Collected Short Fiction, page 154
Price rose to greet her. She saluted him as Iru, inquired about his health, and seated herself upon a cushioned sofa. The girls—Price was not yet certain whether they were servants or jailers—retired discreetly.
“One thing I must tell you,” Price began, rather abruptly, anxious not to sail under false colors. “You called me Iru. I’m not. My name is Price Durand. I was born on the other side of the world.”
Deliberately, the greenish, oblique eyes studied his face, his lean, muscular limbs. Price, still feeling the lassitude of convalescence, sat down opposite the golden woman.
“You are Iru, king of Anz,” Vekyra said calmly, at length. “For I knew the ancient Iru well—who better? You are he. It makes no difference that you have been born again, and in a far land.”
“You knew him, then?” Price asked, conversationally. He felt a keen interest in the old ruler for whom he had been several times mistaken. And he was determined not to show any awe of Vekyra.
“You have forgotten me? Then I shall tell you the story of the ancient Iru, for it is only the beginning of the same story that we are living now—you and I, and Malikar and Aysa.”
At the girl’s name, Price started visibly.
Vekyra smiled obliquely, murmured: “Ah, I see you remember her.”
“I know a girl of that name,” admitted Price.
He tried to make his tone impersonal, but the woman must have caught some hint of his feeling, for her oval face went suddenly hard with hate.
“Aysa, like you, is born again!” she hissed. “Again we are all four together, to finish the story that started when Anz was young.”
The passion went from her golden face as quickly as it had come, and she settled her lithe, gleaming body among the cushions, and flung back the rich, glinting masses of her hair.
“When I was a girl—and not yet my blood golden—Iru was king of Anz. The people loved him, because he was handsome and strong, famous for his courage and his skill with his golden ax. And you are he!”
Price shook his head.
“You have his lean, tall figure, his blue eyes, his red hair—and those are rare indeed among our people. More, I know your face!
“Anz was great then, her people millions. The creeping drift-sands were yet far off. The rains came every winter; the lakes and reservoirs were always full, the crops and pastures plenty.
“Then there were no golden beings save the snake. The snake has lived in the mountain since before the dawn of man. It sometimes came out, through a cave, to hunt. The people of Anz thought it a god—for the strange fascination of its eyes—and built a temple to it below the mountain.
“In the time of Iru, Malikar was priest of the snake. A bold man he was, and a seeker of wisdom. As many priests do, he knew the truth about his god. He went back into the cave, and found the abyss of golden vapor, which rises from the fires of inner earth, turning all things that breathe it into deathless gold.
“The snake was but a common reptile that had made its lair within the mountain, and breathed the mist. No more god than any snake. Malikar made tests, and found the secret of the golden blood.
“Now you—or Iru—were a warrior and a hunter. You knew not the secret of the snake, but you held that it was an evil thing. You decreed that the toil and the lives of the Beni Anz should be paid it in sacrifice no longer. You ordered the priests to leave their temple. For this Malikar hated you, and resolved to destroy you, to make his god supreme and rule as both priest and king.
“Yet another quarrel had you and the priest. I, Vekyra, as I said, was then a young woman, a princess of Anz, and not golden, as you see me now. You loved me. You said, then, that I was beautiful. We were betrothed to marry. And Malikar desired me also.
“Iru led his soldiers to the temple. The priests fled before his golden ax. He destroyed the temple and sealed the snakes cavern.
“Malikar fled when he saw the battle was lost, left the other priests. By a secret way he went into the mountain, and far down into the golden mist. There he slept for many days, until the golden vapor had penetrated his body, changed its tissues to strong and deathless gold.
“Now the girl Aysa was a slave. I bought her from traders of the north, for a tiring-maid. One day Iru saw her, and wanted her. Now since we were to marry, I was not pleased. I told him he might have the girl—if he would exchange for her a tamed tiger.
“While Malikar lay sleeping in the golden mist, Iru rode into the mountains and fought a tigress and brought back its cub. He tamed it and brought it to me, so I was forced to give him the slave, Aysa. But better for him had he kept his beast!”
Green, slanted eyes flamed.
“Malikar lay in the mountain until he was a man of gold. Then he led out the snake, and went among the desert clans that dwelt beyond Anz, to preach his new religion. He said he had died, and been born again—delivered of the snake, with a body of gold.
“The desert folk believed him. For was his body not golden, and so strong he let them hew it with swords? Malikar led them against Anz, the snake with him, to freeze men with the chill of its eyes.
“But you were a great warrior. You gathered the cattle and the tillers of fields inside the walls. Then you went out, with your warriors and Korlu, your ax, and scattered the desert men back into the waste.
“But Malikar and the snake you could not slay, for they were gold. You could only return to Anz, and dose the gates against them.
“Then Malikar resolved to use cunning. He sent the snake back into the mountain. Painting his golden body, to make it the color of a man’s—as he yet does, when he goes out into the world—he slipped back into Anz, to murder you.
“But you were surrounded by your warriors, and the great ax was always with you. Malikar could not approach you secretly.
“THEN he found a new plan. He went to Aysa, the slave. How he won her, I do not know. Perhaps with the promise of gold, which was plenty in the cave of the snake. Perhaps with fear of the snake-god. Or it may be that his kisses were enough.
“Aysa put his poison in your bowl, and you drank it with your wine. You died. But the slave gained little by her treason. Iru tasted the poison, and knew what she had done, and slew her with the ax before he fell.
“Then Malikar stood forth as the man of gold and the avenger of the snake. Leaderless, the Beni Anz bowed down before him. They sent an offering of many slaves to the snake, and Malikar ruled them, priest and king.
“With the many slaves, Malikar hewed a new temple in the heart of the mountain, down in the very mist of gold.
“When Iru was dead, Malikar took me by force into the mountain, and left me sleeping in the yellow vapor until I was gold. He would have made me his slave for ever. But the tame tiger cub, that Iru had caught for the slave-girl’s sake, followed me into the mountain.
“There the sleep fell upon it, and it also woke an animal of gold. Malikar could not kill it, and it still loved me, and served me. And year by year it grew larger—perhaps because it was not grown when it slept—until even the snake fears it.
“That is the story of the golden folk.”
Price sat in silent wonder. He did not believe in reincarnation; but neither did he disbelieve. He knew that hundreds of millions hold it as the basis of their religion.
Vekyra’s story was interesting. It had a strange plausibility. It seemed to explain much at which he had wondered, He was willing to admit it as possibly true—all of it save that Aysa was the avatar of a murderess.
Vekyra glided up from her couch, and across the rugs to Price. She leaned on the arm of his chair, her perfumed tresses falling like a torrent of ruddy flame across his shoulders, her slim, green-clad body nearly touching him.
“That is the story, Iru. And a hundred generations I have lived in this palace of Verl that Malikar built for me, enduring a life without love that had no mercy of death—waiting for you, my Iru!
“Many times I have longed to leap into the golden abyss. But I knew that some time you would be born again, my Iru, and come back to me—even though new lands rose from the sea, and new deserts barred your way.”
The golden woman slipped down beside Price, her warm body vibrant against his own. Her slim yellow arms went around him, soft and yet strong. She lifted her enigmatic, oval face, greenish eyes burning, reddened lips parted in avid invitation.
A moment he hesitated, almost shrinking from her. Then the burning promise of her swept him away. He inclined toward her, flung his arm around her slender body. Her hot lips came up to his, clinging, hungry—and their touch plunged him into white, delicious flame.
24. Mirrors of Mirage
WHEN Vekyra was gone, Price felt disturbed and a little guilty thinking of Aysa. But the golden woman had certainly saved his life, he reflected. A few kisses were not too much to pay.
He might have found other excuses for his moment of surrender to the golden beauty. Her good offices appeared the only possible means of Aysa’s rescue—and a very doubtful means, Vekyra hating the unfortunate girl as she evidently did, Vekyra’s displeasure would mean a speedy and probably permanent return to the dungeons of Malikar. But, honest with himself, Price admitted that no such consideration had occurred to him during that flaming moment in Vekyra’s arms.
Next morning, when Price had breakfasted, he went for a stroll about the palace, escorted by four of his female retinue, who wore their golden jambiyahs. As he strode ahead of them through magnificent gardens and among gold, and marble colonnades, his eye was alert for some opportunity to escape.
He had resolved to leave Verl, if that could be done. Vekyra, certainly, would not willingly or knowingly aid him in Aysa’s rescue. He suspected that the golden woman had questionable designs upon himself. But escape seemed a hopeless thing, unarmed as he was, and ceaselessly watched by the snake-branded women.
“Effendi Duran’!”
The hail, in a familiar voice, startled him. Turning, he saw the sheikh Fouad el Akmet approaching along an avenue of palms. The old Bedouin was unarmed, and beside him, familiarly close, tripped one of Vekyra’s girls, crooked jambiyah at her waist.
“Peace be upon you, O sheikh,” Price greeted him, and walked to meet him. “You are also the guest of Vekyra?”
The old Arab drew Price apart from the warrior-girls, and whispered through his scraggy black beard:
“Aywa, Sidi!” He looked cautiously at the waiting girls, with his shifty black eyes. “Three days ago the Hotveja Jacob Garth sent me to scout toward the mountain, with my men. The evil golden woman-djinni, who rides the golden tiger, came upon us suddenly. Three of my men the tiger killed. And she brought me to this castle of Eblis.”
The old sheikh glanced behind him again, lowered his voice further.
“But yet I may escape. The woman with me, she knows a man.” He leered fatuously. “Nazira is her name. Last night she promised to aid me. I know my way with the women, eh?”
Price grinned at the old man. Fouad whispered again:
“Effendi, when the time comes, will you go with me? Bismillah! I like not to be alone in this land of ’ifrits!”
“Yes,” Price assured him, though he was none too confident of the old Arab’s ability to seduce his jailer, and still less confident that, even with the woman’s aid, escape would be successful.
THE Bedouin turned away, leering familiarly at the waiting girl. Price, with his escort, moved on, amid the splendors of Verl.
Presently Vekyra overtook him, upon the tiger. She made the golden beast crouch beside him, extended a slim yellow arm.
Vekyra had exchanged her green garments for a close-fitting tunic of luminous violet, that shimmered metallically when her lithe body moved. Her ruddy hair, fastened back with a broad band of the same material, assumed a glowing brilliance against it.
“Iru,” she said, “I wish you to ride with me this morn, upon the mirage.”
“Upon the mirage?”
“Yes. I am the mistress of the illusion. You have seen it. A secret of ancient Anz. The old wise men mastered the laws of illusion, contrived mirrors—and other forces—to rule the mirage.”
“How——”
“You shall see, in the hall of illusion.” She spoke to the tiger, and the gigantic cat, which wore neither bridle nor halter, swung rapidly away, along a magnificent colonnade of white marble and gold.
The woman arranged the cushions in the howdah and drew Price down beside her. The swaying of the beast threw him against her, so that he felt the lithe, warm strength of her body, caught the heavy, intoxicating perfume of her hair.
The tiger carried them into the central pile of the castle, and up a spiral ramp, that ascended, Price knew, into the great middle tower of shimmering gold. Through unglazed openings in the walls he glimpsed the white and gold wings of the building, and below, the grim, limitless sea of dark desert, blue in the haze of heat.
At last they entered a strange hall, at the very summit of the tower. From the end of the sloping way the tiger stepped silently and cautiously out upon a vast mirror, an unbroken sheet of crystal that formed the floor.
Price gazed about in amazement at the hall of illusion. Not only its floor was crystal. The walls were mirrors, oddly shaped, strangely curved. Reflecting one another, they gave deceptive impressions of limitless vistas of mirrored halls, made it impossible to tell the actual size of the room. Half the roof was open to the turquoise sky, half a brilliant plane of flawless crystal.
A thousand times—ten thousand times—in mirror-walls and floor and ceiling, Price saw reflections of himself and Vekyra upon the tiger. Infinitely the image was repeated, sometimes looking gigantic, sometimes diminished almost to invisibility.
Vekyra reached out her hand and touched a little cluster of five tiny disks. Price had not seen them before; they seemed suspended in space beside the tiger. Actually, he realized, they projected through a sheet of crystal beside them, polished to the perfection of invisibility.
Vekyra pressed a crimson stud. Beneath, Price heard the even throb of concealed machinery. The mirrors shifted, spun; reflections swam disturbingly within them.
The thousand images of the tiger fled away astoundingly. A single level floor of blue, shimmering crystal reached out in all directions, to infinity. Away across that bright plain raced the reflections of the tiger, shrank to tiny dark points, vanished.
Only the blue light of the sky was mirrored in the crystals; Price felt oddly as if the tiger were suspended in a blue and vacant void.
Vekyra touched a green disk. The shrill whine of another hidden mechanism rose about them. The air was suddenly charged, tense. Price sniffed the pungence of ozone, knew that powerful electric forces must be discharging about them.
“Watch!” cried Vekyra. “The bending of light, the birth of illusion!”
Price saw black points come into the mirrors, where their reflection had vanished; saw the points expand into dark lines of far horizons; scraps of distant desert, swimming swiftly nearer, so that he saw first blue haze above, then undulating ranks of yellow-red dunes; queer patches of desert; snatches of sand and sapphire sky. All mingled fantastically in a crazy-quilt of illusion, swiftly expanding, rushing nearer.
Abruptly, it all took form. The scraps of desert merged into a whole. Seemingly hundreds of feet below, a heavy slope of loose sand reared its barren yellow-red crest. Away to hot, shimmering world-rims rolled crescent dunes.
The illusion was incredibly real.
Price could see his own body, the golden woman beside him in the cushioned howdah . . . and far below, the sand-desert. The mountain, the dark surrounding lava flows, had vanished.
Vekyra smiled at him, as if in malicious delight at his amazement, and pressed a yellow disk. Then, though Price, of course, had no sensation of physical motion, the desert seemed to race beneath them. Vast, sun-glinting salt-pans flashed beneath, like snow-clad lakes. Yellow outcroppings of limestone. Barren plains of flint and clay. Black lava fields.
Price reached out an exploring hand toward the clustered disks. Where his eyes saw only empty air, his fingers met polished crystal. A queer, tingling shock made his arm jerk back involuntarily.
“Beware,” warned Vekyra. “All the tower is charged with the power that bends down the light And you are not immortal—yet.”
She touched a green stud. And Price, looking over the howdah’s edge again, saw that they seemed to hang motionless over the oasis of El Yerim.
A broad streak, green with date-palms and fields of green, across dark lava plains. The tiny, green-rimmed lake. The square, clustered mud houses of the town. Across the lake, the camp of his recent allies.
White tents, grouped along the shore. The gray bulk of the tank—Sam Sorrows had got back safely. Supplies stacked, tarpaulin-covered. The black tents of Fouad’s Bedouins, the herds of camels.
And two surprizing things. One was a set of glistening, parallel wires strung upon poles cut from palm trunks—an unmistakable radio antenna. The other was a smooth, cleared field on the gravel beyond the camp, with two airplanes squatting upon it. Trim, gray-winged military biplanes, machine-guns frowning grimly above their cockpits, light aerial bombs in their racks. Beside the fuselage of one of them he saw Jacob Garth, unmistakable in his faded khaki and white topi, staring up at them.
For a moment Price was dumfounded. Then the explanation of it burst upon him. Garth had insisted, rather strangely, upon bringing no airplanes with them, his only excuse being the difficulty of landing in the sand-desert.
But he must have secretly arranged for die planes, left them in the hands of unsuspected allies. He had portable radio transmitter in with the supplies, unknown to the rest of the party. The landing-field prepared, he had sent directions to the planes by wireless.
Now Price understood why Garth had been so ready to dynamite the schooner. With the planes, it was useless to him. Also, Price better understood Malikar’s desire for his own aid against the treasure-seekers.
