Complete weird tales of.., p.1215
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1215
“So am I.”
“No you’re not. You can’t be a marquis either, for they are plausible and treacherous—”
“Then I’ll be a Master of ‘Ounds,” I insisted, “let the title go by the board.”
She agreed, and I was installed Master of Stag-hounds to her petite Majesty — this position permitting me to sit occasionally in her presence.
“I am thirsty again,” said Ysonde.
I brought her a cup of ice-cold water into which I dropped a dozen wild strawberries. She touched a berry with the tip of her pink tongue, which was bad manners, and I told her so.
“What do you know about Queen’s etiquette?” she said disdainfully, and, finding the berries ripe, she ate three and smiled at me.
A thrush came fearlessly to her very feet and drank from the spring; a mottled wood-toad made futile efforts to clamber up the log into her lap, and two red lizards peeped at her from a cleft in the boulder beside us.
“It’s queer,” said I, watching the scrambling toad, “how you seem to fascinate all wild creatures. Shall I poke the toad away?”
“No, I am not afraid; I am very glad they all come to me.”
“You were possibly a dryad once,” I hazarded. “Possibly. And you?”
“Probably the oak tree that sheltered you.”
“Sheltered me?”
There is something in the note of a very young bird that I have noticed in Ysonde’s voice, but now, as she laughed — oh, such soft, sweet laughter, — it seemed to me as though the bird had grown, and its note trembled with purer, truer melody.
“Sheltered me! I imagine it!” she said, with a wonderful sweetness in her eyes. “Hark! Mr. Blylock is calling!”
She rose with capricious grace as I answered Blylock in a view-halloo which awoke the echoes among the cliffs above us.
When we came up to them Lynda linked her arm in Ysonde’s, and Blylock and I pushed ahead after the plodding guides.
Blylock and I discussed trout-flies and casts and philosophy with an occasional question to the guides, and as we moved I could hear the light laughter of Lynda and the clear voice of Ysonde singing old songs that were made in France when hawk’s-bells tinkled in castle courts and tasselled palfreys pawed the drawbridge.
It was noon when we entered the Scaur Valley, and luncheon was grateful; but before the leading guide entered the spotted trail which swings to the west above the third spur of Crested Hawk, the sun had dropped into the notch between Mount Eternity and the White Lady, and the alpen-glow crimsoned every peak as we threw down our packs and looked out across the Black Water. “Here,” said I, “our journey ends; Princess Ysonde,” — I took her gloved hand,— “be seated, for below you lies the Black Water — yours by right of conquest.”
“I cal’late ‘t ‘l be right cold to-night, Ma’am,” said Buck Hanson.
“Yes,” said Ysonde listlessly.
V.
NIGHT fell over the Black Water before the shelter was raised, but the great camp-fire lighted up the cleared space among the trees, and I saw Ellis staggering in under loads of freshly-stripped bark for our roof. Buck Hanson finished thatching the exposed ends with hemlock and spruce. The partition, a broad sheet of heavy bark, separated the lean-to into two sections, one for Lynda and Ysonde, the other for Blylock, myself, and the guides.
I had roamed about the underbrush, lopping off balsam twigs for our bedding which Blylock brought in and spread over the pine-needle floor.
When Ellis finished roofing the hut with his thick rolls of bark I sent him to the spring below with the camp kettle, and picking up an axe, called to Buck to follow.
“I should very much like, “ said Blylock solemnly, “to chop a tree into sections adequate for the camp fire.”
“Take the axe and my blessing,” said I, “I hate to chop.”
“It’s very good of you,” said Blylock, following Buck into the forest where our firelight glimmered red on rugged trunks towering into the blackness above.
Ysonde came creeping out of her compartment, her eyes and cheeks brilliant in the fire’s glare.
“Lynda is lying down,” she said, “isn’t supper nearly ready? How delicious our bed of balsam smells; what are you doing with your trout rod?”
I knotted the nine-foot leader to the line, slipped on an orange miller for a dropper, tied a big coachman three feet above it, and picked up my landing-net.
“What is home without a dinner?” I asked, “and what is dinner without a trout? Come down to that rock which hangs over the Black Water, and you shall see your future dinner leaping in the moonlight.”
“Bobby the poet,” said Ysonde, steadying herself by my arm in the dark descent to the lake.
“Poet Bobby, there is no moon on the Black Water.”
“Look,” said I, pointing to a pale light in the sky above the White Lady, “the moon will come up over that peak in ten minutes; give me your hand, it’s very dark.”
Clinging closely to my arm, she moved through the undergrowth until we felt the firm flat rock under our feet. The rock ran straight out into the water at right angles from the shore like a pier.
“Be careful — oh, be careful,” she urged, “you almost walked off into the water there where the shadows lie so black.”
“Then hold me,” said I diplomatically, and I felt her warm hands close tightly on my left arm.
The moon peeped over the shoulder of the White Lady as I made my first cast into the darkness ahead, and I saw my leader strike the water, now placidly rocking like a lake of molten silver.
“Oh-h!” cried Ysonde, softly, “oh, the wondrous beauty of it all.”
In the silence I heard the thwack of an axe from the woods above and Blylock’s voice quite plainly. The water lapped the edges of the rock below us, catching thin gleams from the shining sheet beyond, and my silk line whistled and whimpered like a keen wind lashing the sea.
Then a wonderful thing occurred. Out of the depths of the burnished water a slim shape shot, showering the black night with spray. Splash! A million little wavelets hurried away into the darkness, crowding, sparkling, dancing in widening circles, while the harsh whirr of the reel rang in my ears, and the silk line melted away like a thread of smoke. The rod staggered in my hand. —
“Ysonde, there are two on now!” I whispered.
“Give me the rod!” she said, excitedly. I handed it to her, and for a moment she felt the splendid strain. Then the fish gave a deep surge to the west, and she gasped and pushed the rod into my hands.
“Living wild things struggling for life,” she sighed. “Oh, hurry, Bobby, — it pains me so!” and she pressed both hands to her breast.
For a second the joy of the battle left me. I had an impulse to fling the rod into the Black Water; but I am a hunter by instinct.
Deeper and deeper surged the fish, and the rod swayed and bent until the tip brushed my knuckles.
“Oh, kill the creatures,” murmured Ysonde, “it is all so fierce and cruel, — I never thought you were like that!”
“I am,” I muttered, checking a savage sweep toward the north,—” quick, Ysonde — pass me my net.”
She did so, and I crawled down to the water’s edge, shortening my line at every step. It was soon over; I washed my hands in the black water, and flung the fish back into the landing-net.
“Now,” said I, tossing rod and net over my shoulder, “we will go to dinner; lean on my shoulder; — how brutal you must think me, Ysonde.”
“Yes,” said Ysonde.
She passed me — perhaps it was the moonlight that whitened her cheeks — and I saw her enter the circle of red firelight as Lynda came forward to meet her.
“Hello, Ellis!” I called.
“Hallo, sir!” came back from the spring among the rocks below, and Jimmy Ellis appeared, carrying a chunk of pork.
“Two,” I said, turning the trout out of the landing-net.
“Good fish, sir,” drawled Ellis, “mor’n ‘nuff for dinner, I suspicion.”
“Split them,” said I, “broil both as only you can broil them. Spring all right?”
“Sweet an’ full. Dinner is ready above.” Blylock came down with a blazing pine knot to inspect the fish, and I heard him rigging his rod ten minutes later as I walked into camp and sat down, glowing from a dip in the tin bucket below.
Lynda and Ysonde were nibbling away at broiled trout, hot toast, and potted pheasant.
“Dear me,” said Lynda, “ I really must not eat like this, I have had three cups of bouillon to begin with. Ysonde says you are the cleverest angler in the world.”
“That, of course,” said Ysonde, “may be an exaggeration, for I have seen very few anglers.”
“Oh, you’re not exaggerating one bit,” I assured her. “Is there any toast over there?” Lynda deigned to serve me with hot bouillon and Ysonde tossed a slice of toast to me, scandalizing her aunt.
“You little savage,” said Lynda, reproachfully.
“Any trout left?” I asked, “Where is Mr. Blylock?”
“Here’s the trout,” smiled Ysonde, serving me a bit of the crisp pink fish. “Mr. Blylock said ‘ha!’ several times when he saw your two trout and went down to the rock flourishing his rod very recklessly.”
“Mr. Blylock never flourishes anything,” observed Lynda.
“No, he waved it as Merlin might have waved—”
“Why, Ysonde!” said Lynda, warmly.
I was discreet enough to finish my toast in silence; I was very happy.
“Now, Sir Fisherman,” said Ysonde, “a cup of this white wine with your trout? What! a whole bottle? Oh, Lynda, look at him!”
“I see him,” said Lynda, sleepily, “I wonder what time it is.”
Buck and Jimmy, having finished their dinner, which included a trout between them and a gallon or so of coffee, piled half a dozen logs on the fire, backed them with half a tree trunk, said goodnight very politely, and ambled away with the dishes and a pail of boiling water. Ten minutes later Blylock came in with three fair-sized fish, which Lynda admired and I encored, and then Lynda and Ysonde rose with deep reverences, and mockingly prayed to be allowed to retire. Buck and Jimmy were already sound asleep.
“If they snore,” said I, “there will be murder done on Black Water shore.”
Blylock lighted a cigar and I my pipe.
“I never sleep well in camp the first night,” said I.
“No?” asked Blylock, politely.
“No, you old jay,” said I, for I was becoming very fond of Blylock. That broke the back of Beacon Street for the moment, and Blylock blossomed out as a story-teller without equal. I laughed till it hurt me, softly, of course, and still Blylock, imperturbable, bland, told story after story, until I marvelled, between my spasms of laughter, at the make-up of this Bostonian. At last he went to bed, mildly suggesting that I follow his example, which I did after I finished my pipe, although I knew I should sleep but little.
About ten o’clock Buck Hanson snored. I leaned over Blylock, already fast asleep, and poked the wretched Buck until he stopped. Ten minutes later Ellis began a solo which I have never since heard equalled.
“Great heavens!” I muttered, and jabbed him viciously with my rod-butt, but Jimmy Ellis didn’t wake, and before I knew it, Buck Hanson, taking a mean advantage, chimed in with a snort that would have done credit to a rogue elephant. This was not all. I dread to record it, but I am trying to tell the truth in this story — I pray the lady to pardon me if I suggest that from the other side of the bark partition came a sound, — delicate, discreet, but continuous, in short, a gentle — no! no! I can never bring myself to write it down. I am no brute, Madam — and, after all, only men snore.
A black fly got into my neck and bothered me; later a midge followed the example of his erring colleague. To slay them both was my intention, and in doing so I awoke Blylock, who sleepily protested. This was exasperating, and I told him so, but he was asleep again before I finished. Why on earth I should never be able to sleep more than an hour or so on my first night in camp, — I who have camped in the forest for years, — I never can understand.
I endured the concerted snores of the whole camp as long as I could, then I crawled to the fire outside, hauled two fresh logs into the blaze, swathed myself in my blankets, lighted a fresh pipe, and sat down with my feet to the heat and my back against a sapling.
Outside the wavering ring of firelight the blackness was so profound, so hopelessly impenetrable that I wondered whether a storm was rolling up behind the Scaur. Trees, brush, rocks, and ledges — the whole huge forest, root and branch, seemed woven together into curtains of utter darkness which wavered, advanced, and receded with the ever dying, ever leaping flames. There was no storm, for I saw stars on the strip of darkness above — little pale stars, timidly glimmering in the depths of a vast vault. The moon had long ago passed behind the Scaur — that sullen mass of menacing ledges, blackening the fathomless stretch of the Black Water. There were noises in the forest, stealthy steps and timid scratchings — now faint, as if across the rocking lake, now nearer, now so sudden and sharp that I involuntarily leaned forward, striving to pierce the outer circle of gloom beyond the fire ring. Once something brushed and rustled among the leaves behind me, and I saw a grey snake glide into the warm glow by my feet.
“Get out,” I whispered, with a gesture of annoyance.
The serpent slowly raised its head, flashed a forked tongue at me, swayed a moment, then noiselessly moved on into the night.
“Salut! O mon Roi!” said a low voice behind me, and Ysonde crept out of her fragrant bed of balsam, and curled up in her blanket at my feet.
“Oh, dear,” she sighed, “I am so sleepy, but I can’t sleep. Why is it, Bobby? — I haven’t closed my eyes once.”
“Then,” said I, under my breath, “it was not you who—”
“Sh-h! Lynda might hear you.”
“Not probable, judging from symptoms.”
“You’re impertinent, Bobby — hark! do you hear? What was it?”
“Anything from a toad to a porcupine; the forest is always full of sounds. Are you warm, Ysonde?”
“Yes, — and so sleepy that — ah! what was that?”
“Anything from a wood-mouse to a weasel.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“A fawn, perhaps — I heard deer among the pitcher-plants at the head of the Black Water a few minutes ago.”
“Gentle things,” murmured Ysonde, “I wish they would come close to me; I love them — I love everything.”
“And everything on earth and sea loves you, Ysonde.”
Her lids were drooping, and she smiled, half asleep.
“Bobby,” she murmured, “I believe I could sleep here by you — you make me sleepy.”
Her head drooped and rested on my blanket. After a moment — it may have been an hour — I whispered, bending above her: “Do you sleep, Ysonde?” and again, “do you sleep?”
The stars flickered and died in the heavens, the flames sank lower, lower, and the great black night crept into the camp, smothering the fading fire with pale shadows, vague and strange, moving, swaying, until my eyes closed and I slept.
Was it a second — was it an hour? I sat bolt upright staring at the dying embers before me. A bit of charred log fell in with a soft crash sending a jet of sparks into the air, where they faded and went out. Went out? There were two — two big green sparks that had not faded with the others, and I, half asleep, watched them, vaguely curious. Ah! they are moving now — no, they are still again, close together.
The hair stirred on my head, my heart ceased, thumped once, stopped — it seemed hours, — and leaped into my throat, almost stifling me with its throbbing. I was not dreaming, for I felt the sweat trickling in my eyebrows, and the roots of my hair were cold and damp.
Ysonde moved in her slumber, frowned and raised her hand.
A low snarl came from the shadows. Slowly the power of thinking returned to me, but my eye never left those two green sparks, now blazing like lamps there in the darkness.
When would the thing spring? Would I have time to fling Ysonde behind me? Would it spring if I called to Blylock? Blylock had a rifle. Would it spring if I moved, or if Ysonde moved again? Gently, scarcely stirring, I tried to free my knees, and the creature snarled twice.
“It’s against all precedent in these woods,” I thought, “for any of the cat tribe to dare attack a camp.” A sudden anger took possession of me, a fury of impatience, and quick as the thought, I sprang among the embers and hurled a glowing branch straight into the creature’s eyes. What happened after that I can scarcely tell; I know a heavy soft mass struck me senseless, but my ears at moments ring yet with that horrid scream which seemed to split and tear the night asunder, wavering, quavering, long after I was hurled on my back, and my eyes seemed stark open in oceans of blood.
VI.
WHEN I came to my senses it was still dark — or so it seemed to me. After a while I felt a hand shifting the bandage which pressed heavily over both eyes, and in a moment or two somebody raised me by the shoulders, somebody else by the knees, and I heard Blylock cock his rifle, and say: “Give me that torch, Buck, and walk faster.”
“Blylock,” I gasped, “they ‘re lugging me in as I lugged in Sutherland — mauled by a panther, “and I laughed miserably.
“Hello!” said Blylock, in a low voice, “I thought you’d brace up; are you bleeding much?”
“I don’t know,” I muttered; “what, in hell’s the matter?”
“Matter!” repeated Blylock, “the forest has gone mad — it’s preposterous, but the woods are full of bob-cats, troops of ‘em, and the skulking brutes have actually got the nerve to follow us.”
“Can’t I walk?” I groaned. “Where is Ysonde?” — for I was beginning to remember.
“Walk? — yes, if you want to bleed to death — the ladies are here between me and the guides who are toting you.”
“Ysonde,” I murmured, “pardon me for my profanity — I am dazed — where are you?”
