The Doomsman

  XIII

  GODS IN EXILE

  February, and a full three months since Constans had come to Doom. Andyet he was virtually at his starting-point, so little had he been ableto accomplish along the line of his purpose. A dozen times indeed hemight have planted an arrow between the delicately shrugged shoulders ofMaster Quinton Edge as he strolled, of a sunshiny morning, along thePalace Road, surrounded by his little body-guard of flatterers andpolitical courtiers. But such an act would have stained his honorwithout fully satisfying his vengeance; he did not want to strike untilhe should know where it would hurt the most.

  It had been Ulick always who had stood in the road; Ulick with hiseternal lamentations over the maid Esmay. Together they had searched forher in every possible quarter. But where was one to look first in thiswilderness of stone? It would have been an obvious procedure to havekept close watch upon the movements of Quinton Edge, whose complicitywas a matter of reasonable suspicion. But the first attempts atshadowing him had resulted in nothing, and early in December the _BlackSwan_, with Quinton Edge himself in command, had left her moorings inthe Greater river, bound doubtless on some piratical expedition.

  It was an added aggravation of Constans's impatience that Ulick himselfwas ordered away at the end of January. He had been drafted to take partin a raid, and since the route of the proposed foray led far to thesouthward he would probably be absent for a considerable time. It wouldtake a fortnight's hard riding for the band to reach the distant colonyagainst which the attack had been planned, and fully six weeks would berequired in which to drive the cattle home. Two full months, then, andas yet only one had passed; the returning raiders would not cross theHigh Bridge much before the first day in April.

  As the weeks went heavily on, Constans, in spite of his philosophy,began to fret and chafe. He could put in a part of each day in thelibrary poring over his books and digging out the ancient wisdom fromthe printed page by sheer force of will. But there always came a timewhen only physical exertion would have any effect in dispelling themental disquietude that possessed him, and then he would throw aside hisbooks and walk the empty streets for hours.

  The weather continued bad, bitter cold alternating with storms of rainand sleet. Towards the end of January the snow came in earnest: it lay afoot deep on the level, and the Doomsmen, after their custom, keptclosely within doors. Constans would occasionally note a few freshtracks along the Palace Road, and the smoke that curled steadily fromscattered chimney-pots and the bivouac fires on the Citadel Square mightbe taken as evidence that the suspension of social activities was onlytemporary. But for the present, at least, Constans had the city tohimself, and he wandered about as he chose without a thought ofpossible danger.

  An anxiously longed-for discovery was the reward of one of these lonelyexcursions. In a shop that had once been devoted to the sale offire-arms, Constans found a quantity of ammunition of a caliber thatwould fit the chambers of his revolver. The cartridges had been packedin hermetically sealed cases, presumably for export-shipment or upon aspecial order. However that might be, the precaution had prevented thedeterioration of the powder, and the ammunition was consequently, incondition for use. Constans nerved himself to make the experiment, butalthough his studies had made him well acquainted with the theory of theexplosive projectile, he had to summon all his resolution for the actualpulling of the trigger.

  The detonation that followed startled him out of his self-possession. Hedropped the pistol, and was out of the shop and half way across thestreet before he could recover himself. Then, ashamed of his cowardice,he forced himself to pick up the weapon and went forward to examine thetwo-inch plank at which he had taken aim. To his astonishment anddelight he saw that a hole had been drilled clean through the solid oakand the bullet itself was lying on the ground, flattened from its impactwith the masonry behind the planking. All this, let it be said again,was perfectly familiar to Constans in theory, but its realization infact gave him a strange thrill. A score of men armed with these largecaliber pistols, or, better still, rifles, might easily enough compelthe surrender or bring about the destruction of the entire fightingforce of the Doomsmen.

  Inspired by this new thought, Constans made a thorough examination ofthe stock of arms in the shop. To his disappointment he found most ofthe rifles in unserviceable condition, covered with rust and verdigris.Finally, however, he came across a dozen carbines carefully wrapped andpacked for a prospective shipment across the ocean. Protected by theirheavy coverings the weapons had suffered comparatively little damage,and Constans spent the best part of a week in cleaning them and gettingthe mechanism of their working parts into tolerable order.

  Later on, Constans removed the serviceable ammunition, amounting toseveral hundred rounds, to a convenient hiding-place in the cellar of abuilding fronting on the Lesser or Eastern river, and he alsotransported thither the carbines, the latter carefully wrapped ingreased rags to preserve them from dampness. Some day the opportunitywould come to put these things to use. And now, February had passed, andMarch was well into its third quarter; in a few more days the returningsun would cross the line, and spring, the time for action, would be athand. How he longed for its advent.

  This was the third occasion upon which Constans had noticed thatpeculiar noise, a continuous, deep, humming note, such as might havebeen made by swarming-bees multiplied a hundredfold. On the day that hefirst heard it he happened to be walking three blocks to the westward ofthe Citadel Square, and it seemed then that the seat of the mystery layalmost due south. A week later he happened to be in the same locality.Once more, those deep-toned vibrations smote upon his ears; now thesound-waves were all about him and the sense of direction was lost;again, and they plainly proceeded from somewhere to the eastward. It wasperplexing, but the varying quarter and strength of the wind might besufficient to account for the difference, and in one curious particularthe two observations corresponded. The day of the week in each case hadbeen Friday, and the humming noise had commenced at precisely the sametime--the passing of the sun over the meridian.

  To-day was the third successive Friday, and Constans had madepreparations for the careful noting of the phenomenon should it reoccur.He waited with a lively sense of expectation, and he was notdisappointed. At high noon the humming began again, and it seemed to belouder than when he had listened to it on the two former occasions--theair was full of the vibrant droning. There was a sinister quality, too,in its monotone, and Constans for the moment felt himself swayed by agust of superstitious terror. He recalled the traditions current amongthe House-dwellers, the belief that Doom was inhabited not only by theoutlaws but by demons of many a grewsome sort and kind. There werestrange tales of lights that lured the wanderer onward, only to vanishas the victim sank into some frightful abyss; of invisible hands thatplucked at the rash intruder's skirts; of monstrous shapes that leeredand gabbled behind the traveller's back and were only blocks of stonewhen he turned to face them; of bloodless creatures that one might meetin the full flood of day, and whose unearthly character was only to beproved by observing that they cast no shadow in even the brightestsunlight; of vampires and ghouls and fair women with enchanting voices,who enticed their victims into blind passageways and then changedsuddenly to foul, harpy-like monsters. But in this latter case thefoolish one had only himself to blame, for if he kept on the lookout hecould always detect the masquerade by observing the creature's hands.The harpies could transform themselves in every other way, but theirclaws remained unchanged, and they were, consequently, obliged to coverthem with gloves. "Beware the gloved hand," was a familiar aphorismamong the wise women of the West Inch, and Constans, shaken in spite ofhimself by the remembrance of these old fables, felt the sweat break outupon his forehead, for all that the wind blew shrewdly cold.

  Yet as he waited and listened and still nothing happened his naturalgood-sense reasserted itself. Overhead a glorious winter sun wasshining; as everybody knew, the sirens never sang until after dark, andassuredly they were accustomed to gi
ve a much more artistic performance.His courage re-established, curiosity asserted her rights; he mustdiscover the source and nature of this mystery, and so he proceededcautiously in the direction from whence it now appeared to come, acourse that led him south by east for perhaps ten of the city blocks.

  Constans found himself a short distance below the Citadel Square and ina quarter of the city that he had never yet explored. Suddenly he cameupon a large building of brick covering a full square in area but onlytwo stories in height. As he approached the humming noise grew louderand louder; the secret, whatever it was, lay concealed behind thosecommon-place-looking walls. Constans held his breath and went forwardslowly.

  The street, upon which the main elevation of the building faced was anunusually wide one, and directly in front of the entrance to thestructure the snow had been cleared away from a circular space whosediameter was about forty feet. In this enclosure were three women whosecostume, a dark gray cloak and scarlet hood, proclaimed them to be ofthe Doomsmen. They were kneeling on the hard pavement, and keptalternately bowing their foreheads to the ground and then bringing theupper body to a vertical position, the arms extended and the palmsturned outward. The movements were done in time to the rhythmic throb ofthe mysterious humming, and undoubtedly the ceremony possessed somereligious significance.

  For perhaps ten minutes Constans stood motionless, watching the scene.Then, together, the women rose to their feet and approached a rude,block-shaped structure of stone that apparently served as an altar. Uponit each in turn laid her gift, some article of food, and immediatelydeparted. In his eagerness to see what would follow, Constans steppedboldly around the corner, and so came within the view of a man who hadjust made his exit from the building.

  It was too late to retreat, and Constans stood his ground, noting thatthe stranger seemed equally astonished with himself at the encounter. Anelderly man, to judge by the whitening beard, but his eye was bright andsearching, and there was no hint at superannuation in either port ormovement. He was dressed in a long skirtlike garment of blackcloth--true priest garb--and for a girdle he wore a length of hempenrope tied in the peculiar and sinister fashion known as the "hangman'sknot." Around his neck, suspended like a priest's stole, hung a steelchain with pendent manacles or handcuffs that jangled unmusically as hemoved. A grotesque, almost ridiculous figure this priest of theDoomsmen, but with the first look into the man's face one forgot aboutthe fantastic garb. A singular contradiction it presented, for thelarge, square jaw was indicative of a mind keenly rationalistic, whilethe high, narrow forehead assuredly proclaimed the partisan and thebigot.

  It was the elder man who broke the silence.

  "The time is long since a man of the Doomsmen has appeared to pay hisvows to the Shining One. You are welcome, my son."

  Constans wondered if he had heard aright. Then he remembered that he waswearing a suit of Ulick's clothes and that his hair was cut after theDoomsmen fashion. It was a comfortable assurance of the merit of hisdisguise that it had passed muster so easily; he had only to guardagainst talking too much, and detection was practically impossible. Sohe contented himself with what might pass for an obeisance and somevague words of apology. The priest, however, paid no attention to hisexcuses, but continued in a tone of sarcastic bitterness:

  "Strange that you should think it worth while to seek a god who isserved only by women. Yet the Shining One seems neither to know nor tocare that the sons of the Doomsmen come no longer into his presencechamber and bring no gifts to his altar. A god forsaken by his people, aneglected shrine, a worn-out creed--why, indeed, should any one doreverence to such things as these? Yet you have come."

  "I--my father----" stammered Constans. "There are reasons; I willexplain----"

  "It matters not," interrupted the priest, impatiently. "It is enoughthat you are here, and, being a man, you have the privilege of the innermysteries. And possibly a message may be awaiting you. Come."

  He took Constans by the hand and drew him towards the vaultedentrance-way. There was no reasonable opportunity for protest, andbefore Constans was fully aware of what was happening he had beenhurried through the passage and into a large, semi-darkened buildingthat was filled with the rumble and clank of machinery in rapid motion.Constans, having recovered from the first surprise and his eyes becomingaccustomed to the obscurity, looked about him with a dawning sense ofcomprehension.

  In the middle of the hall was installed an enormous piece of machinery,a vast cylindrical construction revolving at great speed, and Constansbecame the more certain of its real nature as he proceeded to examine itin detail. He recalled the illustrations and diagrams that he had beenporing over only the day before at the library building, and he was surethat this monster could be nothing else than an electric dynamo, and oneof the very largest size, delivering as high as fifteen thousandhorse-power of potential energy. But how to account for the chance thathad preserved this mightiest of the Old-World forces? What miracle hadbeen wrought to keep this soulless giant in life through so many yearsof darkness and of silence? Constans felt his head spinning; theconsciousness of a fact so tremendous was overwhelming; to save himselfhe turned away from the dynamo proper and began looking about for thesource of its mechanical energy. He found it in an odd-appearing motor,to which the dynamo was connected by the ordinary means of a shaft andbelting.

  The engine was simple enough in outward construction. All that could beseen was an apparatus consisting of two ten-foot tuning-forks of steelsupported on insulated pedestals, and between them a disk of someunknown composition, mounted in a vertical plane and revolving atinconceivable velocity. The power was taken from the shaft of thisrevolving disk and reduced in speed by means of gear-wheels before beingconveyed to the dynamo. The prongs of the big tuning-forks continued tovibrate strongly, and gave out in unison the loud, humming note that hadoriginally attracted Constans's attention. It was undoubtedly, a form ofmotor whose power was derived from some secret property of vibratorybodies, a recondite subject to which his books alluded but obscurely.Yet in the years immediately preceding the Great Change the principleseems to have been reduced to practical utility. Here was the engine inactual operation, and whatever its source of fuel supply or the ultimatesecret of its energy there could be no doubt about its production ofpower. It moved, it was alive, and Constans gazed upon it withfascinated eyes.

  The priest had risen to his feet; he touched Constans lightly on theshoulder.

  "The presence chamber," he said, in a whisper. "Come, that you may lookupon the face of the Shining One; he will rejoice in knowing that thereis left even one faithful in Doom."

  He opened a door leading to a room at the left of the main hall andmotioned Constans to enter. The door closed behind them and they stoodin darkness. Then came the click of a switch-key, and out of theblackness faint lines of radiance appeared, changing slowly to a fierybrightness. And as the lines grew visible they resolved themselves intothe semblance of a great and terrible face, the countenance of a man ofheroic size with long hair. There was no suggestion of a body, only thatmajestic head crowned with hyacinthine locks and limned in lambent fire.

  Constans felt his knees shaking under him, and involuntarily heprostrated himself; then again he heard the switch click, and the visionfaded into nothingness.

  There was the sound of a shutter being thrown back, and the daylightstreamed in. He rose uncertainly to his feet and looked about him.

  It was a small apartment, low-studded, with cement walls and a tiledfloor. Near the door and fastened against the wall was a woodenframework, bearing a complicated arrangement of push-buttons and levers.Constans had seen its like pictured in his books, and he instantlyconjectured it to be an electrical switch-board, designed to control anddirect the current generated by the dynamo. On the opposite wall wassuspended a thick sheet of some insulating substance--vulcanite--andfixed upon it was a net-work of wires in whose outlines he coulddistinguish the lineaments of the fiery face. Now he understood; it wassimply a trick, the passin
g of a strong current of electricity throughplatinum wires until they became incandescent.

  The recognition of those material agencies for the production of theapparition that had so terrified him gave Constans back his confidence;his books had not deceived him, and he was ready now for any freshmarvels that might be on the cards. But the attitude of the priestpuzzled him. Was he really the charlatan, the trickster that he seemed?Was it not equally simple to regard him as the self-deluded votary? Hecould not decide.

  "You have looked upon the face of the Shining One," said the old man,breaking the silence. "Now behold his throne; perchance he will accordyou the honor of sharing it with him."

  In the middle of the apartment stood the only piece of furniture properthat it contained, a massive oaken chair, with a head-piece, upon whichwas fastened a metal plate. On the arms of the chair were copper clips,the size of a man's wrist, and all the points of contact were suppliedwith cups containing sponges. Again Constans understood. It was onlynecessary to dampen these sponges to ensure a perfect discharge of theelectrical current passing through the head-rest and the metalwrist-clips. Constans shuddered, and this time with reason; he knewenough of the science to realize that the slightest contact with thoseenormously charged electrodes must be fatal.

  The priest went to the switch-board, and, after a series ofgenuflections and the mumbling of what might have been an invocation, heturned a lever. Constans stepped back hastily.

  "Now is the Shining One come upon his throne. Take your seat at his sideif you would put his divinity to the proof. Or else be content to servehim in silence and singleness of heart, even as I."

  Constans guessed acutely that the full current from the dynamo must bepassing through the metal framework of the great chair; he moved alittle farther back and stood on guard. There was a glitter in the oldman's eye that was disquieting, and Constans did not relish the idea ofa hand-to-hand struggle in this contracted space with thesewicked-looking wires running in every direction. One of them had beenbroken, and from the dangling end, which hung close to a metalwall-bracket, a continuous stream of sparks fizzed and spluttered.

  "I am content," he said, quietly.

  The priest smiled grimly. "Yet it is a pity that your doubts are not ofa more stubborn growth, for it is many a year since the Shining One hastaken a man to his arms. Of a truth, the ancient faith has failedmiserably among the children of the Doomsmen, and I alone of all hispriests remain to serve our lord."

  There was silence, the old man remaining apparently absorbed in hisbitter reverie. Constans had been growing more and more uncomfortable,and this seemed to be his opportunity to escape. He edged towards thedoor. Now the metal knob of the door handle was within reach; he graspedit, and received a severe electric shock. Unable to master his startlednerves, he gave utterance to a cry of pain. The priest turned quickly, afrosty smile upon his lips.

  "The sentinels of the Shining One are faithful to their duty," he said,quietly. He touched a push-button, and Constans was at last able to letgo of that innocent-looking door-knob; he fell to rubbing his armvigorously in order to relieve the contracted muscles. What a ridiculousfigure he had made of himself, he thought, vexedly.

  "My son."

  There was a new note in the old man's voice, an inflection almostkindly, and Constans wondered.

  "Nothing happens of itself," continued the priest, "and it was more thanchance that led you thither. Surely, the Shining One has been mindful ofhis own, for I am an old man and my days are numbered. Therefore, has hesent you, my son, that to you I may commit the secrets of his power andworship. Then shall I ascend in peace upon the knees of the Silent One,knowing that his honor is safe in your hands. What say you?"

  Constans realized that he was in a difficult position; nay more, that hewas absolutely at the mercy of his new acquaintance. There was no meansof exit save by the one door, and he had no desire for a second trial ofstrength with the electric current. The old priest might be ignorant ofthe real nature of the forces under his control, but certainly he waswell provided with practical formulas for their exploitation, as witnessthe illuminated face and the electrically charged door-knob. Constansunderstood that he was in a trap, where even to come into contact withthe walls of his prison-house might mean death. There was but one thingto do, and that was to surrender.

  "I will serve the Shining One," he said, quietly.

  "You have chosen well, my son," returned the old man. "Now a fool wouldnever have understood that a net may be none the less strong for beinginvisible, and our lord does not love to speak twice. You have heardand you have obeyed; it is good."

  He stepped to the switch-board, and, after going through a series ofgenuflections, accompanied by an undertone of carelessly gabbled ritual,he depressed a lever. Instantly the room was in darkness and thespluttering wire ceased its crackling. The priest passed into the greathall, motioning Constans to follow him. Another brief andincomprehensible ritual and he approached the vibratory motor. Constanswatched intently as he proceeded to manipulate a series of polished rodsand levers. Suddenly the loud, humming note separated into two distincttones, at first in musical accord and then becoming more and moredissonant. The revolving disk slowed down and stopped, and with it thedynamo came finally to rest. The hour of worship had come to an end; theShining One had departed from his sanctuary.

  At the suggestion of his ecclesiastical superior Constans brought withindoors the offerings of food that had been left by the earlierworshippers. There were some dry cakes, baked of rye flour, a pot ofhoney, cheese, milk, and two bottles of wine. These provisions he wasordered to carry to a room on the story above the street, where a fireof sea-coal burned cheerfully in a brazier. Here they sat down andfeasted amicably together, for the frosty air had put a keen edge toappetite and the noon hour was long overpast. And then as they sat atease after the meal and the old man was well started on his second pipe,Constans came directly to the point.

  "If I am to serve the Shining One acceptably," he said, "there are manythings that I should know. May I speak, my father?"

  The priest looked at him searchingly. "As you will," he replied.

  All through the afternoon and deep into the night they talked earnestlytogether. And so, from time to time, in the days that were to follow,for it was a question of many things, and of some that were hard ofunderstanding.