Lovecraft, H P & Heald, Hazel - The Winged Death

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Winged Death

by H. P. Lovecraft and Hazel Heald

Written 1933

Published March 1934 in Weird Tales, 23, No. 3, 299-315.

THE Orange Hotel stands in High Street near the railway station in Bloemfontein, South

Africa. On Sunday, January 24, 1932, four men sat shivering from terror in a room on its

third floor. One was George C. Titteridge, proprietor of the hotel; another was police

constable Ian De Witt of the Central Sation; a third was Johannes Bogaert, the local

coroner; the fourth, and apparently the least disorganized of the group, was Doctor

Cornelius Van Keulen, the coroner's physician.

On the floor, uncomfortably evident amid the stifling summer heat, was the body of a

dead man--but this was not what the four were afraid of. Their glances wandered from

the table, on which lay a curious assortment of things, to the ceiling overhead, across

whose smooth whiteness a series of huge, faltering alphabetical characters had somehow

been scrawled in ink; and every now and then Doctor Van Keulen would glance half

furtively at a worn leather blank-book, the scrawled words on the ceiling, and a dead fly

of peculiar aspect which floated in a bottle of ammonia on the table. Also on the table

were an open inkwell, a pen and writing-pad, a physician's medical case, a bottle of

hydrochloric acid, and a tumbler about a quarter full of black oxide of manganese.

The worn leather book was the journal of the dead man on the floor, and had at once

made clear that the name Frederick N. Mason, Mining Properties, Toronto, Canada,

signed in the hotel register, was a false one. There were other things--terrible things--

which it likewise made clear; and still other things of far greater terror at which it hinted

hideously without making them clear or even fully believable. It was the half-belief of

the four men, fostered by lives spent close to the black, settled secrets of brooding Africa,

which made them shiver so violently in spite of the searing January heat.

The blank-book was not a large one, and the entries were in a fine handwriting, which,

however, grew careless and nervous-looking toward the last. It consisted of a series of

jottings at first rather irregularly spaced, but finally becoming daily. To call it a diary

would not be quite correct, for it chronicled only one set of its writer's activities. Doctor

Van Keulen recognized the name of the dead man the moment he opened the cover, for it

was that of an eminent member of his own profession who had been largely connected

with African matters. In another moment he was horrified to find his name linked with a

dastardly crime officially unsolved, which had filled the newspapers some four months

before. And the farther he read, the deeper grew his horror, awe, and sense of loathing

and panic.

Winged Death

Here, in essence, is the text which the doctor read aloud in that sinister and increasingly

noisome room while the three men around him breathed hard, fidgeted in their chairs, and

darted frightened glances at the ceiling, the table, the things on the floor, and one another:

JOUNRAL OF

THOMAS SLAUENWITE, M.D.

Touching punishment of Henry Sargent Moore, Ph.D., of Brooklyn, New York, Professor

of Invertebrate Biology in Columbia University, New York, N.Y. Prepared to be read

after my death, for the satisfaction of making public the accomplishment of my revenge,

which may otherwise never be imputed to me even if it succeeds.

January 5, 1929--I have now fully resolved to kill Doctor Henry Moore, and a recent

incident has shown me how I shall do it. From now on, I shall follow a consistent line of

action; hence the beginning of this journal.

It is hardly necessary to repeat the circumstances which have driven me to this course, for

the informed part of the public is familiar with all the salient facts. I was born in Trenton,

New Jersey, on April 12, 1885, the son of Doctor Paul Slauenwite, formerly of Pretoria,

Transvaal, South Africa. Studying medicine as part of my family tradition, I was led by

my father (who died in 1916, while I was serving in France in a South African regiment)

to specialize in African fevers; and after my graduation from Columbia spent much time

in researches which took me from Durban, in Natal, up to the equator itself.

In Mombasa I worked out my new theory of the transmission and development of

remittent fever, aided only slightly by the papers of the late government physician, Sir

Norman Sloane, which I found in the house I occupied. When I published my results I

became at a single stroke a famous authority. I was told of the probability of an almost

supreme position in the South African health service, and even a probable knighthood, in

the event of my becoming a naturalized citizen, and accordingly I took the necessary

steps.

Then occurred the incident for which I am about to kill Henry Moore. This man, my

classmate and friend of years in America and Africa, chose deliberately to undermine my

claim to my own theory; alleging that Sir Norman Sloane had anticipated me in every

essential detail, and implying that I had probably found more of his papers than I had

stated in my account of the matter. To buttress this absurd accusation he produced

certain personal letters from Sir Norman which indeed showed that the older man had

been over my ground, and that he would have published his results very soon but for his

sudden death. This much I could only admit with regret. What I could not excuse was

the jealous suspicion that I had stolen the theory from Sir Norman's papers. The British

government, sensibly enough, ignored these aspersions, but witheld the half-promised

appointment and knighthood on the ground that my theory, while original with me, was

not in fact new.

Winged Death

I could see that my career in Africa perceptibly checked; though I had placed all my

hopes on such a career, even to the point of resigning American citizenship. A distinct

coolness toward me had arisien among the Government set in Mombasa, especially

among those who had known Sir Norman. It was then that I resolved to be even with

Moore sooner or later, though I did not know how. He had been jealous of my early

celebrity, and had taken advantage of his old correspondence with Sir Norman to ruin

me. This from the friend whom I had myself led to take an interest in Africa--whom I

had coached and inspired till he achieved his present moderate fame as an authority on

African entomology. Even now, though, I will not deny that his attainments are

profound. I made him, and in return he has ruined me. Now--some day--I shall destroy

him.

When I saw myself losing ground in Mombasa, I applied for my present situation in the

interior--at M'gonga, only fifty miles from the Uganda line. It is a cotton and ivory

trading-post, with only eight white men besides myself. A beastly hole, almost on the

equator, and full of every sort of fever known to mankind. Poisonous snakes and insects

everywhere, and niggers with diseases nobody ever hears of outside medical college. But

my work is not hard, and I have plenty of time to plan things to do to Henry Moore. It

amuses me to give his Diptera of Central and Southern Africa a prominent place on my

shelf. I suppose it actually is a standard manual--they use it at Columbia, Harvard, and

Wisconsin--but my own suggestions are really responsible for half its strong points.

Last week I encountered the thing which decided me how to kill Moore. A party from

Uganda brought in a black with a queer illness which I can't yet diagnose. He was

lethargic, with a very low temperature, and shuffled in a peculiar way. Most of the others

were afraid of him and said he was under some kind of witch-doctor spell; but Gobo, the

interpreter, said he had been bitten by an insect. What it was, I can't imagine--for there is

only a slight puncture on the arm. It is bright red, though, with a purple ring around it.

Spectral-looking--I don't wonder the boys lay it to black magic. They seem to have seen

cases like it before, and say there's really nothing to do about it.

Old N'Kora, one of the Galla boys at the post, says it must be the bite of a devil-fly,

which makes its victim waste away gradually and die, and then takes hold of his soul and

personality if it is still alive itself--flying around with all his likes, dislikes and

consciousness. A queer legend--and I don't know of any local insect deadly enough to

account for it. I gave this sick black--his name is Mevana--a good shot of quinine and

took a sample of his blood for testing, but haven't made much progress. There certainly

is a strange germ present, but I can't even remotely identify it. The nearest thing to it is

the bacillus one finds in oxen, horses and dogs that the tsetse fly has bitten; but tsetse-

flies non't infect human beings, and this is too far north for them anyway.

However--the important thing is that I've decided how to kill Moore. If this interior

region has insects as poisonous as the natives say, I'll see that he gets a shipment of them

from a source he won't suspect, and with plenty of assurances that they are harmless.

Trust him to throw overboard all caution when it comes to studying an unknown species--

and then we'll see how nature takes its course! It ought not to be hard to find an insect

Winged Death

that scares the blacks so much. First to see how poor Mevana turns out--and then to find

my envoy of death.

Jan. 7--Mevana is no better, though I have injected all the antitoxins I know of. He has

fits of trembling, in which he rants affrightedly about the way his soul will pass when he

dies into the insect that bit him, but between them he remains in a kind of half-stupor.

Heart action still strong, so I may pull him through. I shall try to, for he can probably

guide me better than anyone to the region where he was bitten.

Meanwhile I'll write to Doctor Lincoln, my predecessor here, for Allen, the head factor,

says he had a profound knowledge of the local sicknesses. He ought to know about the

death-fly if any white man does. He's at Nairobi now, and a black runner ought to get me

a reply in a week--using the railway for half the trip.

Jan. 10--Patient unchanged, but I have found what I want! It was in an old volume of the

local health records which I've been going over diligently while waiting to hear from

Lincoln. Thirty years ago there was an epidemic that killed off thousands of natives in

Uganda, and it was definitely traced to a rare fly called Glossina palpalis--a sort of

cousin of the Glossina norsitans, or tsetse. It lives in the bushes on the shores of lakes

and rivers, and feeds on the blood of crocodiles, antelops, and large mammals. When

these food animals have the germ of trypanosomiasis, or sleeping-sickness, it picks it up

and develops acute infectivity after an incubation period of thirty-one days. Then for

seventy-five days it is sure death to anyone or anything it bites.

Without doubt, this must be the "devil-fly" the niggers talk about. Now I know what I'm

heading for. Hope Mevana pulls through. Ought to hear from Lincoln in four or five

days--he has a great reputation for success in things like this. My worst problem will be

to get the flies to Moore without his recognizing them. With his cursed plodding

scholarship it would be just like him to know all about them since they're actually on

record.

Jan. 15--Just heard from Lincoln, who confirms all that the records say about Glossina

palpalis. He has a remedy for sleeping-sickness which has succeeded in a great number

of cases when not given too late. Intermuscular injections of tryparsamide. Since

Mevana was bitten about two months ago, I don't know how it will work--but Lincoln

says cases have been known to drag on eighteen months, so possibly I'm not too late.

Lincoln sent over some of his stuff, so I've just given Mevana a stiff shot. In a stupor

now. They've brought his principal wife from the village, but he doesn't even recognize

her. If he recovers, he can certainly show me where the flies are. He's a great crocodile

hunter, according to report, and knows all Uganda like a book. I'll give him another shot

tomorrow.

Jan. 16--Mevana seems a little brighter today, but his heart action is slowing up a bit. I'll

keep up the injections, but not overdo them.

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摘要：

WingedDeathWingedDeathbyH.P.LovecraftandHazelHealdWritten1933PublishedMarch1934inWeirdTales,23,No.3,299-315.THEOrangeHotelstandsinHighStreetneartherailwaystationinBloemfontein,SouthAfrica.OnSunday,January24,1932,fourmensatshiveringfromterrorinaroomonitsthirdfloor.OnewasGeorgeC.Titteridge,proprietoro...

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Lovecraft, H P & Heald, Hazel - The Winged Death

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