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."



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