he must start at once, before the sun was up, before the first sign of life from that hut nestling on the cliffs behind him. And so, at a moment’s notice, he took his departure, nervous and weary and taut with anxiety, drifting with his raft like some dark bird again the misty violet-blue of the lagoon at dawn.
Everything was silent; trees and cliff and sky, the limpid reflection of these in the glassy waters of the lagoon; even the monkeys and the chattering parakeets, all were frozen into a breathless silence that seemed to watch, aghast, the reckless departure of this creature determined at all costs to break away from their sorrowful eternity.
Soon it was daylight, and the sun beat gilded wings, and Patterson drew near to the sea. A curve in the lagoon showed him the tawny cliff, and above it the huts. From the Captain’s hut came a finger of blue smoke that climbed, very straight, into the bright clearness of the air.
“Good-bye, Inés.”
And he was surprised to find how little pain there was for him in this parting. He reminded himself once more that she was a ghost, a creature of dust He passed the rocks and was soon outside, away from the island, on the sea itself. The ripples danced, white-crested, as though laced with silver. Patterson fished with success. He tried to fry his breakfast and, failing, devoured it half-raw, with a hunch of bread. It was very appetising. After breakfast he lay watching, with ecstasy, a stiff breeze swell his sail Already the island seemed to have receded. Patterson gazed with exultation at the coral-whiteness of its strand, the radiant green foliage of its trees. An hour before, and these had been loathsome to him; now that they belonged to the past he grimaced at them and waved his hand.
The raft drifted on.
The sea was kind to him that day, he thought, so innocent and gay and tinted like forget-me-nots. Despite himself, despite his almost certain death, he found his mind flitting towards England, and his life there, as though he were fated to be saved.
He turned towards the island, gleaming in the distance.
“Farewell!”
It was a cry of defiance.
And, then, in a moment, like thunder splintering from the sky, came sudden and shattering catastrophe. He was never very clear as to what actually occurred. All he knew was that from peace and beauty there emerged swift chaos. A wall of water, all towering solid green and ribbed with foam, reared suddenly from the tranquil seas to bar his path like some great ogre’s castle arisen by magic, huge, destructive, carven of emerald Then there was darkness and a tremendous roaring sound and the raft seemed to buck like a frightened horse. He heard the ripping of his sail and then he was pitched through the air and something seemed to split his head and he knew no more.
When he awoke, the sun beat hot upon his temples. He felt sick, his limbs ached and he groaned. He lay still, his eyes closed and tried to remember what had happened. And then he heard a sound that might have been some dirge sighed by the breeze, a soft murmuring music that seemed to him familiar. The song of the island He knew, then, that he was back upon the island He had no need to open his eyes.
“Oh, God,” he sighed.
And the sweat trickled down his face.
And then, inevitably, sounding close in his ear, the sneering, hateful voice of Captain Thunder.
“Home so soon, my young friend? No, you would not believe, would you? You know too much ..
Patterson made no sign of life. Back once more on the island. For all eternity … the island … and then the murmuring song swelled louder, louder, mocking him, laughing a little, as In£s had laughed when he had told her he was going to escape. The song of the island 1 And he must hear it for ever! He opened his eyes to find the Captain looking at him cynically.
“Now that you understand there is no escape,” said the Captain, “perhaps you not take it amiss if I venture to criticise your manner towards Madam In£s….”
But Patterson was not listening.
IF YOU ENJOYED THE HAUNTED DANCERS
YOU WILL ALSO WANT TO READ:
THE WITCH-BAITER
Edited by Charles Bitkin
A volume of Black Magic masterpieces designed to chill your marrow and quicken your pulse. The satanic terrors that lurk in the shadows of your most awful nightmares haunt these pages.
52-468, 50¢
THE TORTURER
by Peter Saxon
A chilling novel of a duel between the power of good and the occult terror of black magic.
52-469, 50¢
If you are unable to obtain these books from your local dealer, they may
be ordered directly from the publisher.
PAPERBACK LIBRARY, INC.
Department B
260 Park Avenue South
New York, N.Y. 10010
Please send me the books I have checked.
I am enclosing payment plus 10¢ per copy to carer postage and handling.
Name …………………………………………………
Address ……………………………………………….
City………………State…………..Zip Code…………
Charles Birkin, The Haunted Dancers
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And with a swishing of silk, that sounded strange enough in that tropical, emerald glade, she left him to his thoughts, and his thoughts were agony.
For weeks he slaved in secret to build a great rakish-looking solid raft that grew slowly into shape as it lay concealed amid the dusky green of overhanging branches. He had told no one save Doña Inés of his resolution to escape. The reason was simple; in his heart of hearts he dreaded their bitter mockery, their cynical disbelief in any possible salvation from the trap of the island. Yet he still had faith; once aboard his raft and he would be for ever borne away from those perilous and beckoning shores; he might find death, but this he did not really mind, although he much preferred the thought of life, human life, life with Inés. And then he had to remind himself that the Spanish woman was a thing of dust, to crumble away at the first contact with normal humanity, and that he would, in any event, be better without her, since she meant another mouth to feed.
But he still desired her, and it was as though the Captain knew, for she was very seldom left alone. And so he toiled in secret, and in his spare time nursed Judd, who lay sick of a poisonous snake-bite that swelled his foot, and turned it black, and would have meant death in any other land.
Once, when his raft was nearly completed, he caught Inés alone in the beach, where, against a background of golden rock, she fed a swirling silver mass of seagulls. The birds wheeled, crying harshly, and Dona In& smiled. She wore a knot of scarlet passion-flowers in the dark satin of her hair. Patterson, determined not to miss a second alone with her, advanced triumphantly across the lands. The seagulls scattered.
“Look, you’ve frightened my birds,” she complained indignantly.
“Never mind the birds—they can see you whenever they want. I can’t. In£s, haven’t you changed your mind about coming with me?”
She shook her head.
“Inés, please, please listen! Even if we drown out there together, wouldn’t it be better than this?”
“Oh, yes, if we drowned. But we should not drown. We should come back here—to Micah—and then our lives would not be worth living.”
“My life,” he said, “isn’t worth living now, not while I have to see you with that creature night and day.”
“Be quiet,” she warned in a low voice.
Patterson turned, following her eyes. Behind, only just out of earshot, stood the Captain, watching them sardonically. The breeze lifted the skirts of his green taffeta coat, ballooning them about his slender body. The green, too, seemed reflected in his face, so pale was it; paler, more waxen, even, than a corpse-candle.
“Are you also feeding the birds, Patterson?” inquired the Captain softly.
“No. I am looking for turtles’ eggs.”
“How many have you found?” the Captain wanted to know.
Patterson felt rather foolish.
“None—yet.”
“Then you had better make haste, unless you wish to fast for dinner. Come, my rose.”
And Captain Thunder turned away indifferently, followed by Doha Inés, who walked behind him obediently, her head bent, with no backward look.
That night Patterson thought he heard weeping in the hut that lay only a few hundred yards from his own, and he crouched, perspiring, sleepless, for many hours, until it was dark no longer, and bars of rose and lemon streaked the sky. Then he got up and went forth to the woods to complete his preparations for escape.
He had rigged up a sail upon his raft and had already floated her on a narrow lagoon that led towards the sea. He was taking with him three barrels of water, a barrel of bread, his fishing-tackle, a blanket, and a flint and tinder. He knew he would not starve, since fish were plentiful, but he was aware that he would, probably, unless he were fortunate enough to end in a shark’s belly, die of a thirst that must endure for many days of torment in a pitiless and scorching heat.
Yet he could not wait; he must start at once, before the sun was up, before the first sign of life from that hut nestling on the cliffs behind him. And so, at a moment’s notice, he took his departure, nervous and weary and taut with anxiety, drifting with his raft like some dark bird again the misty violet-blue of the lagoon at dawn.
Everything was silent; trees and cliff and sky, the limpid reflection of these in the glassy waters of the lagoon; even the monkeys and the chattering parakeets, all were frozen into a breathless silence that seemed to watch, aghast, the reckless departure of this creature determined at all costs to break away from their sorrowful eternity.
Soon it was daylight, and the sun beat gilded wings, and Patterson drew near to the sea. A curve in the lagoon showed him the tawny cliff, and above it the huts. From the Captain’s hut came a finger of blue smoke that climbed, very straight, into the bright clearness of the air.
“Good-bye, Inés.”
And he was surprised to find how little pain there was for him in this parting. He reminded himself once more that she was a ghost, a creature of dust He passed the rocks and was soon outside, away from the island, on the sea itself. The ripples danced, white-crested, as though laced with silver. Patterson fished with success. He tried to fry his breakfast and, failing, devoured it half-raw, with a hunch of bread. It was very appetising. After breakfast he lay watching, with ecstasy, a stiff breeze swell his sail Already the island seemed to have receded. Patterson gazed with exultation at the coral-whiteness of its strand, the radiant green foliage of its trees. An hour before, and these had been loathsome to him; now that they belonged to the past he grimaced at them and waved his hand.
The raft drifted on.
The sea was kind to him that day, he thought, so innocent and gay and tinted like forget-me-nots. Despite himself, despite his almost certain death, he found his mind flitting towards England, and his life there, as though he were fated to be saved.
He turned towards the island, gleaming in the distance.
“Farewell!”
It was a cry of defiance.
And, then, in a moment, like thunder splintering from the sky, came sudden and shattering catastrophe. He was never very clear as to what actually occurred. All he knew was that from peace and beauty there emerged swift chaos. A wall of water, all towering solid green and ribbed with foam, reared suddenly from the tranquil seas to bar his path like some great ogre’s castle arisen by magic, huge, destructive, carven of emerald Then there was darkness and a tremendous roaring sound and the raft seemed to buck like a frightened horse. He heard the ripping of his sail and then he was pitched through the air and something seemed to split his head and he knew no more.
When he awoke, the sun beat hot upon his temples. He felt sick, his limbs ached and he groaned. He lay still, his eyes closed and tried to remember what had happened. And then he heard a sound that might have been some dirge sighed by the breeze, a soft murmuring music that seemed to him familiar. The song of the island He knew, then, that he was back upon the island He had no need to open his eyes.
“Oh, God,” he sighed.
And the sweat trickled down his face.
And then, inevitably, sounding close in his ear, the sneering, hateful voice of Captain Thunder.
“Home so soon, my young friend? No, you would not believe, would you? You know too much ..
Patterson made no sign of life. Back once more on the island. For all eternity … the island … and then the murmuring song swelled louder, louder, mocking him, laughing a little, as In£s had laughed when he had told her he was going to escape. The song of the island 1 And he must hear it for ever! He opened his eyes to find the Captain looking at him cynically.
“Now that you understand there is no escape,” said the Captain, “perhaps you not take it amiss if I venture to criticise your manner towards Madam In£s….”
But Patterson was not listening.
IF YOU ENJOYED THE HAUNTED DANCERS
YOU WILL ALSO WANT TO READ:
THE WITCH-BAITER
Edited by Charles Bitkin
A volume of Black Magic masterpieces designed to chill your marrow and quicken your pulse. The satanic terrors that lurk in the shadows of your most awful nightmares haunt these pages.
52-468, 50¢
THE TORTURER
by Peter Saxon
A chilling novel of a duel between the power of good and the occult terror of black magic.
52-469, 50¢
If you are unable to obtain these books from your local dealer, they may
be ordered directly from the publisher.
PAPERBACK LIBRARY, INC.
Department B
260 Park Avenue South
New York, N.Y. 10010
Please send me the books I have checked.
I am enclosing payment plus 10¢ per copy to carer postage and handling.
Name …………………………………………………
Address ……………………………………………….
City………………State…………..Zip Code…………
Charles Birkin, The Haunted Dancers
