Kuttner, Henry - The Dark World

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THE

DARK

WORLD

Fire in the Night

To THE north thin smoke made a column against the darkening sky. Again I felt the unreasoning

fear, the impulse toward nightmare flight that had been with me for a long time now. I knew it was

without reason. There was only smoke, rising from the swamps of the tangled Limberlost country,

not fifty miles from Chicago, where man has outlawed superstition with strong bonds of steel and

concrete.

I knew it was only a camper's fire, yet / knew it was not. Something, far back in my mind, knew

what the smoke rose from, and who stood about the fire, peering my way through the trees.

I looked away, my glance slipping around the crowded walls—shelves bearing the random fruit of my

uncle's magpie collector's instinct. Opium pipes of inlaid work and silver, golden chessmen from

India, a sword...

Deep memories stirred within me—deep panic. I was beneath the sword in two strides, tearing it

from the wall, my fingers cramping hard around the hilt. Not fully aware of what I did, I found

myself facing the window and the distant smoke again. The sword was in my fist, but feeling wrong,

not reassuring, not as the sword ought to feel.

"Easy, Ed," my uncle's deep voice said behind me. "What's the matter? You look—sort of wild."

"It's the wrong sword," I heard myself saying helplessly.

Then something like a mist cleared from my brain. I blinked at him stupidly, wondering what was

happening to me. My voice answered.

"It isn't the sword. It should have come from Cambodia. It should have been one of the three

talismans of the Fire King and the Water King. Three very great talismans—the fruit of •cui,

gathered at the time of the deluge, but still fresh—the rattan with flowers that never fade, and

the sword of Yan, the guarding spirit."

My uncle squinted at me through pipe-smoke. He shook his head.

"You've changed, Ed," he said in his deep, gentle voice. "You've changed a lot. I suppose because

of the war—it's to be expected. Arid you've been sick. But you never used to be interested in

things like that before. I think you spend too much time at the libraries. I'd hoped this vacation

would help. The rest—"

"I don't want rest!" I said violently. "I spent a year and a half resting in Sumatra. Doing

nothing but rest in mat smelly little jungle village, waiting and waiting and waiting."

I could see and smell it now. I could feel again the fever that had raged so long through me as I

lay in the tabooed hut.

My mind went back eighteen months to the last hour when things were normal for me. It was in the

closing phases of World War II, and I was flying over the Sumatran jungle. War, of course, is

never good or normal, but until that one blinding moment in the air I had been an ordinary man,

sure of myself, sure of my place in the world, with no nagging fragments of memory too elusive to

catch.

Then everything blanked out, suddenly and completely. I never knew what it was. There was nothing

it could have been. My only injuries came when the plane struck, and they were miraculously light.

But I had been whole and unhurt when the blindness and blankness came over me.

The friendly Bataks found me as I lay in the ruined plane. They brought me through a fever and a

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raging illness with their strange, crude, effective ways of healing, but I sometimes thought they

had done me no service when they saved me. And their witch-doctor had his doubts, too.

He knew something. He worked his curious, futile charms

with knotted string and rice, sweating with effort I did not understand—then. I remembered the

scarred, ugly mask looming out of the shadow, the hands moving in gestures of strange power.

"Come back, O soul, where thou are lingering in the wood, or in the hills, or by the river. See, I

call thee with a toemba bras, with an egg of the fowl Rajah moelija, with the eleven healing

leaves...."

"Yes, they were sorry for me at first, all of them. The witchdoctor was the first to sense

something wrong and the awareness spread. I could feel it spreading, as their attitude changed.

They were afraid. Not of me, I thought, but of—what?

Before the helicopter came to take me back to civilization, the witch-doctor had told me a little.

As much, perhaps, as he dared.

"You must hide, my son. All your life you must hide.

Something is searching for you—" He used a word I did not understand. "—and it has come from the

Other World, the ghostlands, to hunt you down. Remember this: all magic things must be taboo to

you. And if that too fails, perhaps you may find a weapon in magic. But we cannot help you. Our

powers are not strong enough for that."

He was glad to see me go. They were all glad.

And after that, unrest. For something had changed me utterly. The fever? Perhaps. At any rate, I

didn't feel like the same man. There were dreams, memories—haunting urgencies as if I had somehow,

somewhere left some vital job unfinished. ...

I found myself talking more freely to my uncle.

"It was like a curtain lifting. A curtain of gauze. I saw some things more clearly—they seemed to

have a different significance. Things happen to me now that would have seemed incredible—before.

Now they don't.

"I've traveled a lot, you know. It doesn't help. There's always something to remind me. An amulet

in a pawnshop window, a knotted string, a cat's-eye opal and two figures. I see them in my dreams,

over and over. And once—"

I stopped.

"Yes?" my uncle prompted softly.

"It was in New Orleans. I woke up one night and there was something in my room, very close to me.

I had a gun—a

special sort of gun—under my pillow. When I reached for it the—call it a dog—sprang from the

window. Only it wasn't shaped quite like a dog." I hesitated. "There were silver bullets in the

revolver," I said.

My uncle was silent for a long moment. I knew what he was thinking.

"The other figure?" he said, finally.

"I don't know. It wears a hood. I think it's very old. And beyond these two—"

"Yes?"

"A voice. A very sweet voice, haunting. A fire. And beyond the fire, a face I have never seen

clearly."

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My uncle nodded. The darkness had drawn in; I could scarcely see him, and the smoke outside had

lost itself against the shadow of night. But a faint glow still lingered beyond the trees... Or

did I only imagine that?

I nodded toward the window.

"I've seen that fire before," I told him.

"What's wrong with it? Campers make fires."

"No. It's a Need-fire."

"What the devil is that?"

"It's a ritual," I said. "Like the Midsummer fires, or the Beltane fire the Scots used to kindle.

But the Need-fire is lighted only in time of calamity. It's a very old custom."

My uncle laid down his pipe and leaned forward.

"What is it, Ed? Do you have any inkling at all?"

"Psychologically I suppose you could call it a persecution complex," I said slowly. "I believe in

things I never used to. I think someone is trying to find me—has found me. And is calling. Who it

is I don't know. What they want I don't know. But a little while ago I found out one more

thing—this sword."

I picked the sword up from the table.

"It isn't what I want," I went on, "But sometimes, when my mind is—abstract, something from

outside floats into it. Like the need for a sword. And not any sword—just one. I don't know what

the sword looks like, but I'd know if I held it in my hand." I laughed a little. "And if I drew it

a few inches from the sheath, I could put out that fire up there as if I'd blown on it like a

candleflame. And if I drew the sword all the way out—the world would come to an end!"

My uncle nodded. After a moment, he spoke.

"The doctors," he asked. "What do they say?"

"I know what they would say, if I told them," I said grimly. "Pure insanity. If I could be sure of

that, I'd feel happier. One of the dogs was killed last night, you know."

"Of course. Old Duke. Another dog from some farm, eh?"

"Or a wolf. The same wolf that got into my room last night, and stood over me like a man, and

clipped off a lock of my hair."

Something flamed up far away, beyond the window, and was gone in the dark. The Need-fire.

My uncle rose and stood looking down at me in the dimness. He laid a big hand on my shoulder.

"I think you're sick, Ed."

"You think I'm crazy. Well, I may be. But I've got a hunch I'm going to know soon, one way or the

other."

I picked up the sheathed sword and laid it across my knees. We sat in silence for what seemed like

a long time.

In the forest to the north, the Need-fire burned steadily. I could not see it. But its flames

stirred in my blood—dangerously—darkly.

Call of the Red Witch

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I COULD not sleep. The suffocating breathlessness of late summer lay like a woollen blanket over

me. Presently I went into the big room and restlessly searched for cigarettes. My uncle's voice

came through an open doorway.

"All right, Ed?"

"Yeah. I can't sleep yet. Maybe I'll read."

I chose a book at random, sank into a relaxer chair and switched on a lamp. It was utterly silent.

I could not even hear the faint splashing of little waves on the lakeshore.

There was something I wanted—

A trained rifleman's hand, at need, will itch for the feeling of smooth wood and metal. Similarly,

my hand was hungry for the feel of something—neither gun nor sword, I thought.

A weapon that I had used before. I could not remember what it was. Once I glanced at the poker

leaning against the fireplace, and thought that was it; but the flash of recognition was gone

instantly.

The book was a popular novel. I skimmed through it rapidly. The dim, faint, pulsing in my blood

did not wane. It grew stronger, rising from sub-sensory levels. A distant excitement seemed to be

growing deep in my mind.

Grimacing, I rose to return the book to its shelf. I stood there for a moment, my glance skimming

over the titles. On impulse I drew out a volume I had not looked at for many years, the Book of

Common Prayer.

It fell open in my hands. A sentence blazed out from the page.

I am become as it were a monster unto many.

I put back the book and returned to my chair. I was ifi no mood for reading. The lamp overhead

bothered me, and I pressed for the switch. Instantly moonlight flooded the room— and instantly the

curious sense of expectancy was heightened, as though I had lowered a—a barrier.

The sheathed sword still lay on the window-seat. I looked past it, to the clouded sky where a

golden moon shone. Faint, far away, a glimmer showed—the Need-fire, blazing in the swampy

wilderness of the Limberlost.

And it called.

The golden square of window was hypnotic. I lay back in my chair, half-closing my eyes, while the

sense of danger moved coldly within my brain. Sometimes before I had felt this call, summoning me.

And always before I had been able to resist.

This time I wavered.

" The lock of hair clipped from my head—had that given the enemy power? Superstition. My logic

called it that, but a deep, inner well of conviction told me that the ancient hair-magic was not

merely mummery. Since that time in Sumatra, I had been far less skeptical. And since then I had

studied.

The studies were strange enough, ranging from the principles of sympathetic magic to the wild

fables of lycanthropy and demonology. Yet I was amazingly quick at learning.

It was as though I took a refresher course, to remind myself of knowledge I had once known by

heart. Only one subject really troubled me, and I continually stumbled across it, by roundabout

references.

And that was the Force, the entity, disguised in folklore under such familiar names as the Black

Man, Satan, Lucifer, and such unfamiliar names as Kutchie, of the Australian Dieris, Tuna, of the

Esquimaux, the African Abonsam, and {he Swiss Stratteli.

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I did no research on the Black Man—but I did not need to. There was a recurrent dream that I could

not help identifying with the dark force that represented evil. I would be standing before a

golden square of light, very much afraid, and yet straining toward some consummation that I

desired. And deep down within that glowing square that would be the beginning of motion. I knew

there were certain ritual gestures to be made before the ceremony could be begun, but it was

difficult to break the paralysis that held me.

A square like the moon-drenched window before me—yet not the same.

For no chill essence of fear thrust itself out at me now. Rather, the low humming I heard was

soothing, gentle as a woman's crooning voice.

The golden square wavered—shook—and little tendrils of crepuscular light fingered out toward me.

Ever the low humming came, alluring and disarming.

Golden fingers—tentacles—they darted here and there as if puzzled. They touched lamp, table,

carpet, and drew back. They—touched me.

Swiftly they leaped forward now—avid! I had time for a momentary pulse of alarm before they

wrapped me in an embrace like golden sands of sleep. The humming grew louder. And I responded to

it.

As the skin of the flayed satyr Marsyas thrilled at the sound of his native Phrygian melodies! I

knew this music. I knew this—chant!

Stole through the golden glow a crouching shadow—not human—with amber eyes and a bristling

mane—the shadow ofa wolf.

It hesitated, glanced over its shoulder questioningly. And

now another shape swam into view, cowled and gowned so that nothing of its face or body showed.

But it was small— small as a child.

Wolf and cowled figure hung in the golden mists, watching and waiting. The sighing murmur altered.

Formed itself into syllables and words. Words in no human tongue, but—I knew them.

"Ganelon! I call you, Ganelon! By the seal in your blood— hear me!"

Ganelon! Surely that was my name. I knew it so well.

Yet who called me thus?

"I have called you before, but the way was not open. Now the bridge is made. Come to me, Ganelon!"

A sigh.

The wolf glanced over a bristling shoulder, snarling. The cowled figure bent toward me. I sensed

keen eyes searching me from the darkness of the hood, and an icy breath touched me.

"He has forgotten, Medea," said a sweet, high-pitched voice, like the tone of a child.

Again the sigh. "Has he forgotten me? Ganelon, Ganelon! Have you forgotten the arms of Medea, the

lips of Medea?"

I swung,' cradled in the golden mists, half asleep.

"He has forgotten," the cowled figure said.

"Then let him come to me nevertheless. Ganelon! The Need-fire burns. The gateway lies open to the

Dark World. By fire and earth, and darkness, I summon you! Ganelon!"

"He has forgotten."

"Bring him. We have the power, now."

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The golden sands thickened. Flame-eyed wolf and robed shadow swam toward me. I felt myself

lifted—moving forward, not of my own volition. ,

The window swung wide. I saw the sword, sheathed and ready. I snatched up the weapon, but I could

not resist that relentless tide that carried me forward. Wolf and whispering shadow drifted with

me.

"To the Fire. Bring him to the Fire."

"He has forgotten, Medea."

"To the Fire, Edeyrn. To the Fire."

Twisted tree-limbs floated past me. Far ahead I saw a flicker. It grew larger, nearer. It was the

Need-fire.

Faster the tide bore me. Toward the fire itself—

Not to Caer Llyr!

From the depths of my mind the cryptic words spewed. Amber-eyed wolf whirled to glare at me;

cowled shadow swept in closer on the golden stream. I felt a chill of deadly cold drive through

the curling mists.

"Caer Llyr," the cloaked Edeym whispered in the child's sweet voice. "He remembers Caer Llyr—but

does h& remember Llyr?"

"He will remember! He has been sealed to Llyr. And, in Caer Llyr, the Place of Llyr, he will

remember."

The Need-fire was a towering pillar a few yards away. I fought against the dragging tide.

I lifted my sword—threw the sheath away. I cut at the golden mists that fettered me.

Under the ancient steel the shining fog-wraiths shuddered and were torn apart—and drew back. There

was a break in the humming harmony; for an instant, utter silence.-

Then—

"Matholch!" the invisible whisperer cried. "Lord Math-olch!"

The wolf crouched, fangs bared. I aimed a cut at its snarling mask. It avoided the blow easily and

sprang.

It caught the blade between its teeth and wrenched the hilt from my grip.

The golden fogs surged back, folding me in their warm embrace.

"Caer Llyr," they murmured.

The Need-fire roared up in a scarlet fountain.

"Caer Llyr!" the flames shouted.

And out of those fires rose—a woman!

Hair dark as midnight fell softly to her knees. Under level brows she flashed one glance at me, a

glance that held question and a fierce determination. She was loveliness incarnate. Dark

loveliness.

Lilith. Medea, witch of Colchis!

And—

"The gateway closes," the child-voice of Edeym said.

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The wolf, still mouthing my sword, crouched uneasily. But the woman of the fire said no word.

She held out her arms to me.

The golden clouds thrust me forward, into those white arms.

Wolf and cowled shadow sprang to flank us. The humming rose to a deep-pitched roar—a thunder as of

crashing worlds.

"It is difficult, difficult," Medea said. "Help me, Edeyrn. Lord Matholch."

The fires died. Around us was not the moonlit wilderness of the Limberlost, but empty grayness, a

featureless grayness that stretched to infinity. Not even stars showed against that blank.

And now there was fear in the voice of Edeyrn.

"Medea. I have not the—power. I stayed too long in the Earth-world."

"Open the gate!" Medea cried. "Thrust it open but a little way, or we stay here between the worlds

forever!"

The wolf crouched, snarling. I felt energy pouring out of his beast-body. His brain that was not

the brain of a beast.

Around us the golden clouds were dissipating.

The grayness stole in.

"Ganelon," Medea said. "Ganelon! Help me!"

A door in my mind opened. A formless darkness stole in.

I felt that deadly, evil shadow creep through me, and submerge my mind under ebon waves.

"He has the power," Edeyrn murmured. "He was sealed to Llyr. Let him call on—Llyr."

"No. No. I dare not. Llyr?" But Medea's face was turned to me questioningly.

At my feet the wolf snarled and strained, as though by sheer brute strength it might wrench open a

gateway between locked worlds.

Now the black sea submerged me utterly. My thought reached out and was repulsed by the dark horror

of sheer infinity, stretched forth again and—

Touched—something!

Llyr...L/vr/

"The gateway opens," Edeyrn said.

The gray emptiness was gone. Golden clouds thinned and vanished. Around me, white pillars rose to

a vault far, far

above. We stood on a raised dais upon which curious designs were emblazoned.

The tide of evil which had flowed through me had vanished.

But, sick with horror and self-loathing, I dropped to my knees, one arm shielding my eyes.

I had called on—Llyr!

Ill

Locked Worlds

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ACHING in every muscle, I woke and lay motionless, staring at the low ceiling. Memory flooded

back. I turned my head, realizing that I lay on a soft couch padded with silks and pillows. Across

the bare, simply furnished room was a recessed window, translucent, for it admitted light, but I

could see only vague blurs through it.

Seated beside me, on a three-legged stool, was the dwarfed, robed figure I knew was Edeym.

Not even now could I see the face; the shadows within the cowl were too deep. I felt the keen

glint of a watchful gaze, though, and a breath of something unfamiliar—cold and deadly. The robes

were saffron, an ugly hue that held nothing of life hi the harsh folds. Staring, I saw that the

creature was less than four feet tall, or would have been had it stood upright.

Again I heard that sweet, childish, sexless voice.

"Will you drink, Lord Ganelon? Or eat?"

I threw back the gossamer robe covering me and sat up. I was wearing a thin tunic of silvery

softness, and trunks of the same material. Edeyrn apparently had not moved, but a drapery swung

apart in the wall, and a man came silently in, bearing a covered tray.

Sight of him was reassuring. He was a big man, sturdily muscled, and under a plumed Etruscan-

styled helmet his face was tanned and strong. I thought so till I met his eyes. They were blue

pools in which horror had drowned. And ancient fear, so familiar that it was almost submerged, lay

deep in his gaze.

Silently he served me and in silence withdrew.

Edeyrn nodded toward the tray.

"Eat and drink. You will be stronger, Lord Ganelon."

There were meats and bread, of a sort, and a glass of colorless liquid that was not water, as I

found on sampling it. I took a sip, set down the chalice, and scowled at Edeyrn.

"I gather that I'm not insane," I said.

"You are not. Your soul has been elsewhere—you have been in exile—but you are home again now."

"In Caer Llyr?" I asked, without quite knowing why.

Edeyrn shook the saffron robes.

"No. But you must remember?"

"I remember nothing. Who are you? What's happened to me?"

"You know that you are Ganelon?"

"My name's Edward Bond."

"Yet you almost remembered—at the Need-fire," Edeym said. "This will take time. And there is

danger always. Who am I? I ain Edeyrn—who serves the Coven."

"Are you—"

"A woman," she said, in that childish, sweet voice, laughing a little. "A very old woman, the

oldest of the Coven, it has shrunk from its original thirteen. There is Medea, of course, Lord

Matholch—" I remembered the wolf—"Ghast Rhymi, who has more power than any of us, but is too old

to use it. And you, Lord Ganelon, or Edward Bond, as you name yourself. Five of us in all now.

Once there were hundreds, but even I cannot remember that time, though Ghast Rhymi can, if he

would."

I put my head in my hands.

"Good heavens, I don't know! Your words mean nothing to me. I don't even know where I am!"

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"Listen," she said, and I felt a soft touch on my shoulder. "You must understand this. You have

lost your memories."

"That's not true."

"It is true, Lord Ganelon. Your true memories were erased, and you were given artificial ones. All

you think you recall now, of your life on the Earth-world—all that is false. It did not happen. At

least, not to you."

"The Earth-world? I'm not on Earth?"

"This is a different world," she said. "But it is your own

world. You came from here originally. The Rebels, our enemies, exiled you and changed your

memories."

"That's impossible."

"Come here," Edeyrn said, and went to the window. She touched something, and the pane grew

transparent. I looked over her shrouded head at a landscape I have never seen before.

Or had I? <

Under a dull, crimson sun the rolling forest below lay bathed in bloody light. I was looking down

from a considerable height, and could not make out details, but it seemed to me that the trees

were oddly shaped and that they were moving. A river ran toward distant hills. A few white towers

rose from the forest. That was all. Yet the scarlet, huge sun had told me enough. This was not the

Earth I knew.

"Another planet?"

"More than that," she said. "Few in the Dark World know this. But/ know—and there are some others

who have learned, unluckily for you. There are worlds of probability, divergent in the stream of

time, but identical almost, until the branches diverge too far."

"I don't understand that."

"Worlds coexistent in time and space—but separated by another dimension, the variant of

probability. This is the world that might have been yours had something not happened, long ago.

Originally the Dark World and the Earth-world were one, in space and time. Then a decision was

made—a very vital decision, though I am not sure what it was. From that point the time-stream

branched, and two variant worlds existed where there had been only one before.

"They were utterly identical at first, except that in one of them the key decision had not been

made. The results were very different. It happened hundreds of years ago, but the two variant

worlds are still close together in the time stream. Eventually they will drift farther apart, and

grow less like each other. Meanwhile, they are similar, so much so that a man on the Earth-world

may have his twin in the Dark World."

"His twin?"

"The man he might have been, had the key decision not been made ages ago in his world. Yes, twins,

Ganelon—Edward Bond. Do you understand now?"

I returned to the couch and sat there, frowning.

'Two worlds, coexistent. I can understand that, yes. But I think you mean more—that a double for

me exists somewhere."

"You were born in the Dark World. Your double, the true Edward Bond, was bom on Earth. But we have

enemies here, woods-runners, rebels, and they have stolen enough knowledge to bridge the gulf

between time-variants. We ourselves learned the method only lately, though once it was well-known

here, among the Coven.

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"The rebels reached out across the gulf and sent you—sent Ganelon—into the Earth-world so that

Edward Bond could come here, among them. They—"

"But why?" I interrupted. "What reason could they have for that?"

Edeyrn turned her hooded head toward me, and I felt, not for the first time, remote chill as she

fixed her unseen gaze upon my face.

"What reason?" she echoed in her sweet, cool voice. "Think, Ganelon. See if you remember."

I thought, I closed my eyes and tried to submerge my conscious mind, to let the memories of

Ganelon rise up to the surface if they were there at all. I could not yet accept this preposterous

thought in its entirety, but certainly it would explain a great deal if it were true. It would

even explain—I realized suddenly—that strange blanking out in the plane over the Sumatra jungle,

that moment from which everything had seemed so wrong.

Perhaps that was the moment when Edward Bond left Earth, and Ganelon took his place—both twins too

stunned and helpless at the change to know what had happened, or to understand.

But this was impossible!

"I don't remember!" I said harshly. "It can't have happened. I know who I am! I know everything

that ever happened to Edward Bond. You can't tell me that all this is only illusion. It's too

clear, too real!"

"Ganelon, Ganelon," Edeyrn crooned to me, a smile in her voice. "Think of the rebel tribes. Try,

Ganelon. Try to remember why they did what they did to you. The woods-runners,

Ganelon—the disobedient little men in green. The hateful men who threatened us. Ganelon, surely

you remember!"

It may have been a form of hypnotism. I thought of that later. But at that moment, a picture did

swim into my mind. I could see the green-clad swarms moving through the woods, and the sight of

them made me hot with sudden anger. For that instant I was Ganelon, and a great and powerful lord,

defied by these underlings not fit to tie my shoe.

"Of course you hated them," murmured Edeyrn. She may have seen the look on my face. I felt the

stiffness of an unfamiliar twist of feature as she spoke. I had straightened where I sat, and my

shoulders had gone back arrogantly, my lip curling a feeling of scorn. So perhaps she did not read

my mind at all. What I thought was plain in my face and bearing.

"Of course you punished them when you could," she went on. "It was your right and duty. But they

duped you, Ganelon. They were cleverer than you. They found a door that would turn on a temporal

axis and thrust you into anolfter world. On the far side of the door was Edward Bond who did not

hate them. So they opened the door."

Edeyrn's voice rose slightly and in it I detected a note of mockery.

"False memories, false memories, Ganelon. You put on Edward Bond's past when you put on his

identity. But he came into our world as he was, free of any knowledge of Ganelon. He has given us

much trouble, my friend, and much bewilderment. At first we did not guess what had gone wrong. It

seemed to us that as Ganelon vanished from our Coven, a strange new Ganelon appeared among the

rebels, organizing them to fight against his own people." She laughed softly. "We had to rouse

Ghast Rhymi from his sleep to aid us. But in the end, learning the method of door-opening, we came

to Earth and searched for you, and found you. And brought you back. This is your world, Lord

Ganelon! Will you accept it?"

I shook my head dizzily.

"It isn't real. I'm still Edward Bond."

"We can bring back your true memories. And we will. They came to the surface for a moment, I

think, just now. But it will take time. Meanwhile, you are one of the Coven, and Edward Bond is

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Kuttner, Henry - The Dark World

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