The Haunted Woman & A Voyage to Arcturus. David Lindsay
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He touched her gently with his hand. She awoke calmly and looked up at him without stirring a muscle. All three eyes stared at him; but the two lower ones were dull and vacant—mere carriers of vision. The middle, upper one alone expressed her inner nature. Its haughty, unflinching glare had yet something seductive and alluring in it. Maskull felt a challenge in that look of lordly, feminine will, and his manner instinctively stiffened.
She sat up.
“Can you speak my language?” he asked. “I wouldn’t put such a question, but others have been able to.”
“Why should you imagine that I can’t read your mind? Is it so extremely complex?”
She spoke in a rich, lingering, musical voice, which delighted him to listen to.
“No, but you have no breve.”
“Well, but haven’t I a sorb, which is better?” And she pointed to the eye on her brow.
“What is your name?”
“Oceaxe.”
“And where do you come from?”
“Ifdawn.”
These contemptuous replies began to irritate him, and yet the mere sound of her voice was fascinating.
“I am going there tomorrow,” he remarked.
She laughed, as if against her will, but made no comment.
“My name is Maskull,” he went on. “I am a stranger—from another world.”
“So I should judge, from your absurd appearance.”
“Perhaps it would be as well to say at once,” said Maskull bluntly, “are we, or are we not, to be friends?”
She yawned and stretched her arms, without rising. “Why should we be friends? If I thought you were a man, I might accept you as a lover.”
“You must look elsewhere for that.”
“So be it, Maskull! Now go away, and leave me in peace.”
She dropped her head again to the ground, but did not at once close her eyes.
“What are you doing here?” he interrogated.
“Oh, we Ifdawn folk occasionally come here to sleep, for there often enough it is a night for us which has no next morning.”
“Being such a terrible place, and seeing that I am a total stranger, it would be merely courteous if you were to warn me what I have to expect in the way of dangers.”
“I am perfectly and utterly indifferent to what becomes of you,” retorted Oceaxe.
“Are you returning in the morning?” persisted Maskull.
“If I wish.”
“Then we will go together.”
She got up again on her elbow. “Instead of making plans for other people, I would do a very necessary thing.”
“Pray, tell me.”
“Well, there’s no reason why I should, but I will. I would try to convert my women’s organs into men’s organs. It is a man’s country.”
“Speak more plainly.”
“Oh, it’s plain enough. If you attempt to pass through Ifdawn without a sorb, you are simply committing suicide. And that magn too is worse than useless.”
“You probably know what you are talking about, Oceaxe. But what do you advise me to do?”
She negligently pointed to the light-emitting stone lying on the ground.
“There is the solution. If you hold that drude to your organs for a good while, perhaps it will start the change, and perhaps nature will do the rest during the night. I promise nothing.”
Oceaxe now really turned her back on Maskull.
He considered for a few minutes, and then walked over to where the stone was lying, and took it in his hand. It was a pebble the size of a hen’s egg, radiant with crimson light, as though red-hot, and throwing out a continuous shower of small, blood-red sparks.
Finally deciding that Oceaxe’s advice was good, he applied the drude first to his magn, and then to his breve. He experienced a cauterising sensation—a feeling of healing pain.
Chapter 9. Oceaxe
Maskull’s second day on Tormance dawned. Branchspell was already above the horizon when he awoke. He was instantly aware that his organs had changed during the night. His fleshy breve was altered into an eyelike sorb; his magn had swelled and developed into a third arm, springing from the breast. The arm gave him at once a sense of greater physical security, but with the sorb he was obliged to experiment, before he could grasp its function.
As he lay there in the white sunlight, opening and shutting each of his three eyes in turn, he found that the two lower ones served his understanding, the upper one his will. That is to say, with the lower eyes he saw things in clear detail, but without personal interest; with the sorb he saw nothing as self-existent—everything appeared as an object of importance or non-importance to his own needs.
Rather puzzled as to how this would turn out, he got up and looked about him. He had slept out of sight of Oceaxe. He was anxious to learn if she were still on the spot, but before going to ascertain he made up his mind to bathe in the river.
It was a glorious morning. The hot white sun already began to glare, but its heat was tempered by a strong wind, which whistled through the trees. A host of fantastic clouds filled the sky. They looked like animals, and were always changing shape. The ground, as well as the leaves and branches of the forest trees, still held traces of heavy dew or rain during the night. A poignantly sweet smell of nature entered his nostrils. His pain was quiescent, and his spirits were high.
Before he bathed, he viewed the mountains of the Ifdawn Marest. In the morning sunlight they stood out pictorially. He guessed that they were from five to six thousand feet high. The lofty, irregular, castellated line seemed like the walls of a magic city. The cliffs fronting him were composed of gaudy rocks—vermilion, emerald, yellow, ulfire, and black. As he gazed at them, his heart began to beat like a slow, heavy drum, and he thrilled all over—indescribable hopes, aspirations, and emotions came over him. It was more than the conquest of a new world which he felt—it was something different....
He bathed and drank, and as he was reclothing himself, Oceaxe strolled indolently up.
He could now perceive the colour of her skin—it was a vivid, yet delicate mixture of carmine, white, and jale. The effect was startlingly unearthly. With these new colors she looked like a genuine representative of a strange planet. Her frame also had something curious about it. The curves were womanly, the bones were characteristically female—yet all seemed somehow to express a daring, masculine underlying will. The commanding eye on her forehead set the same puzzle in plainer language. Its bold, domineering egotism was shot with undergleams of sex and softness.
She came to the river’s edge and reviewed him from top to toe. “Now you are built more like a man,” she said, in her lovely, lingering voice.
“You see, the experiment was successful,” he answered, smiling gaily.
Oceaxe continued looking him over. “Did some woman give you that ridiculous robe?”
“A woman did give it to me”—dropping his smile—“but I saw nothing ridiculous in the gift at the time, and I don’t now.”
“I think I’d look better in it.”
As she drawled the words, she began stripping off the skin, which suited her form so well, and motioned to him