Astounding Stories of Super-Science 10

Astounding Stories of Super-Science 10

Derek was saying, "We haven't much time: can you get us to the palace?"

 

"Yes. I have a cart down there on the road."

 

"And the cloaks for Charlie and me?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Good!" said Derek. "We'll go with you. It's a long chance; he probably

won't postpone it. If he does not, we'll be among the audience. And when

he chooses the Red Sensua--"

 

She shuddered, "Oh, Derek--" And I thought I heard her whisper, "Oh,

Alexandre--" and I saw his finger go to his lips.

 

His arm went around her. She huddled, small as a child against his tall,

muscular body.

 

He said gently, "Don't be afraid, little Hope."

 

His face was grim, his eyes were gleaming. I saw him suddenly as an

instinctive military adventurer. An anachronism in our modern New York

City. Born in a wrong age. But here in this primitive realm he was at

home.

 

I plucked at him. "How can you--how can we dare plunge into this thing?

Hidden with cloaks, yes. But you talk of leading these toilers."

 

He cast Hope away and confronted me. "I can do it! You'll see, Charlie."

He was very strangely smiling. "You'll see. But I don't want to come

into the open right away. Not to-night. But if we can only postpone this

accursed festival."

 

We had been talking perhaps five minutes. We were ready now to start

away. Derek said:

 

"Whatever comes, Charlie, I want you to take care of Hope. Guard her for

me, will you?"

 

I said, "Yes, I will try to."

 

Hope smiled as she held out her hand to me. "I will not be afraid, with

Derek's friend."

 

* * * * *

 

Her English was of different intonation from our own, but it was her

native language, I could not doubt.

 

I took her cold, slightly trembling hand. "Thank you, Hope."

 

Her eyes were misty with starlight. Tender eyes, but the tenderness was

not for me.

 

"Yes," I repeated. "You can depend upon me, Derek."

 

We left the hillock. A food-laden cart came along the road. The driver,

a boy vivid in jacket and wide trousers of red and blue, bravely worn

but tattered, ran alongside guiding the oxen. When they had passed we

followed, and presently we came to the cloaks Hope had hidden. Derek and

I donned them. They were long crimson cloaks with hoods.

 

Hope said, "Many are gathering for the festival shrouded like that. You

will not be noticed now."

 

Further along the road we reached a little eminence. I saw the river

ahead of us, and a river behind us. And a few miles to the south, an

open spread of water where the rivers joined. Familiar contours! The

Hudson River! The East River. And down at the end of the island, New

York Harbor.

 

Hope gestured that way. "The king's palace is there."

 

We were soon passing occasional houses, primitive thatched dwellings. I

saw inside one. Workers were seated over their frugal evening meal.

Always the same vivid garments, jaunty but tattered. We passed one old

fellow in a field, working late in the starlight. A man bent with age,

but still a tiller of the soil. Hope waved to him and he responded, but

the look he gave us as we hurried by shrouded in our crimson cloaks was

sullenly hostile.

 

We came to an open cart. It stood by the roadside. An ox with shaggy

coat and spreading horns was fastened to the fence. It was a small cart

with small rollers like wheels. Seats were in it and a vivid canopy over

it. We climbed in and rumbled away.

 

* * * * *

 

And this starlit road in our own world was Broadway! We were presently

passing close to the river's edge. This quiet, peaceful, starlit river!

Why, in our world it was massed with docks! Great ocean liners, huge

funneled, with storied decks lay here! Under this river, tunnels with

endless passing vehicles! Tubes, with speeding trains crowded with

people!

 

The reality here was so different! Behind us what seemed an upper city

was strung along the river. Ahead of us also there were streets and

houses, the city of the workers. A bell was tolling. Along all the roads

now we could see the moving yellow spots of lights on the holiday carts

headed for the festival. And there were spots of yellow torchlight from

boats on the river.

 

We soon were entering the city streets. Narrow dirt streets they were,

with primitive shacks to the sides. Women came to the doorways to stare

at our little cart rumbling hastily past. I was conscious of my crimson

cloak, and conscious of the sullen glances of hate which were flung at

it from every side, here in this squalid, forlorn section where the

workers lived.

 

Along every street now the carts were passing, converging to the south.

They were filled, most of them, with young men and girls, all in gaudy

costumes. Some of them, like ourselves, were shrouded in crimson cloaks.

The carts occasionally were piled with flowers. As one larger than us,

and moving faster rumbled by, a girl in it stood up and pelted me with

blossoms. She wore a crimson robe, but it had fallen from her shoulders.

I caught a glimpse of her face, framed in flowing dark hair, and of eyes

with laughter in them, mocking me, alluring.

 

We came at last to the end of the island. There seemed to be a thousand

or more people arriving, or here already. The tip of the island had an

esplanade with a broad canopy behind it. Burning torches of wood gave

flames of yellow, red and blue fire. A throng of gay young people

promenaded the walk, watching the arriving boats.

 

* * * * *

 

And here, behind the walk at the water's edge, was a garden of trees and

lawn, shrubs and beds of tall vivid flowers. Nooks were here to shelter

lovers, pools of water glinted red and green with the reflected

torchlight. In one of the pools I saw a group of girls bathing,

sportive as dolphins.

 

To one side at a little distance up the river, banked against the water,

was a broad, low building: the palace of the king. About it were broad

gardens, with shrubs and flowers. The whole was surrounded by a high

metal fence, spiked on top.

 

The main gate was near at hand; we left our cart. Close to the gate was

a guard standing alert, a jaunty fellow in leather pantaloons and

leather jacket, with a spiked helmet, and in his hand a huge,

sharp-pointed lance. The gardens of the palace, what we could see of

them, seemed empty--none but the favored few might enter here. But as I

climbed from the cart, I got the impression that just inside the fence a

figure was lurking. It started away as we approached the gate. The guard

had not seen it--the drab figure of a man in what seemed to be dripping

garments, as though perhaps he had swum in from the water.

 

And Derek saw him. He muttered, "They are everywhere."

 

Hope led us to the gate. The guard recognized her. At her imperious

gesture he stood aside. We passed within. I saw the palace now as a long

winged structure of timber and stone, with a high tower at the end of

one wing. The building fronted the river, but here on the garden side

there was a broad doorway up an incline, twenty feet up and over a small

bridge, spanning what seemed a dry moat. Beyond it, a small platform,

then an oval archway, the main entrance to the building.

 

Derek and I, shrouded in our crimson cloaks with hoods covering us to

the eyes, followed Hope into the palace.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VI

 

_The King's Henchman_

 

 

The long room was bathed in colored lights. There was an ornate tiled

floor. Barbaric draperies of heavy fabric shrouded the archways and

windows. It was a totally barbaric apartment. It might have been the

audience chamber of some fabled Eastern Prince of our early ages. Yet

not quite that either. There was a primitive modernity here. I could not

define it, could not tell why I felt this strangeness. Perhaps it was

the aspect of the people. The room was crowded with men and gay laughing

girls in fancy dress costumes. Half of them at least were shrouded in

crimson cloaks, but most of the hoods were back. They moved about,

laughing and talking, evidently waiting for the time to come for them to

go to the festival. We pushed our way through them.

 

Derek murmured, "Keep your hood up, Charlie."

 

A girl plucked at me. "Handsome man, let me see." She thrust her painted

lips up to mine as though daring me to kiss them. Hope shoved her away.

Her parted cloak showed her white, beautiful body with the dark tresses

of her hair shrouding it. Exotically lovely she was, with primitive,

unrestrained passions--typical of the land in which she lived.

 

"This way," whispered Hope. "Keep close together. Do not speak!"

 

We moved forward and stood quietly against the wall of the room, where

great curtains hid us partly from view. Under a canopy, at a table on a

raised platform near one end of the apartment, sat the youthful monarch.

I saw him as a man of perhaps thirty. He was in holiday garb, robed in

silken hose of red and white, a strangely fashioned doublet, and a

close-fitting shirt. Bare-headed, with thick black hair, long to the

base of his neck.

 

He sat at the table with a calm dignity. But he relaxed here in the

presence of his favored courtiers. He was evidently in a high good humor

this night, giving directions for the staging of the spectacle,

despatching messengers. I stood gazing at him. A very kingly fellow

this. There was about him, that strange mingled look of barbarism and

modernity.

 

* * * * *

 

Hope approached him and knelt. Derek and I could hear their voices,

although the babble of the crowd went on.

 

"My little Hope, what is it? Stand up, child."

 

She said, "Your Highness, a message from Blanca."

 

He laughed. "Say no more! I know it already! She does not want this

festival. The workers,"--what a world of sardonic contempt he put into

that one word!--"the workers will be offended because we take pleasure

to-night. Bah!" But he was still laughing. "Say no more, little Hope.

Tell Blanca to dance and sing her best this night. I am making my

choice. Did you know that?"

 

Hope was silent. He repeated, "Did you know that?"

 

"Yes, Your Highness," she murmured.

 

"I choose our queen to-night, child. Blanca or Sensua." He sighed. "Both

are very beautiful. Do you know which one I am going to choose?"

 

"No," she said.

 

"Nor do I, little Hope. Nor do I."

 

He dismissed her. "Go now. Don't bother me."

 

She parted her lips as though to make another protest, but his eyes

suddenly flashed.

 

"I would not have you annoy me again. Do you understand?"

 

She turned away, back toward where Derek and I were lurking. The

chattering crowd in the room had paid no attention to Hope, but before

she could reach us a man detached himself from a nearby group and

accosted her. A commanding figure, he was, I think, quite the largest

man in the room. An inch or two taller than Derek, at the least. He wore

his red cloak with the hood thrown back upon his wide heavy shoulders. A

bullet-head with close-clipped black hair. A man of about the king's

age, he had a face of heavy features, and flashing dark eyes. A

scoundrel adventurer, this king's henchman.

 

Hope said, "What is it, Rohbar?"

 

"You will join our party, little Hope?" He laid a heavy hand on her

white arm. His face was turned toward me. I could not miss the gleaming

look in his eyes as he regarded her.

 

"No," she said.

 

* * * * *

 

It seemed that he twitched at her, but she broke away from him.

 

Anger crossed his face, but the desirous look in his eyes remained.

 

"You are very bold, Hope, to spurn me like this." He had lowered his

voice as though fearful that the king might hear him.

 

"Let me alone!" she said.

 

She darted away from him, but before she joined us she stood waiting

until he turned away.

 

"No use," Hope whispered. "There is nothing we can do here. You heard

what the king said--and the festival is already begun."

 

Derek stood a moment, lost in thought. He was gazing across the room to

where Rohbar was standing with a group of girls. He said at last:

 

"Come on, Charlie. We'll watch this festival. This damn fool king will

choose the Red Sensua." He shrugged. "There will be chaos...."

 

We shoved our way from the room, went out of the main doorway and

hurried through the gardens of the palace. The red-cloaked figures were

leaving the building now for the festival grounds. We waited for a group

of them to pass so that we might walk alone. As we neared the gate,

passing through the shadows of high flowered shrubs, a vague feeling

that we were being followed shot through me. In a moment there was so

much to see that I forgot it, but I held my hand on my dirk and moved

closer to Hope.

 

We reached the entrance to the canopy. A group of girls, red-cloaked,

were just coming out. They rushed past us. They ran, discarding their

cloaks. Their white bodies gleamed under the colored lights as they

rushed to the pool and dove.

 

We were just in time. Hope whispered, "The king will be here any

moment."

 

* * * * *

 

Beneath the canopy was a broad arena of seats. A platform, like a stage,

was at one end. It was brilliantly illuminated with colored torches held

aloft by girls in flowing robes, each standing like a statue with her

light held high. The place was crowded. In the gloom of the darkened

auditorium we found seats off to one side, near the open edge of the

canopy. We sat, with Hope between us.

 

Derek whispered, "Shakespeare might have staged a play in a fashion like

this."

 

A primitive theatrical performance. There was no curtain for interlude

between what might have been the acts of a vaudeville. The torch girls,

like pages, ranged themselves in a line across the front of the stage.

They were standing there as we took our seats. The vivid glare of their

torches concealed the stage behind them.

 

There was a few moments wait, then, amid hushed silence, the king with

his retinue came in. He sat in a canopied box off to one side. When he

was seated, he raised his arm and the buzz of conversation in the

audience began again.

 

Presently the page girls moved aside from the stage. The buzz of the

audience was stilted. The performance, destined to end so soon in

tragedy, now began.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VII

 

_The Crimson Murderess_

 

 

Hope murmured. "The three-part music comes first. There will first be

the spiritual."

 

An orchestra was seated on the stage in a semi-circle. It was composed

of men and women musicians, and there seemed to be over a hundred of

them. They sat in three groups; the center group was about to play. In a

solemn hush the leaderless choirs, with all its players garbed in

white, began its first faint note. I craned to get a clear view of the

stage. This white choir seemed almost all wood-wind. There were tiny

pipes in little series such as Pan might have used. Flutes, and

flageolets; and round-bellied little instruments of clay, like ocarinas.

And pitch-pipes, long and slender as a marsh reed.

 

In a moment I was lost in the music. It began softly, with single muted

notes from a single instrument, echoed by the others, running about the

choir like a will-o'-the-wisp. It was faint, as though very far away,

made more sweet by distance. And then it swelled, came nearer.

 

I had never heard such music as this. Primitive! It was not that. Nor

barbaric! Nothing like the music of our ancient world. Nor was it what I

might conceive to be the music of our future. A thing apart, unworldly,

ethereal. It swept me, carried me off; it was an exaltation of the

spirit lifting me. It was triumphant now. It surged, but there was in

its rhythm, the beat of its every instrument, nothing but the soul of

purity. And then it shimmered into distance again, faint and exquisite

music of a dream. Crooning, pleading, the speech of whispering angels.

 

It ceased. There was a storm of applause.

 

I breathed again. Why, this was what music might be in our world but was

not. I thought of our blaring jazz.

 

Hope said, "Now they play the physical music. Then Sensua will dance

with Blanca. We will see then which one the king chooses."

 

* * * * *

 

On the stage all the torches were extinguished save those which were

red. The arena was darker than before. The stage was bathed with a deep

crimson. Music of the physical senses! It was, indeed, no more like the

other choir than is the body to the spirit.

 

There were stringed instruments playing now; deep-toned, singing

zithers, and instruments of rounded, swelling bodies, like great viols

with sensuous, throbbing voices. Music with a swift rhythm, marked by

the thump of hollow gourds. It rose with its voluptuous swell into a

paean of abandonment, and upon the tide of it, the crimson Sensua flung

herself upon the stage. She stood motionless for a moment that all might

regard her. The crimson torchlight bathed her, stained crimson the white

flush of her limbs, her heavy shoulders, her full, rounded throat.

 

A woman in her late twenties. Voluptuous of figure, with crimson veils

half-hiding, half-revealing it. A face of coarse, sensuous beauty. A

face wholly evil, and it seemed to me wholly debauched. Dark eyes with

beaded lashes. Heavy lips painted scarlet. A pagan woman of the streets.

One might have encountered such a woman swaggering in some ancient

street of some ancient city, flaunting the finery given her by a rich

and profligate eastern prince.

 

She stood a moment with smoldering, passion-filled eyes, gazing from

beneath her lowered lids. Her glance went to the king's canopy, and

flashed a look of confidence, of triumph. The king answered it with a

smile. He leaned forward over his railing, watching her intently.

 

With the surge of the music she moved into her dance. Slowly she began,

quite slowly. A posturing and swaying of hips like a nautch girl. She

made the rounds of the musicians, leering at them. She stood in the

whirl of the music, almost ignoring it, stood at the front of the stage

with a gaze of slumberous, insolent passion flung at the king. A knife

was in her hand now. She held it aloft. The red torchlight caught its

naked blade. With shuddering fancy I seemed to see it dripping crimson.

She frowned, and struck it at a phantom lover. She backed away. She

stooped and knelt. She knelt and seemed with her empty arms to be

caressing a murdered lover's head. She kissed him, rained upon his dead lips her macabre kisses.