Arcadia House
:
The Doomsman
Little by little, Constans succeeded in piecing together the puzzle, for
puzzle indeed it was. Here in this city of the dead he had found in
actual operation one of the great power-producing plants of the ancient
world. How to account for the miracle of its preservation during the
generations that had passed since the sun of knowledge had disappeared
beneath the sea of mental darkness. What sufficient explanation could
there be for this amazing fact?
From Prosper, the priest, Constans drew the main outlines of the story,
and his studies enabled him to fill in the details. In brief, it may be
set down as follows:
When the convicts and criminals, who were the ancestors of the Doomsmen,
took possession of the old-time city, it is reasonable to suppose that
among them were a certain proportion of technically educated
men--artisans, mechanics, engineers. A power-plant of such imposing
proportions (designed, we may conjecture, for the furnishing of motive
power to one of the great transportation systems) could hardly escape
their notice, and they would certainly know how to utilize it if they
cared to do so. And they did--for a peculiar reason.
It is a matter of record that in the twentieth century the universal
form of capital punishment was execution by electricity. In every
state-prison stood the "death-chair," the visible embodiment of the
moral force which the wrong-doer had defied, and which, in the ensuing
struggle, had proved too strong for him. No wonder that it was both
feared and hated by the citizens of the underworld of crime.
Now that the social fabric lay in ruins, now that the very foundations
of law and order had been razed, what could be more natural than the
impulse to turn this instrument of legal punishment into one of
unlicensed vengeance? Society had dealt, mercilessly, with the breaker
of laws, and now it was to suffer in its turn. So it came to pass that
whenever a House-dweller (as representative of the old law-creating and
law-abiding classes) fell alive into the hands of the Doomsmen, it was
invariably ordained that he must take his seat in the chair of death and
in his own body make satisfaction for the ancient debt.
But the years rolled on, and with the new generations came a slow but
sweeping change in sentiment. The Doomsmen were now the dominant race,
and the Housemen had become their vassals. It was not good policy for a
master to wantonly destroy productive property, and so by degrees these
barbarous reprisals slackened. The time was now ripe for the second
stage of the evolution--the introduction of the religious element and
the final conversion of the execution into the sacrifice. That the
transformation was a natural one may be easily shown.
Even among the ancient scientists the nature of electricity was but
imperfectly understood, and as the night of ignorance settled down upon
the world it was inevitable that the various phenomena of electrical
energy should come to be regarded with ever-increasing awe. To the
commonalty among the Doomsmen this invisible, inaudible, intangible
force which slew at a breath, became invested with supernatural
attributes; it was the spirit of a god that came and sat in the chair of
death, now transformed into the high altar of his chosen sacrifice.
But outside of the vulgar crowd were the initiated, the illuminati,
the technically trained adepts who managed the whole business. How about
them? In the beginning, doubtless, they would be tempted to foster the
new cult, recognizing in it a weakness upon which they could profitably
play. And this they did, only to be trapped, in turn, in the net of
superstition which they had helped to weave. It was now three
generations back to the electricians and mechanical experts to whom the
care of the great engines had originally been intrusted. Their sons and
grandsons continued to preserve the practical knowledge which was
required for the management of the machinery under their charge, but as
time went on they cared less and less about the principles of the
mysterious forces that they controlled. Now, let the tide of religious
fervor sweep onward to its flood, and inevitably the apprentice would be
replaced by the acolyte; the neophytes of the fourth generation would be
taught only so much about the engines as was absolutely necessary for
their maintenance in running order. At last, the Shining One had come to
his own, and all bowed before his throne.
Following upon this culmination came decadence; it is the universal
law. Through imperceptible degrees men fell away from the faith of their
fathers, and the worship of the god had become unfashionable. The
devotees were reduced to a handful of women; of the once all-powerful
priesthood, Prosper alone remained, and he was an old and feeble man.
One man but he had stood unfalteringly at his post; every Friday for
more than thirty years he had caused the spirit of the god to descend
into his sanctuary, and had called upon all true-hearted believers to
draw near and worship. That they would not heed was no concern of his;
his duty was accomplished, and beyond this no man may go.
"And surely the Shining One is jealous of his own honor," said Constans,
guardedly. "Will he not bring to naught these foolish contemners of his
majesty? Without doubt, else he were no god."
It was the afternoon of the following day, and the two men had been busy
with the care of the machinery in the great hall, polishing up the
bright parts and examining with infinite patience the innumerable
bearings, their oil-cups and dust-caps. The conversation had naturally
been colored by the pious character of their task, and Prosper had
spoken more unreservedly than was his wont, emboldening Constans to ask
the question recorded above. "Else he were no god," he repeated,
insistently. The old man turned on him.
"And who shall tell us whether he be a god or no?" he demanded, with
startling vehemence. "What manner of divinity can he be who allows these
feeble hands to call him into existence and again to reduce him to
nothingness? A god! This senseless block of iron that lives only at my
will and pleasure. Behold, boy! shall the Shining One suffer indignity
such as this and not worthily avenge himself?" and as he spoke, he
caught up a handful of refuse from the floor and deliberately threw it
at the great dynamo before which they were standing.
"A god!" he reiterated, with contemptuous bitterness, and spat upon the
mass of polished metal.
There was a moment of suspense so real that Constans, despite his
vantage ground of superior knowledge, trembled with an inexplicable
terror. Surely, the outraged divinity had started into life; it was
preparing to strike down the blasphemer.
"Perchance he is on a journey, or he sleeps," said the old priest,
coldly. "He is a wise man who knows in whom he believes, and the Shining
One shall, doubtless, be justified of his children." Then, with a
gesture of indescribable dignity, he drew a corner of his flowing outer
cape across his face and passed out into the gathering shadows of the
winter day.
The task was still unfinished, but not for worlds would Constans have
remained alone in that echoing, wind-swept cavern, surrounded by these
monstrous shapes of metal. Lever and piston, wheel and shaft, the
familiar outlines had disappeared, and in their stead a vast,
indefinable bulk loomed through the dusk. It hung in the background like
a wild beast, eternally watchful and waiting, waiting. Of a sudden,
Constans felt horribly afraid. Stumbling and panting he ran up-stairs
and gained the shelter of his own little room. A fire was smouldering on
the hearth; he blew the log into a flame and lighted every candle upon
which he could lay his hand. Then as mind and body relaxed under the
cheering influence of light and warmth he drew a chair to the fire and
sat down to seriously consider his future course of action. The
situation had forced itself upon him. How was he to grapple with it?
In the first place, here was this tremendous power whose secret he alone
possessed; the day and hour might even now be at hand when he should be
able to wrest this superior knowledge to advantage.
Secondly, there was the question of personal safety, and assuredly it
would be to his interest to be numbered among the accredited servants of
the Shining One. The people might have grown indifferent to the worship
of their ancient gods, but superstition still counselled an outward
measure of respect towards those who wore the priestly garb. Finally,
there was the pressing necessity of putting food into his mouth, a
commonplace but still cogent consideration. Constans had been living on
short rations now for a week past, his provisions were just about
exhausted, and the prospects for the future had caused him no little
anxiety. In the service of the Shining One he would at least be fed. So
he resolved to accept the issue that had been forced upon him: he had
passed his word, and he would keep it until destiny itself absolved him.
Several days later Constans adventured forth, making directly for the
Citadel Square and from thence into the Palace Road. His official garb,
a long black soutane and hood, was a tolerable disguise in itself, while
the emblem of the forked lightning, worked in gold thread upon his left
sleeve, vouched for his sacerdotal character as a member of the
inferior priesthood. The Doomsmen whom he encountered looked at him
with indifference, a very few saluted him with a perfunctory respect. It
was plain that his appearance awakened neither interest nor distrust,
and during the course of his walk he was enabled to add materially to
his stock of knowledge about the city and its defences.
Half way down the Palace Road he overtook a man, a squat,
broad-shouldered fellow, who limped as he walked. Constans would have
brushed by, but the man plucked at his sleeve, and he was forced to stop
and accommodate his pace to that of his interlocutor. A disagreeable
appearing personage, with a crafty face, yet he spoke civilly enough.
"A fair day, master. Eh! but a black cassock's a rare bird nowadays upon
the Palace Road."
"Is it not wide enough for us both?" returned Constans, as easily as he
could.
"Oh, of a most noble broadness; I've no complaint to make on that score.
It's the length of the way that is troubling me just now--this cursed
leg of mine! Might I be so bold to ask the loan of your arm so far as
the fortress? An old sailorman with a sprung spar navigates but badly on
these icy stones."
Constans could do nothing but comply, albeit somewhat ungraciously. His
new acquaintance did not seem to notice his coldness. He went on
volubly:
"A fair day, as I have said, but I should prefer a leaden sky and the
fighting-deck of the Black Swan, with the oars ripping through the
yeast of a north-wester."
"The Black Swan!" ejaculated Constans, forgetting himself for the
moment.
"Ay, master, and I may well curse my luck in missing the chance,"
continued the fellow grumblingly. "There is always fat picking to be had
under that same bird's beak, but this bad knee of mine has kept me out
of it for twice a twelvemonth. Perhaps it might be worth my while," he
added, hesitatingly, "to humble myself before the Shining One. Who knows
but that he might help me, seeing that all the physicians have failed.
How about a quarter of hung venison, my lord, and a gallon or so of the
best apple-wine--just by way of a peace-offering?"
"The Shining One makes no bargains," answered Constans, sternly, in
virtue of his assumed office. "Submit yourself to his will, and then
perchance our lord may deign to hear. He grants his favors to his
obedient children; he sells them to none."
"But, my father----"
"Our ways part here," said Constans, decidedly, for they had now reached
the north gate of the citadel and he was beginning to feel more and more
uncomfortable under those sharp eyes. "Farewell, my son, and remember
that penitence precedes healing, whether of soul or of body."
Constans passed on, and the man stood looking after him with a certain
malevolent curiosity.
"Now so surely as I am Kurt, the Knacker, there is more in this
priestling than meets the eye," he muttered. "Is a blithe young chap,
with such a pair of shoulders, to willingly prefer a black robe to a
velvet jacket, a priest's empire over a score of silly women to a seat
in a trooper's saddle, and the whole green world from which to pick and
choose his pleasures? Bah! it isn't reasonable, and if this knee of mine
will permit me to hobble into the presence of the Shining One some fine
morning I will have another guess at the riddle.
"To-morrow, now, is Friday," he continued, thoughtfully, "and my little
doves have been teasing me to give them an outing. There is the
certainty of a smile or even a kiss from the black-browed Nanna to
recompense my good-nature, and a possible secret hanging in the wind.
Finally, the off chance that the Shining One is not so hopelessly out of
fashion as we have been led to think. In this backsliding age he should
appreciate the honor of my attendance in person, to say nothing of the
venison and the wine." Kurt, the Knacker, laughed silently under his
curtain of black beard, and then stumped over to a bench in the gateway,
sheltered from the wind and open to the sun. There he sat him down and
proceeded to enjoy the pleasures of social converse with the warders on
guard, an occupation pleasingly diversified by an occasional black-jack
of ale and innumerable pipefuls of Kinnectikut shag. A highly respected
man among his fellow-citizens was Kurt, the Knacker.
* * * * *
It was the hour of the weekly sacrifice, and Prosper, the priest, stood
before the altar of the Shining One, performing the uncouth and ofttimes
wholly meaningless ritual of his office. Constans, in his capacity of
acolyte, stood on the right of the altar. He felt out of place and
somewhat ridiculous; he was conscious that he performed his
genuflections and posturing awkwardly, and there were all these women
watching him. Especially the two in the front row, accompanied by the
limping scoundrel to whom he had yesterday lent his arm on the Palace
Road. The one who seemed the elder of the two scanned him with bold,
black eyes, unaffectedly amused by his clumsiness; the other, whose face
was hidden by a veil, looked at him but once or twice, yet Constans felt
sure that she, too, was laughing at him. His position was becoming an
intolerable one. Would the farce never come to an end?
Now the service was over, and one by one the worshippers withdrew. Last
of all the two women, escorted by the man who called himself Kurt, the
Knacker. They passed within arm's-length of Constans, but he made as
though to turn his head away; youth is proverbially sensitive to
ridicule. He noticed, however, that the pilgrimage had not been of
marked benefit to the lame man, for he limped as badly as ever. Then
their eyes met, and Constans felt somewhat uncomfortable at being
favored with a particularly sour smile of recognition. Still he need not
concern himself. It was evident that these people were not true
worshippers; it was mere curiosity that had brought them before the
gates of the Shining One, and now that they had seen the show they were
doubtless satisfied. Let them depart whence they came; it was but a
passing incident.
The snow that covered the ground a week before had nearly disappeared
under the influence of a three-days' warm rain. This morning had given
promise of even more springlike weather, but as the day wore on it had
grown cloudy and the air had turned chill. It had begun to snow again
shortly before the hour of service, and so fast had the flakes come down
that the fall was already over an inch in depth. Constans, turning the
corner into the side-street to get a more extended view of the eastern
sky, suddenly halted to contemplate a curious appearing mark in the pure
white expanse--the imprint of a woman's foot.
It was an exquisitely moulded thing; even the slender arch of the instep
had been preserved in unbroken line and curve, and yet Constans wondered
vaguely why it should seem so beautiful to him. He put out his own foot
and compared the two, laughed, half understood, and was silent.
He went on a little farther, following the successive footprints as they
led down the street. Once his heavy boot half obliterated one of the
delicately marked prints; he backed quickly away, as though his
clumsiness had been an actual offence. Then he knit his brows over the
absurdity of the affair and stopped to consider.
Sophistry suggested that it might be the missing girl, Esmay, and
certainly she who had walked here was the veiled woman of the temple
worshippers; there were the footprints, broader and heavier in
appearance, of her companion, and the halting progress of the
black-chapped ruffian, who had accompanied them, was also plainly
visible. Constans followed the trail at a smart pace, for it was snowing
harder than ever, and it would not take long to obliterate the marks.
But three blocks farther on the three sets of footprints suddenly turned
at right angles to the sidewalk and disappeared.
A mystery whose solution should have been apparent at once from the
wheel-tracks parallel with the curb, but for a minute or two Constans
did not realize their true nature. The ordinary vehicle in use among
the House People was a springless cart, whose wheels were simply
sections of an elm-tree butt, and these primitive constructions creaked
horribly upon their axles, unless liberally greased, and left a track
six inches or more in width. It is not surprising, then, that Constans
was momentarily puzzled by the narrow, delicately lined marks that
betokened the passage of a real carriage. For while Doom contained many
examples of the ancient coach-builder's skill, they were not in general
use. The old Dom Gillian occasionally employed a carriage in taking the
air--at least, so Ulick had told him, but Constans had never seen it.
For all that the check was but a momentary one; his wits had been
sharpened by use, and now they helped him to the truth. He ran on at top
speed.
A course of a mile or more and he was entering a poorer part of the city
a little north of east and close to the shore of the Lesser river. It
was a region of tenement dwellings, a huddle of nondescript buildings,
flanked by huge factories and sprawling coal and lumber yards--an
unpromising region, surely, in which to look for Master Quinton Edge's
particular retreat. And yet it would have marked the subtlety of the man
to have set his secret here, where it would have been at once so easily
seen and overlooked. Every labyrinth has its clew, but the fugitive
walks safely in a crowd.
The wheel-tracks turned sharply to the right, going straight down a side
street to the river-front. On the left were the ruins of one of the
ancient plants for the manufacture of illuminating gas. The yard was
but a wilderness of rusty iron tanks and fallen bricks; surely there
was nothing here to interest.
On the right, however, there was an enclosed area that comprised the
greater part of the block. It was separated from the highway by a brick
wall ten feet in height, and the general level of the ground was
considerably higher than that of the street. Constans could see trees
growing and the ruins of a pergola and trellises for fruit; it actually
looked like a garden, and through the naked branches of the trees there
gleamed the white stuccoed walls of a dwelling-house, with a flat roof,
surmounted by a cupola. The estate, for it possessed certain pretensions
to that title, looked as though it had been transported from some more
favored region and set down all in a piece among these hideous iron
tanks and dingy, cliff-like factories.
Constans quickened his pace; his imagination was on fire. Yes, there was
a gateway, and surely the carriage had passed through but a few minutes
before. Constans halted at the barrier and studied it attentively. It
was snowing hard now, and he ran but small risk of being observed from
the house.
The doors of the driveway were of heavy planking studded with
innumerable bands and rivets, and they were suspended between massive
brick piers. A structure of light open iron-work spanned the gateway and
supported a central lantern, with a coat of arms immediately below it.
The device upon the shield was three roundels in chief and the crest, an
arm holding a hammer.
In the left wing of the gate proper a small door had been cut for
pedestrian use. It had been painted a dark green, the knocker and
door-plate being of brass. Constans by dint of rubbing away some of the
verdigris succeeded in making out the inscription. It read:
ARCADIA HOUSE
RICHARD VAN DUYNE
1803
Actuated by a daring impulse he lifted the knocker and let it fall. The
rat-tat sounded hollowly, but there was no response. Constans looked
longingly at the wall, but without some special appliance, such as a
notched pole or grappling-hooks, it was unscalable. There were no signs
of life to be seen in or about the house. Not a light in any of the
windows or curl of smoke from a chimney-pot. The wheel-tracks leading
through the gateway had already become obliterated by the rapidly
falling snow; the silence was profound. The whole adventure seemed to be
vanishing into thin air; the wheel-tracks having led him into this land
of folly had disappeared after the accustomed fashion of those mocking
spirits whose delight is in leading the unwary traveller astray.
Involuntarily, Constans glanced over his shoulder; he almost expected to
see some shadowy bulk stealing up behind him preparing to make its
spring.
Yet as he retraced his steps to the temple of the Shining One he
resolved that he would pay another visit to Arcadia House. "To-morrow,"
thought Constans, "I may find some one to answer the door."