The Moon Pool & Dwellers in the Mirage. Abraham Merritt
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I see the Uighur nobles. They were standing, the banners of their dans above them, their faces turned up to me, upon the stone floor, a hundred yards Wso away, and ten feet below me. Beyond them and behind them the cavern extended, vanishing hi darkness. I saw that in front of them was a curving trough, wide — like the trough between two long waves — and that like a wave it swept upward from the hither side of the trough, curving, its lip crested, as though that wave of sculptured stone were a gigantic comber rushing back upon them. This lip formed the edge of the raised place on which I stood.
The high priest touched my arm. I turned my head to him, and followed his eyes. A hundred feet away from me stood a girl. She was naked. She had not long entered womanhood and quite plainly was soon to be a mother. Her eyes were as blue as those of the old priest, her hair was reddish brown, touched with gold, her skin was palest olive. The blood of the old fair race was strong within her. For all she held herself so bravely, there was terror in her eyes, and the rapid rise and fall of her rounded breasts further revealed that terror.
She stood in a small hollow. Around her waist was a golden ring, and from that ring dropped three golden chaias fastened to the rock floor. I recognized their purpose. She could not run, and if she dropped or fell, she could not writhe away, out of the cup. But run, or writhe away from what? Certainly not from me! I ‘looked at her and smiled. Her eyes searched mine. The terror suddenly fled from them. She smiled back at me, trustingly.
God forgive me — I smiled at her and she trusted me! I looked beyond her, from whence had come a glitter of yellow like a flash from a huge topaz. Up from the rock a hundred yards behind the girl jutted an immense fragment of the same yellow translucent stone that formed the jewel in my ring. It was like the fragment of a gigantic shattered pane. Its shape was roughly triangular. Black within it was a tentacle of the Kraken. The tentacle swung down within the yellow stone, broken from the monstrous body when the stone had been broken. It was all of fifty feet long. Its inner side was turned toward me, and plain upon all its length clustered the hideous sucking discs.
Well, it was ugly enough — but nothing to be afraid of, I thought. I smiled again at the chained girl, and met once more her look of utter trust.
The old priest had been watching me dosely. We walked forward until we were half-way between the edge and the girl. At the lip squatted the twelve lesser priests, their drums on their laps.
The old priest and I faced the girl and the broken tentacle. He raised his staff of golden bells and shook them. From the darkness of the cavern began a low chanting, a chant upon three minor themes, repeated and repeated, and intermingled.
It was as primeval as the cavern; it was the voice of the cavern itself.
The girl never took her eyes from me.
The chanting ended. I raised my hands and made the curious gestures of salutation I had been taught. I began the ritual to Khalk’ru . . . .
With the first words, the odd feeling of recognition swept over me — with something added. The words, the gestures, were automatic. I did not have to exert any effort of memory; they remembered themselves. I no longer saw the chained girl. All I saw was the black tentacle in the shattered stone.
On swept the ritual and on . . . was the yellow stone dissolving from around the tentacle . . . was the tentacle swaying?
Desperately I tried to halt the words, the gesturing. I could not!
Something stronger than myself possessed me, moving my muscles, speaking from my throat. I had a sense of inhuman power. On to the climax of the evil evocation — and how I knew how utterly evil it was — the ritual rushed, while I seemed to stand apart, helpless to check it.
It ended.
And the tentacle quivered . . . it writhed . . . it reached outward to the chained girl . . . .
There was a devil’s roll of drums, rushing up fast and ever faster to a thunderous crescendo . . . .
The girl was still looking at me . . . but the trust was gone from her eyes . . . her face reflected the horror stamped upon my own.
The black tentacle swung up and out!
I had a swift vision of a vast cloudy body from which other cloudy tentacles writhed. A breath that had in it the cold of outer space touched me.
The black tentacle coiled round the girl . . . .
She screamed — inhumanly . . . she faded . . . she dissolved . . . her screaming faded . . . her screaming became a small shrill agonized piping . . . a sigh.
I heard the dash of metal from where the girl had stood. The clashing of the golden chains and girdle that had held her, falling empty on the rock.
The girl was gone!
I stood, nightmare horror such as I had never known in worst of nightmares paralysing me —
The child had trusted me . . . I had smiled at her, and she had trusted me . . . and I had summoned the Kraken to destroy her!
Searing remorse, white hot rage, broke the chains that held me. I saw the fragment of yellow stone in its place, the black tentacle inert within it. At my feet lay the old priest, flat on his face, his withered body shaking; his withered hands clawing at the rock. Beside their drums lay the lesser priests, and flat upon the floor of the cavern were the nobles — prostrate, abased, blinds and deaf in stunned worship of that dread Thing I had summoned.
I ran to the tapestried doorway. I had but one desire — to get out of the temple of Khalk’ru. Out of the lair of the Kraken. To get far and far away from it. To get back . . . back to the camp-home. I ran through the little room, through the passages and, still running, reached the entrance to the temple. I stood there for an instant, dazzled by the sunlight.
There was a roaring shout from hundreds of throats — then silence. My sight cleared. They lay there, in the dust, prostrate before me — the troops of the Uighur spearsmen.
I looked for the black stallion. He was close beside me. I sprang upon his back, gave him the reins. He shot forward like a black thunderbolt through the prostrate ranks, and down the road to the oasis. We raced through the oasis. I bad vague glimpses of running crowds, shouting. None tried to stop me. None could have stayed the rush of that great horse.
And now I was close to the inner gates of the stone fort through which we had passed on the yesterday. They were open. Their guards stood gaping at me. Drums began to beat, peremptorily, from the temple. I looked back. There was a confusion at its entrance, a chaotic milling. The Uighur spearsmen were streaming down the wide road.
The gates began to close. I shot the stallion forward, bowling over the guards, and was inside the fort. I reached the further gates. They were closed. Louder beat the drums, threatening, commanding.
Something of sanity returned to me. I ordered the guards to open. They stood, trembling, staring at me. But they did not obey. I leaped from the stallion and ran to them. I raised my hand. The ring of Khalk’ru flittered. They threw themselves on the ground before me — but they did not open the gates.
I saw upon the wall goatskins full of water. I snatched one of these and a sack of grain. Upon the floor was a huge slab of stone. I lifted it as though it had been a pebble, and hurled it at the gates where the two halves met. They burst asunder. I threw the skin of water and sack of grain over the high saddle, and rode through the broken gates.
The great horse skimmed through the ravine like a swallow. And now we were over the crumbling bridge and thundering down the ancient road.
We came to the end of the far ravine. I knew it by the fall of rock. I looked back. There was no sign of pursuit But I could hear the faint throb of the drums.
It was now well past mid-afternoon. We picked our way through the ravine and came out at the edge of the sandstone range. It was cruel to force the stallion, but I could not afford to spare him. By nightfall we had readied semi-arid country. The stallion was reeking with sweat, and tired. Never once had he slackened or turned surly. He had a great heart, that horse. I made up my mind that he should rest, come what might.
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