Collected Fiction, page 66
CHAPTER X
THE PEOPLE OF THE PYRAMID
GRIMLY Mason guided the ship forward. The tensile strength of the craft he did not know, but he suspected that under the ant’s chitinous armor it was fragile. In this he was wrong.
A blow of the monster’s wing crashed against the ship, sent it whirling, hurling Mason and Alasa from their feet. He caught a glimpse of the tower rushing toward him, managed to drag himself upright against the controls. With scarcely a foot to spare the vessel looped around, went driving back toward the winged colossus.
The creature came to meet them. In the last moment before impact Mason’s fingers stabbed at the panel, attempting to change the course. But he was too late. With a grinding, frightful impact winged monster and time-ship came together—catastrophically.
Mason was hurled back, his fingers raking blindly over the control keys. He had a flashing vision of the ant’s shattered body plummeting to the plain below, and then intense blackness was all around him. Something thudded against his head, and in his last second of consciousness Mason realized what the darkness meant. The ship, unguided, was racing through time!
Only for a moment, it seemed, was Mason out. Groaning with the pain in his throbbing head, he lifted himself to his feet and fumbled blindly in the darkness for the controls. Then, suddenly, he realized that the gloom was not complete. Through the ship’s transparent walls he saw a star-bright sky above, and an uneven black wall around, apparently a rampart of trees. The ship lay tilted perilously on its side. He saw a pale blotch in a corner, Alasa’s face.
He could not aid her while she lay on the sharply-slanting floor. Mason opened the port, managed to scramble out, half carrying Alasa. Underfoot was a layer of humus, half-rotted vegetation with a dank, musky odor. The air was uncomfortably hot and moist.
Fumbling in the starlight, Mason tried to revive the girl. She sat up eventually, clinging to him, rubbing a bruise on her shoulder.
“That ant—where are we, Kent? Did we find Erech and Murdach?”
“I guess not,” Mason told her. “Apparently the time-controls were accidentally moved when we hit the giant ant. We’ve probably come through time to this sector, and crashed while we were unconscious. It’s sheer luck that we didn’t have our necks broken. I guess the ground surface is higher here than in the future-time—that may account for it.”
“But where are we?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I don’t think we went forward—this thick forest, and the heat, indicates a past era. I hope it isn’t the Cretaceous. I’d hate to meet a tyrannosaur.”
“What’s that?” the girl asked, her eyes wide.
“A—a dragon. The name means thunder lizard. But—”
And then the attack came. Mason had heard no noise in the underbrush. But out of the forest dark figures came charging. There was no warning. Before Mason had a chance to brace himself he went down, a dozen wiry bodies swarming over him—and then fire burst in the back of his head. Red fire that was swallowed up by abysmal blackness . . .
He awoke in the dimness of what seemed to be a crudely-built hut. Warm sunlight slanted through the doorway; a human shadow—shadow of a guard—darkened the floor. Mason shook his head, groaning. He heard a low, muffled chanting.
And—recognized it! In his archeological work, probing into the far corners of the globe, Mason had acquired a sound knowledge of little-known dialects. He had heard similar sounds, long ago, floating down a South American river in a hollow log dugout, his arm throbbing and festering with the wound of an arrow.
Had he, by some incredible chance, returned to his own time-sector?
THE doorway darkened. Men filed in, near-naked little men, with brown, muscular bodies. They were grotesquely painted, and feathers nodded and waved in their hair. Chanting, they freed Mason’s legs. Leathern thongs, he realized, still bound his wrists.
Hesitatingly Mason spoke, trying to remember that alien dialect of years ago.
“I am—a friend—”
A native struck his mouth. “Silence!” The word was oddly accented, but recognizable. “You are to watch, not to speak.”
Again the chant rose.
“Hear our prayers, O Thunderer! Hear the prayers of the Curupuri—”
The natives urged him outside the hut. Mason blinked, accustoming his eyes to the strong sunlight. He stared around.
The towering walls of a crater marched on the horizon. Black basalt ramparts hemmed them in. To the east was a jagged gap, apparently a pass. At their feet the ground sloped down to the motionless, sullen waters of a lake.
No wind ruffled its surface. Dark, enigmatic, it filled the crater, save for the narrow strip of land on which the native village stood. The score of flimsy huts were in curious contrast to the stone pyramid that stood on the lake’s shore.
Mason was pushed toward it. Its shadow fell on him. It was perhaps thirty feet high, built of huge blocks of stone, without mortar. In one side was a gaping aperture. Into this the white man was conducted.
A short passage, and then a room, half underground—a temple, Mason realized. Amazement lanced through him. At one end of the chamber was a raised dais, on which stood a chair—a throne, gleaming dully in the light of torches. A golden throne, jewel studded!
Its build was suggestive of Incan workmanship. Yet these brown-skinned natives were not Incas. Perhaps Incas had built this pyramid, and had been killed by the invading tribe—the Curupuri, as they called themselves, Mason hazarded.
This was the past, he knew. A time perhaps long before Columbus had reached the Indies, certainly prior to the coming of the Spanish Conquistadores.
On the throne a corpse sat. A mummy, withered and shrunken and dry, in whose eye-sockets glowed two flaming rubies. Golden breast-plates and a girdle of gold hung loosely on the skeletal figure.
Beside the throne stood a native girl, her amber body scarcely hidden by a translucent feathery cape, through which alluring curves were visible. Her sullen eyes brooded on the white man.
On the walls were heads. Smaller than cocoanuts, shrunken by some secret process that preserved flesh and features, their multitude almost hid the rough stones. Natives’ heads, all of them.
The chanting grew louder. A dozen gaudily-painted Curupuri filed into the chamber. Among them was Alasa. For a moment her golden eyes met Mason’s.
“Kent!” she cried. “They—”
A guard clapped a rough hand over her mouth. Cursing, Mason wrenched at his bonds. His captors held him, silent and impassive.
The Curupuri took the girl up to the dais, clamped golden rings about her ankles. From the throng a dwarfish native stepped to stand beside the girl. His face was hideous with paint. From a bald, shaved head white feathers nodded, set in a jewel-studded headdress. The man lifted his hand, and the noise quieted.
From the Curupuri came a great shout.
“Zol!”
The native girl stepped forward. Mason read hatred in her eyes as she glanced at the dwarfish Zol.
Again came the deep-throated roar.
“Yana! Ho—Yana!”
Zol threw back his head, the white feathers bowing. He cried, “The Thunderer looks with favor upon us.”
HE pointed to the withered corpse on the throne.
“For years she has sat there, ruling the Curupuri in death. Since she lived we have found no girl with a skin white enough to be our priestess. So Yana has served—”
He glanced slyly at the priestess beside him.
“But now her toil has ended. From the skies has fallen a maiden with a skin white as foam. Almost we slew her—but the Thunderer stayed my stroke.”
From the Curupuri came a roaring chant.
“Ho! Dweller in the Abyss, Dark Thunderer—hear us!”
The girl Yana cried, “Hear our prayers! Drink—eat of our sacrifice!” Her red lips were cruel.
“Lord of the Lake!” thundered the Curupuri. “Look on our sacrifice!”
Then silence, heavy and ominous. Yana said, “The priestess must be unblemished.” Her voice was sweetly malicious.
Zol nodded, turned to Alasa. His hands went out, ripping the tattered cloak from her. A gasp went up from the natives.
The girl stood nude. Her bronze hair spilled in a tumbled mass on bare shoulders. Instinctively her hands went up in an attempt to cover herself.
Zol shouted laughter as he gazed at the nude girl, at the sweeping curves of her body, flawless in its beauty. Then the priest tore the feather cloak from Yana and cast it about Alasa’s shoulders.
Nausea tore at Mason’s throat as he saw the body of the priestess, naked save for a brief loincloth. From neck to ankles she had been tattooed. Red and blue designs circled the mounds of her breasts, fled across her rounded hips. Understanding of the months of agony the girl must have endured made Mason feel suddenly sick.
The shouting died. Zol chanted, “She is unmarred—perfect! Tonight the testing begins. The mark of the Thunderer shall be put upon her.”
The mark of the Thunderer? Alasa shuddered, drew the translucent cloak closer. In the eyes of Yana, Mason saw a red blaze of rage. Her lashes drooped, she turned away.
The Curupuri closed about Mason. Vainly struggling, he was forced from the temple, taken back to the hut. There, legs once more bound, he was left alone.
The afternoon dragged on. Occasionally the guard would enter to test the captive’s bonds. Though Mason tried to engage in conversation with the man, he met with no success. Perhaps the Curupuri were forbidden to converse with their prisoners.
Just after sunset Mason heard voices outside the hut, and presently Yana, the priestess, entered. Two natives were at her heels.
One was the guard. He freed Mason’s feet, and with the other Curupuri, left the hut. The priestess knelt beside Mason.
In the dimness the disfiguring tattooing was invisible, and Mason could see only the smooth curves of the girl’s body, scarcely hidden by thin cloth. She said softly, “The guard is gone. I told him Zol wished him to hunt in the forest. And the other who waits without—is my friend.”
Mason stared at her. Fumbling with the Curupuri dialect, he said, “One has need of friends here.”
She nodded. “It is true. I—would like to save the white girl?”
“Yes!” Mason said swiftly. “Will you help me?”
“Perhaps.”
“Why?” He did not entirely trust this girl in whose eyes murderous rage sprang so easily.
“In your place I should not hesitate. You are strangers, I know that. You are not gods, as some said, else you would not be bound and helpless now. Whence you come I do not care, so long as you leave here swiftly.”
“The—the place where we were captured. Is it far from here?”
“NO. You saw the gap in the mountains—the pass? It is not far, just beyond that. You can reach it in a fourth part of a day. And as for why I shall help you—it is because the white girl will take my place! For years a pale-skinned priestess of our tribe has ruled us. When the last one died I took her place. Zol did not like that—for I would not always obey him. Now he sees a chance to depose me and gain a puppet priestess . . . I would kill this white girl, but it would be sacrilege. I would be tortured . . . but if you escape with her, it will be different.”
“Then untie me,” Mason said, his voice eager.
The girl bent down, her hair brushing Mason’s face. “But you must not fail! For there is another way—” Again the mad rage flared in her eyes. “I have been the priestess of the Thunderer for more than a year. And I have learned much—the words of power that call the Dark Lord from the lake.” Her tone was brooding. “I had it in mind to use those words. Once before it was done, ages ago, and the Dweller rose from the depths. The Curupuri died—all but a few, who fled.”
She shrugged, and her knife flashed, slicing through the last thongs that bound Mason. He stretched cramped muscles.
“Tell me,” he said curiously, “have you ever seen any white men not of your tribe? Like me?”
“No. Never. I did not think any existed. Our priestesses had golden skin, not as white as yours.” She watched Mason speculatively. “You must wait. It will be dark soon. If you leave the hut now you will be killed.”
The hard anger was gone from Yana’s eyes; they were strangely tender. “You are not like the Curupuri. And—since I became a priestess—I have not known—love . . .”
Suddenly her arms were about Mason’s neck, her breath hot against his cheek as she strained against him. Mad torrents of passion seemed unleashed in the priestess. She whispered softly, “I have not known love. And—”
Mason tried to free himself. The girl drew back, her face hardening. She said, “No? Remember—you have not freed the white girl yet. If I should summon aid—”
Mason grinned wryly. Then Yana was in his arms once more. It was not easy to resist—no! Under the thin cloth of her garment he felt the alluring curves of her body.
Shrugging, Mason bent his head, touched the girl’s lips. He did not draw back. The moist inferno of her mouth quickened his pulses. Within the priestess was the hot soul of flame, breath of the searing Zonda that blows across the pampas—hungry passion that surged through Mason like a rushing tide.
She shuddered, moaned. A noise came from outside the hut. Instantly Yana pulled away, a finger at her lips.
“Wait . . .”
She disappeared outside. Mason heard her voice raised in dispute with a deeper one; then the two died slowly in the distance. He crept to the entrance, peered out. No one was visible nearby, though a few Curupuri moved aimlessly about the village in the distance. The sun was already low.
He would not have to wait long.
Two hours later it was dark enough to make the venture. The guard had not returned. He slunk out of his prison. The moon had just risen, and he kept in the shadows of the huts. A heavy club discarded by a dying fire caught his eye, and he confiscated it.
He moved toward the pyramid, a muffled chanting waking ominous apprehensions within him. He caught a glimpse of motion on the summit, and he thought he saw Alasa’s bronze hair, though he could not be sure.
Glancing aside at the lake, Mason involuntarily shuddered. What had Yana said? A Thunderer in the depths—a monster-god to whom the Curupuri sacrificed. In this dawn of history, could some strange survival actually exist beneath those sullen waters? Even in his day there had been legends of the South American swamps and jungles . . .
CHAPTER XI
BLOOD ON THE PYRAMID
MASON halted near the base of the pyramid. On the structure’s flat top gleamed a golden throne, and on it was the mummified corpse of the former priestess. In the moonlight Mason saw Zol, the squat priest, standing there, and beside him a group of other natives.
And Alasa was there, wearing the feather robe, in the grip of two natives. The low chant grew louder. Abruptly Zol turned, removed the breast-plates and girdle from the corpse, and lifted the mummy from the throne. He swung the body thrice around his head—sent it arcing down till the black waters of the lake broke in a silvery spray.
The mummy floated briefly; then there was a brief commotion, and the thing was dragged down. It vanished. The chanting swelled to a triumphant roar.
Mason moved forward cautiously, the cudgel in his hand, as Zol lifted the feather cape from Alasa’s bare shoulders. She stood nude in the moonlight, a glorious statue of loveliness. Vainly she struggled as she was dragged to the throne, seated within it, her arms and legs bound securely. Zol beckoned, and a Curupuri came forward, a deep bowl in his hands.
Others advanced, bearing a long pole to which a native was bound. A great shout thundered out.
From the shadows men came—the Curupuri tribe, thronging about the base of the pyramid, watching the drama being enacted on its summit. Mason drew back, his fingers whitening on the club.
Zol’s hand moved swiftly. A bubbling scream of agony came from the captive. Blood fountained from his throat. Deftly the priest thrust the bowl beneath the gaping wound, filled the vessel.
The men on the pyramid were silent—waiting. Zol dipped his hands into the bowl, lifted them dripping red. He smeared the blood on Alasa’s nude body, till from neck to ankles her slender form gleamed crimson. He lifted the knife again, lowered it gently. Its point touched Alasa’s bare stomach.
The girl cried out sharply. This, Mason guessed, was the beginning of the tattooing ceremony. For months thereafter Alasa would endure the frightful torture of sharp knives, of agonizing pain of pigments rubbed into the raw wounds till her body was covered, like the priestess’, with fantastic designs.
Again the knife came down. Again Alasa cried out—a soft, frightened cry that sent red madness surging into Mason’s brain.
He lifted the cudgel as he sprang forward. A line of natives barred him from the pyramid, but he broke through the Curupuri with a murderous sweep of his weapon that sent a man sprawling, head smashed into pulp. Shouting, Mason sprinted forward.
Behind him he heard a deep-throated roar. He ignored it, racing up the rough stones of the pyramid that offered easy foothold. On the summit men were milling about, staring down, their weapons drawn. Before they could organize he was among them.
He saw a snarling face, pale in the moonlight, looming up before him—and swung the club. The man went down, screaming.
“Take him!” Zol shouted. “Take him—alive!”
Then suddenly the priest was racing forward, a spear in his hand, arm drawn back for the throw. Mason sent the cudgel spinning at his opponent.
His aim was true. The missile crashed into Zol’s face, obliterating the brown features in a smear of blood. Red spurted from the man’s flattened nose. Screaming, he went down.
But already a dozen Curupuri were on Mason; grimly he slugged and kicked and clawed. A bare foot kicked viciously at his face. He twisted his head away in time to avoid the blow.
