Gods In Exile
:
The Doomsman
February, and a full three months since Constans had come to Doom. And
yet he was virtually at his starting-point, so little had he been able
to accomplish along the line of his purpose. A dozen times indeed he
might have planted an arrow between the delicately shrugged shoulders of
Master Quinton Edge as he strolled, of a sunshiny morning, along the
Palace Road, surrounded by his little body-guard of flatterers and
po
itical courtiers. But such an act would have stained his honor
without fully satisfying his vengeance; he did not want to strike until
he should know where it would hurt the most.
It had been Ulick always who had stood in the road; Ulick with his
eternal lamentations over the maid Esmay. Together they had searched for
her in every possible quarter. But where was one to look first in this
wilderness of stone? It would have been an obvious procedure to have
kept close watch upon the movements of Quinton Edge, whose complicity
was a matter of reasonable suspicion. But the first attempts at
shadowing him had resulted in nothing, and early in December the Black
Swan, with Quinton Edge himself in command, had left her moorings in
the Greater river, bound doubtless on some piratical expedition.
It was an added aggravation of Constans's impatience that Ulick himself
was ordered away at the end of January. He had been drafted to take part
in a raid, and since the route of the proposed foray led far to the
southward he would probably be absent for a considerable time. It would
take a fortnight's hard riding for the band to reach the distant colony
against which the attack had been planned, and fully six weeks would be
required in which to drive the cattle home. Two full months, then, and
as yet only one had passed; the returning raiders would not cross the
High Bridge much before the first day in April.
As the weeks went heavily on, Constans, in spite of his philosophy,
began to fret and chafe. He could put in a part of each day in the
library poring over his books and digging out the ancient wisdom from
the printed page by sheer force of will. But there always came a time
when only physical exertion would have any effect in dispelling the
mental disquietude that possessed him, and then he would throw aside his
books and walk the empty streets for hours.
The weather continued bad, bitter cold alternating with storms of rain
and sleet. Towards the end of January the snow came in earnest: it lay a
foot deep on the level, and the Doomsmen, after their custom, kept
closely within doors. Constans would occasionally note a few fresh
tracks along the Palace Road, and the smoke that curled steadily from
scattered chimney-pots and the bivouac fires on the Citadel Square might
be taken as evidence that the suspension of social activities was only
temporary. But for the present, at least, Constans had the city to
himself, and he wandered about as he chose without a thought of
possible danger.
An anxiously longed-for discovery was the reward of one of these lonely
excursions. In a shop that had once been devoted to the sale of
fire-arms, Constans found a quantity of ammunition of a caliber that
would fit the chambers of his revolver. The cartridges had been packed
in hermetically sealed cases, presumably for export-shipment or upon a
special order. However that might be, the precaution had prevented the
deterioration of the powder, and the ammunition was consequently, in
condition for use. Constans nerved himself to make the experiment, but
although his studies had made him well acquainted with the theory of the
explosive projectile, he had to summon all his resolution for the actual
pulling of the trigger.
The detonation that followed startled him out of his self-possession. He
dropped the pistol, and was out of the shop and half way across the
street before he could recover himself. Then, ashamed of his cowardice,
he forced himself to pick up the weapon and went forward to examine the
two-inch plank at which he had taken aim. To his astonishment and
delight he saw that a hole had been drilled clean through the solid oak
and the bullet itself was lying on the ground, flattened from its impact
with the masonry behind the planking. All this, let it be said again,
was perfectly familiar to Constans in theory, but its realization in
fact gave him a strange thrill. A score of men armed with these large
caliber pistols, or, better still, rifles, might easily enough compel
the surrender or bring about the destruction of the entire fighting
force of the Doomsmen.
Inspired by this new thought, Constans made a thorough examination of
the stock of arms in the shop. To his disappointment he found most of
the rifles in unserviceable condition, covered with rust and verdigris.
Finally, however, he came across a dozen carbines carefully wrapped and
packed for a prospective shipment across the ocean. Protected by their
heavy coverings the weapons had suffered comparatively little damage,
and Constans spent the best part of a week in cleaning them and getting
the mechanism of their working parts into tolerable order.
Later on, Constans removed the serviceable ammunition, amounting to
several hundred rounds, to a convenient hiding-place in the cellar of a
building fronting on the Lesser or Eastern river, and he also
transported thither the carbines, the latter carefully wrapped in
greased rags to preserve them from dampness. Some day the opportunity
would come to put these things to use. And now, February had passed, and
March was well into its third quarter; in a few more days the returning
sun would cross the line, and spring, the time for action, would be at
hand. How he longed for its advent.
This was the third occasion upon which Constans had noticed that
peculiar noise, a continuous, deep, humming note, such as might have
been made by swarming-bees multiplied a hundredfold. On the day that he
first heard it he happened to be walking three blocks to the westward of
the Citadel Square, and it seemed then that the seat of the mystery lay
almost due south. A week later he happened to be in the same locality.
Once more, those deep-toned vibrations smote upon his ears; now the
sound-waves were all about him and the sense of direction was lost;
again, and they plainly proceeded from somewhere to the eastward. It was
perplexing, but the varying quarter and strength of the wind might be
sufficient to account for the difference, and in one curious particular
the two observations corresponded. The day of the week in each case had
been Friday, and the humming noise had commenced at precisely the same
time--the passing of the sun over the meridian.
To-day was the third successive Friday, and Constans had made
preparations for the careful noting of the phenomenon should it reoccur.
He waited with a lively sense of expectation, and he was not
disappointed. At high noon the humming began again, and it seemed to be
louder than when he had listened to it on the two former occasions--the
air was full of the vibrant droning. There was a sinister quality, too,
in its monotone, and Constans for the moment felt himself swayed by a
gust of superstitious terror. He recalled the traditions current among
the House-dwellers, the belief that Doom was inhabited not only by the
outlaws but by demons of many a grewsome sort and kind. There were
strange tales of lights that lured the wanderer onward, only to vanish
as the victim sank into some frightful abyss; of invisible hands that
plucked at the rash intruder's skirts; of monstrous shapes that leered
and gabbled behind the traveller's back and were only blocks of stone
when he turned to face them; of bloodless creatures that one might meet
in the full flood of day, and whose unearthly character was only to be
proved by observing that they cast no shadow in even the brightest
sunlight; of vampires and ghouls and fair women with enchanting voices,
who enticed their victims into blind passageways and then changed
suddenly to foul, harpy-like monsters. But in this latter case the
foolish one had only himself to blame, for if he kept on the lookout he
could always detect the masquerade by observing the creature's hands.
The harpies could transform themselves in every other way, but their
claws remained unchanged, and they were, consequently, obliged to cover
them with gloves. "Beware the gloved hand," was a familiar aphorism
among the wise women of the West Inch, and Constans, shaken in spite of
himself by the remembrance of these old fables, felt the sweat break out
upon his forehead, for all that the wind blew shrewdly cold.
Yet as he waited and listened and still nothing happened his natural
good-sense reasserted itself. Overhead a glorious winter sun was
shining; as everybody knew, the sirens never sang until after dark, and
assuredly they were accustomed to give a much more artistic performance.
His courage re-established, curiosity asserted her rights; he must
discover the source and nature of this mystery, and so he proceeded
cautiously in the direction from whence it now appeared to come, a
course that led him south by east for perhaps ten of the city blocks.
Constans found himself a short distance below the Citadel Square and in
a quarter of the city that he had never yet explored. Suddenly he came
upon a large building of brick covering a full square in area but only
two stories in height. As he approached the humming noise grew louder
and louder; the secret, whatever it was, lay concealed behind those
common-place-looking walls. Constans held his breath and went forward
slowly.
The street, upon which the main elevation of the building faced was an
unusually wide one, and directly in front of the entrance to the
structure the snow had been cleared away from a circular space whose
diameter was about forty feet. In this enclosure were three women whose
costume, a dark gray cloak and scarlet hood, proclaimed them to be of
the Doomsmen. They were kneeling on the hard pavement, and kept
alternately bowing their foreheads to the ground and then bringing the
upper body to a vertical position, the arms extended and the palms
turned outward. The movements were done in time to the rhythmic throb of
the mysterious humming, and undoubtedly the ceremony possessed some
religious significance.
For perhaps ten minutes Constans stood motionless, watching the scene.
Then, together, the women rose to their feet and approached a rude,
block-shaped structure of stone that apparently served as an altar. Upon
it each in turn laid her gift, some article of food, and immediately
departed. In his eagerness to see what would follow, Constans stepped
boldly around the corner, and so came within the view of a man who had
just made his exit from the building.
It was too late to retreat, and Constans stood his ground, noting that
the stranger seemed equally astonished with himself at the encounter. An
elderly man, to judge by the whitening beard, but his eye was bright and
searching, and there was no hint at superannuation in either port or
movement. He was dressed in a long skirtlike garment of black
cloth--true priest garb--and for a girdle he wore a length of hempen
rope tied in the peculiar and sinister fashion known as the "hangman's
knot." Around his neck, suspended like a priest's stole, hung a steel
chain with pendent manacles or handcuffs that jangled unmusically as he
moved. A grotesque, almost ridiculous figure this priest of the
Doomsmen, but with the first look into the man's face one forgot about
the fantastic garb. A singular contradiction it presented, for the
large, square jaw was indicative of a mind keenly rationalistic, while
the high, narrow forehead assuredly proclaimed the partisan and the
bigot.
It was the elder man who broke the silence.
"The time is long since a man of the Doomsmen has appeared to pay his
vows to the Shining One. You are welcome, my son."
Constans wondered if he had heard aright. Then he remembered that he was
wearing a suit of Ulick's clothes and that his hair was cut after the
Doomsmen fashion. It was a comfortable assurance of the merit of his
disguise that it had passed muster so easily; he had only to guard
against talking too much, and detection was practically impossible. So
he contented himself with what might pass for an obeisance and some
vague words of apology. The priest, however, paid no attention to his
excuses, but continued in a tone of sarcastic bitterness:
"Strange that you should think it worth while to seek a god who is
served only by women. Yet the Shining One seems neither to know nor to
care that the sons of the Doomsmen come no longer into his presence
chamber and bring no gifts to his altar. A god forsaken by his people, a
neglected shrine, a worn-out creed--why, indeed, should any one do
reverence to such things as these? Yet you have come."
"I--my father----" stammered Constans. "There are reasons; I will
explain----"
"It matters not," interrupted the priest, impatiently. "It is enough
that you are here, and, being a man, you have the privilege of the inner
mysteries. And possibly a message may be awaiting you. Come."
He took Constans by the hand and drew him towards the vaulted
entrance-way. There was no reasonable opportunity for protest, and
before Constans was fully aware of what was happening he had been
hurried through the passage and into a large, semi-darkened building
that was filled with the rumble and clank of machinery in rapid motion.
Constans, having recovered from the first surprise and his eyes becoming
accustomed to the obscurity, looked about him with a dawning sense of
comprehension.
In the middle of the hall was installed an enormous piece of machinery,
a vast cylindrical construction revolving at great speed, and Constans
became the more certain of its real nature as he proceeded to examine it
in detail. He recalled the illustrations and diagrams that he had been
poring over only the day before at the library building, and he was sure
that this monster could be nothing else than an electric dynamo, and one
of the very largest size, delivering as high as fifteen thousand
horse-power of potential energy. But how to account for the chance that
had preserved this mightiest of the Old-World forces? What miracle had
been wrought to keep this soulless giant in life through so many years
of darkness and of silence? Constans felt his head spinning; the
consciousness of a fact so tremendous was overwhelming; to save himself
he turned away from the dynamo proper and began looking about for the
source of its mechanical energy. He found it in an odd-appearing motor,
to which the dynamo was connected by the ordinary means of a shaft and
belting.
The engine was simple enough in outward construction. All that could be
seen was an apparatus consisting of two ten-foot tuning-forks of steel
supported on insulated pedestals, and between them a disk of some
unknown composition, mounted in a vertical plane and revolving at
inconceivable velocity. The power was taken from the shaft of this
revolving disk and reduced in speed by means of gear-wheels before being
conveyed to the dynamo. The prongs of the big tuning-forks continued to
vibrate strongly, and gave out in unison the loud, humming note that had
originally attracted Constans's attention. It was undoubtedly, a form of
motor whose power was derived from some secret property of vibratory
bodies, a recondite subject to which his books alluded but obscurely.
Yet in the years immediately preceding the Great Change the principle
seems to have been reduced to practical utility. Here was the engine in
actual operation, and whatever its source of fuel supply or the ultimate
secret of its energy there could be no doubt about its production of
power. It moved, it was alive, and Constans gazed upon it with
fascinated eyes.
The priest had risen to his feet; he touched Constans lightly on the
shoulder.
"The presence chamber," he said, in a whisper. "Come, that you may look
upon the face of the Shining One; he will rejoice in knowing that there
is left even one faithful in Doom."
He opened a door leading to a room at the left of the main hall and
motioned Constans to enter. The door closed behind them and they stood
in darkness. Then came the click of a switch-key, and out of the
blackness faint lines of radiance appeared, changing slowly to a fiery
brightness. And as the lines grew visible they resolved themselves into
the semblance of a great and terrible face, the countenance of a man of
heroic size with long hair. There was no suggestion of a body, only that
majestic head crowned with hyacinthine locks and limned in lambent fire.
Constans felt his knees shaking under him, and involuntarily he
prostrated himself; then again he heard the switch click, and the vision
faded into nothingness.
There was the sound of a shutter being thrown back, and the daylight
streamed in. He rose uncertainly to his feet and looked about him.
It was a small apartment, low-studded, with cement walls and a tiled
floor. Near the door and fastened against the wall was a wooden
framework, bearing a complicated arrangement of push-buttons and levers.
Constans had seen its like pictured in his books, and he instantly
conjectured it to be an electrical switch-board, designed to control and
direct the current generated by the dynamo. On the opposite wall was
suspended a thick sheet of some insulating substance--vulcanite--and
fixed upon it was a net-work of wires in whose outlines he could
distinguish the lineaments of the fiery face. Now he understood; it was
simply a trick, the passing of a strong current of electricity through
platinum wires until they became incandescent.
The recognition of those material agencies for the production of the
apparition that had so terrified him gave Constans back his confidence;
his books had not deceived him, and he was ready now for any fresh
marvels that might be on the cards. But the attitude of the priest
puzzled him. Was he really the charlatan, the trickster that he seemed?
Was it not equally simple to regard him as the self-deluded votary? He
could not decide.
"You have looked upon the face of the Shining One," said the old man,
breaking the silence. "Now behold his throne; perchance he will accord
you the honor of sharing it with him."
In the middle of the apartment stood the only piece of furniture proper
that it contained, a massive oaken chair, with a head-piece, upon which
was fastened a metal plate. On the arms of the chair were copper clips,
the size of a man's wrist, and all the points of contact were supplied
with cups containing sponges. Again Constans understood. It was only
necessary to dampen these sponges to ensure a perfect discharge of the
electrical current passing through the head-rest and the metal
wrist-clips. Constans shuddered, and this time with reason; he knew
enough of the science to realize that the slightest contact with those
enormously charged electrodes must be fatal.
The priest went to the switch-board, and, after a series of
genuflections and the mumbling of what might have been an invocation, he
turned a lever. Constans stepped back hastily.
"Now is the Shining One come upon his throne. Take your seat at his side
if you would put his divinity to the proof. Or else be content to serve
him in silence and singleness of heart, even as I."
Constans guessed acutely that the full current from the dynamo must be
passing through the metal framework of the great chair; he moved a
little farther back and stood on guard. There was a glitter in the old
man's eye that was disquieting, and Constans did not relish the idea of
a hand-to-hand struggle in this contracted space with these
wicked-looking wires running in every direction. One of them had been
broken, and from the dangling end, which hung close to a metal
wall-bracket, a continuous stream of sparks fizzed and spluttered.
"I am content," he said, quietly.
The priest smiled grimly. "Yet it is a pity that your doubts are not of
a more stubborn growth, for it is many a year since the Shining One has
taken a man to his arms. Of a truth, the ancient faith has failed
miserably among the children of the Doomsmen, and I alone of all his
priests remain to serve our lord."
There was silence, the old man remaining apparently absorbed in his
bitter reverie. Constans had been growing more and more uncomfortable,
and this seemed to be his opportunity to escape. He edged towards the
door. Now the metal knob of the door handle was within reach; he grasped
it, and received a severe electric shock. Unable to master his startled
nerves, he gave utterance to a cry of pain. The priest turned quickly, a
frosty smile upon his lips.
"The sentinels of the Shining One are faithful to their duty," he said,
quietly. He touched a push-button, and Constans was at last able to let
go of that innocent-looking door-knob; he fell to rubbing his arm
vigorously in order to relieve the contracted muscles. What a ridiculous
figure he had made of himself, he thought, vexedly.
"My son."
There was a new note in the old man's voice, an inflection almost
kindly, and Constans wondered.
"Nothing happens of itself," continued the priest, "and it was more than
chance that led you thither. Surely, the Shining One has been mindful of
his own, for I am an old man and my days are numbered. Therefore, has he
sent you, my son, that to you I may commit the secrets of his power and
worship. Then shall I ascend in peace upon the knees of the Silent One,
knowing that his honor is safe in your hands. What say you?"
Constans realized that he was in a difficult position; nay more, that he
was absolutely at the mercy of his new acquaintance. There was no means
of exit save by the one door, and he had no desire for a second trial of
strength with the electric current. The old priest might be ignorant of
the real nature of the forces under his control, but certainly he was
well provided with practical formulas for their exploitation, as witness
the illuminated face and the electrically charged door-knob. Constans
understood that he was in a trap, where even to come into contact with
the walls of his prison-house might mean death. There was but one thing
to do, and that was to surrender.
"I will serve the Shining One," he said, quietly.
"You have chosen well, my son," returned the old man. "Now a fool would
never have understood that a net may be none the less strong for being
invisible, and our lord does not love to speak twice. You have heard
and you have obeyed; it is good."
He stepped to the switch-board, and, after going through a series of
genuflections, accompanied by an undertone of carelessly gabbled ritual,
he depressed a lever. Instantly the room was in darkness and the
spluttering wire ceased its crackling. The priest passed into the great
hall, motioning Constans to follow him. Another brief and
incomprehensible ritual and he approached the vibratory motor. Constans
watched intently as he proceeded to manipulate a series of polished rods
and levers. Suddenly the loud, humming note separated into two distinct
tones, at first in musical accord and then becoming more and more
dissonant. The revolving disk slowed down and stopped, and with it the
dynamo came finally to rest. The hour of worship had come to an end; the
Shining One had departed from his sanctuary.
At the suggestion of his ecclesiastical superior Constans brought within
doors the offerings of food that had been left by the earlier
worshippers. There were some dry cakes, baked of rye flour, a pot of
honey, cheese, milk, and two bottles of wine. These provisions he was
ordered to carry to a room on the story above the street, where a fire
of sea-coal burned cheerfully in a brazier. Here they sat down and
feasted amicably together, for the frosty air had put a keen edge to
appetite and the noon hour was long overpast. And then as they sat at
ease after the meal and the old man was well started on his second pipe,
Constans came directly to the point.
"If I am to serve the Shining One acceptably," he said, "there are many
things that I should know. May I speak, my father?"
The priest looked at him searchingly. "As you will," he replied.
All through the afternoon and deep into the night they talked earnestly
together. And so, from time to time, in the days that were to follow,
for it was a question of many things, and of some that were hard of
understanding.