THE MOON POOL. Abraham Merritt
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hosts of Israel through. On each side of the stream was the black shadow cast by the folds of the high canopies And straight as a road between the opaque walls gleamed, shimmered, and danced the shining, racing, rapids of the moonlight.
Far, it seemed immeasurably far, along this stream of silver fire I sensed, rather than saw, something coming. It drew first into sight as a deeper glow within the light. On and on it swept toward us — an opalescent mistiness that sped with the suggestion of some winged creature in arrowed flight. Dimly there crept into my mind memory of the Dyak legend of the winged messenger of Buddha — the Akla bird whose feathers are woven of the moon rays, whose heart is a living opal, whose wings in flight echo the crystal clear music of the white stars — but whose beak is of frozen flame and shreds the souls of unbelievers.
Closer it drew and now there came to me sweet, insistent tinklings — like pizzicati on violins of glass; crystal clear; diamonds melting into sounds!
Now the Thing was close to the end of the white path; close up to the barrier of darkness still between the ship and the sparkling head of the moon stream. Now it beat up against that barrier as a bird against the bars of its cage. It whirled with shimmering plumes, with swirls of lacy light, with spirals of living vapour. It held within it odd, unfamiliar gleams as of shifting mother-of-pearl. Coruscations and glittering atoms drifted through it as though it drew them from the rays that bathed it.
Nearer and nearer it came, borne on the sparkling waves, and ever thinner shrank the protecting wall of shadow between it and us. Within the mistiness was a core, a nucleus of intenser light — veined, opaline, effulgent, intensely alive. And above it, tangled in the plumes and spirals that throbbed and whirled were seven glowing lights.
Through all the incessant but strangely ordered movement of the — THING— these lights held firm and steady. They were seven — like seven little moons. One was of a pearly pink, one of a delicate nacreous blue, one of lambent saffron, one of the emerald you see in the shallow waters of tropic isles; a deathly white; a ghostly amethyst; and one of the silver that is seen only when the flying fish leap beneath the moon.
The tinkling music was louder still. It pierced the ears with a shower of tiny lances; it made the heart beat jubilantly — and checked it dolorously. It closed the throat with a throb of rapture and gripped it tight with the hand of infinite sorrow!
Came to me now a murmuring cry, stilling the crystal notes. It was articulate — but as though from something utterly foreign to this world. The ear took the cry and translated with conscious labour into the sounds of earth. And even as it compassed, the brain shrank from it irresistibly, and simultaneously it seemed reached toward it with irresistible eagerness.
Throckmartin strode toward the front of the deck, straight toward the vision, now but a few yards away from the stern. His face had lost all human semblance. Utter agony and utter ecstasy — there they were side by side, not resisting each other; unholy inhuman companions blending into a look that none of God’s creatures should wear — and deep, deep as his soul! A devil and a God dwelling harmoniously side by side! So must Satan, newly fallen, still divine, seeing heaven and contemplating hell, have appeared.
And then — swiftly the moon path faded! The clouds swept over the sky as though a hand had drawn them together. Up from the south came a roaring squall. As the moon vanished what I had seen vanished with it — blotted out as an image on a magic lantern; the tinkling ceased abruptly — leaving a silence like that which follows an abrupt thunder clap. There was nothing about us but silence and blackness!
Through me passed a trembling as one who has stood on the very verge of the gulf wherein the men of the Louisades says lurks the fisher of the souls of men, and has been plucked back by sheerest chance.
Throckmartin passed an arm around me.
“It is as I thought,” he said. In his voice was a new note; the calm certainty that has swept aside a waiting terror of the unknown. “Now I know! Come with me to my cabin, old friend. For now that you too have seen I can tell you”— he hesitated —“what it was you saw,” he ended.
As we passed through the door we met the ship’s first officer. Throckmartin composed his face into at least a semblance of normality.
“Going to have much of a storm?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the mate. “Probably all the way to Melbourne.”
Throckmartin straightened as though with a new thought. He gripped the officer’s sleeve eagerly.
“You mean at least cloudy weather — for”— he hesitated —“for the next three nights, say?”
“And for three more,” replied the mate.
“Thank God!” cried Throckmartin, and I think I never heard such relief and hope as was in his voice.
The sailor stood amazed. “Thank God?” he repeated. “Thank — what d’ye mean?”
But Throckmartin was moving onward to his cabin. I started to follow. The first officer stopped me.
“Your friend,” he said, “is he ill?”
“The sea!” I answered hurriedly. “He’s not used to it. I am going to look after him.”
Doubt and disbelief were plain in the seaman’s eyes but I hurried on. For I knew now that Throckmartin was ill indeed — but with a sickness the ship’s doctor nor any other could heal.
CHAPTER II
“DEAD! ALL DEAD!”
He was sitting, face in hands, on the side of his berth as I entered. He had taken off his coat.
“Throck,” I cried. “What was it? What are you flying from, man? Where is your wife — and Stanton?”
“Dead!” he replied monotonously. “Dead! All dead!” Then as I recoiled from him —“All dead. Edith, Stanton, Thora — dead — or worse. And Edith in the Moon Pool — with them — drawn by what you saw on the moon path — that has put its brand upon me — and follows me!”
He ripped open his shirt.
“Look at this,” he said. Around his chest, above his heart, the skin was white as pearl. This whiteness was sharply defined against the healthy tint of the body. It circled him with an even cincture about two inches wide.
“Burn it!” he said, and offered me his cigarette. I drew back. He gestured — peremptorily. I pressed the glowing end of the cigarette into the ribbon of white flesh. He did not flinch nor was there odour of burning nor, as I drew the little cylinder away, any mark upon the whiteness.
“Feel it!” he commanded again. I placed my fingers upon the band. It was cold — like frozen marble.
He drew his shirt around him.
“Two things you have seen,” he said. “IT— and its mark. Seeing, you must believe my story. Goodwin, I tell you again that my wife is dead — or worse — I do not know; the prey of — what you saw; so, too, is Stanton; so Thora. How —”
Tears rolled down the seared face.
“Why did God let it conquer us? Why did He let it take my Edith?” he cried in utter bitterness. “Are there things stronger than God, do you think, Walter?”
I hesitated.
“Are there? Are there?” His wild eyes searched me.
“I do not know just how you define God,” I managed at last through my astonishment to make answer. “If you mean the will to know, working through science —”
He waved me aside impatiently.
“Science,” he said. “What is our science against — that? Or against the science of whatever devils that made it — or made