Part 5 (1/2)
In an instant Cororuc was bound to the post, and he saw, with horror, the Picts piling firewood about his feet.
”And when you are sufficiently burned, Briton,” said the ancient, ”this dagger that has drunk the blood of a hundred Britons, shall quench its thirst in yours.”
”But never have I harmed a Pict!” Cororuc gasped, struggling with his bonds.
”You pay, not for what you did, but for what your race has done,” answered the ancient sternly. ”Well do I remember the deeds of the Celts when first they landed on Britain -- the shrieks of the slaughtered, the screams of ravished girls, the smokes of burning villages, the plundering.”
Cororuc felt his short neck-hairs bristle. When first the Celts landed on Britain! That was over five hundred years ago!
And his Celtic curiosity would not let him keep still, even at the stake with the Picts preparing to light firewood piled about him.
”You could not remember that. That was ages ago.”
The ancient looked at him somberly. ”And I am age-old. In my youth I was a witch-finder, and an old woman witch cursed me as she writhed at the stake. She said I should live until the last child of the Pictish race had pa.s.sed. That I should see the once mighty nation go down into oblivion and then -- and only then -- should I follow it. For she put upon me the curse of life everlasting.”
Then his voice rose until it filled the cavern. ”But the curse was nothing. Words can do no harm, can do nothing, to a man. I live. A hundred generations have I seen come and go, and yet another hundred. What is time? The sun rises and sets, and another day has pa.s.sed into oblivion. Men watch the sun and set their lives by it. They league themselves on every hand with time. They count the minutes that race them into eternity. Man outlived the centuries ere he began to reckon time. Time is man-made. Eternity is the work of the G.o.ds. In this cavern there is no such thing as time. There are no stars, no sun. Without is time; within is eternity. We count not time. Nothing marks the speeding of the hours. The youths go forth. They see the sun, the stars. They reckon time. And they pa.s.s. I was a young man when I entered this cavern. I have never left it. As you reckon time, I may have dwelt here a thousand years; or an hour. When not banded by time, the soul, the mind, call it what you will, can conquer the body. And the wise men of the race, in my youth, knew more than the outer world will ever learn. When I feel that my body begins to weaken, I take the magic draft, that is known only to me, of all the world. It does not give immortality; that is the work of the mind alone; but it rebuilds the body. The race of Picts vanish; they fade like the snow on the mountain. And when the last is gone, this dagger shall free me from the world.” Then in a swift change of tone, ”Light the f.a.gots!”
Cororuc's mind was fairly reeling. He did not in the least understand what he had just heard. He was positive that he was going mad; and what he saw the next minute a.s.sured him of it.
Through the throng came a wolf; and he knew that it was the wolf whom he had rescued from the panther close by the ravine in the forest!
Strange, how long ago and far away that seemed! Yes, it was the same wolf. That same strange, shambling gait. Then the thing stood erect and raised its front feet to its head. What nameless horror was that?
Then the wolf's head fell back, disclosing a man's face. The face of a Pict; one of the first ”werewolves.” The man stepped out of the wolfskin and strode forward, calling something. A Pict just starting to light the wood about the Briton's feet drew back the torch and hesitated.
The wolf-Pict stepped forward and began to speak to the chief, using Celtic, evidently for the prisoner's benefit. Cororuc was surprized to hear so many speak his language, not reflecting upon its comparative simplicity, and the ability of the Picts.
”What is this?” asked the Pict who had played wolf. ”A man is to be burned who should not be!”
”How?” exclaimed the old man fiercely, clutching his long beard. ”Who are you to go against a custom of age-old antiquity?”
”I met a panther,” answered the other, ”and this Briton risked his life to save mine. Shall a Pict show ingrat.i.tude?”
And as the ancient hesitated, evidently pulled one way by his fanatical l.u.s.t for revenge, and the other by his equally fierce racial pride, the Pict burst into a wild flight of oration, carried on in his own language. At last the ancient chief nodded.
”A Pict ever paid his debts,” said he with impressive grandeur. ”Never a Pict forgets. Unbind him. No Celt shall ever say that a Pict showed ingrat.i.tude.”
Cororuc was released, and as, like a man in a daze, he tried to stammer his thanks, the chief waved them aside.
”A Pict never forgets a foe, ever remembers a friendly deed,” he replied.
”Come,” murmured his Pictish friend, tugging at the Celt's arm.
He led the way into a cave leading away from the main cavern. As they went, Cororuc looked back, to see the ancient chief seated upon his stone throne, his eyes gleaming as he seemed to gaze back through the lost glories of the ages; on each hand the fires leaped and flickered. A figure of grandeur, the king of a lost race.
On and on Cororuc's guide led him. And at last they emerged and the Briton saw the starlit sky above him.
”In that way is a village of your tribesmen,” said the Pict, pointing, ”where you will find a welcome until you wish to take up your journey anew.”
And he pressed gifts on the Celt; gifts of garments of cloth and finely worked deerskin, beaded belts, a fine horn bow with arrows skillfully tipped with obsidian. Gifts of food. His own weapons were returned to him.
”But an instant,” said the Briton, as the Pict turned to go. ”I followed your tracks in the forest. They vanished.” There was a question in his voice.
The Pict laughed softly. ”I leaped into the branches of the tree. Had you looked up, you would have seen me. If ever you wish a friend, you will ever find one in Berula, chief among the Alban Picts.”
He turned and vanished. And Cororuc strode through the moonlight toward the Celtic village.
*THE SONG OF THE BATS*
_Weird Tales, May 1927_ _The dusk was on the mountain_ And the stars were dim and frail When the bats came flying, flying From the river and the vale To wheel against the twilight And sing their witchy tale.
”We were kings of eld!” they chanted, ”Rulers of a world enchanted; ”Every nation of creation ”Owned our lords.h.i.+p over men.
”Diadems of power crowned us, ”Then rose Solomon to confound us, ”Flung his web of magic round us, ”In the forms of beasts he bound us, ”So our rule was broken then.”
Whirling, wheeling into westward, Fled they in their phantom flight; Was it but a wing-beat music Murmured through the star-gemmed night?
Or the singing of a ghost clan Whispering of forgotten night?
*THE RIDE OF FALUME*
*Weird Tales, October 1927*
_Falume of Spain rode forth amain when twilight's crimson fell_ To drink a toast with Bahram's ghost in the scarlet land of h.e.l.l.
His rowels clashed as swift he dashed along the flaming skies; The sunset rade at his bridle braid and the moon was in his eyes.
The waves were green with an eery sheen over the hills of Thule And the ripples beat to his horse's feet like a serpent in a pool.
On vampire wings the shadow things wheeled round and round his head, Till he came at last to a kingdom vast in the Land of the Restless Dead.
They thronged about in a grisly rout, they caught at his silver rein; ”Avaunt, foul host! Tell Bahram's ghost Falume has come from Spain!”
Then flame-arrayed rose Bahram's shade: ”What would ye have, Falume?”
”Ho, Bahram who on earth I slew where Tagus' waters boom, Now though I sh.o.r.e your life of yore amid the burning West, I ride to h.e.l.l to bid ye tell where I might ride to rest.
My beard is white and dim my sight and I would fain be gone.
Speak without guile: where lies the isle of mystic Avalon?”
”A league beyond the western wind, a mile beyond the moon, Where the dim seas roar on an unknown sh.o.r.e and the drifting stars lie strewn: The lotus buds there scent the woods where the quiet rivers gleam, And king and knight in the mystic light the ages drowse and dream.”
With sudden bound Falume wheeled round, he fled through the flying wrack Till he came to the land of Spain with the sunset at his back.
”No dreams for me, but living free, red wine and battle's roar; I breast the gales and I ride the trails until I ride no more.”