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Chapter 13 - The Wombflash Forest
He awoke to his third day on Tormance. His limbs ached. He lay on
his side, looking stupidly at his surroundings. The forest was like
night, but that period of the night when the grey dawn is about to
break and objects begin to be guessed at, rather than seen. Two or
three amazing shadowy shapes, as broad as houses, loomed up out of
the twilight. He did not realise that they were trees, until he
turned over on his back and followed their course upward. Far
overhead, so high up that he dared not calculate the height, he saw
their tops glittering in the sunlight, against a tiny patch of blue
sky.
Clouds of mist, rolling over the floor of the forest, kept
interrupting his view. In their silent passage they were like
phantoms flitting among the trees. The leaves underneath him were
sodden, and heavy drops of moisture splashed onto his head from time
to time.
He continued lying there, trying to reconstruct the events of the
preceding day. His brain was lethargic and confused. Something
terrible had happened, but what it was he could not for a long time
recollect. Then suddenly there came before his eyes that ghastly
closing scene at dusk on the Sant plateau - Spadevil's crushed and
bloody features and Tydomin's dying sighs.. .. He shuddered
convulsively, and felt sick.
The peculiar moral outlook that had dictated these brutal murders had
departed from him during the night, and now he recognised what he had
done! During the whole of the previous day he seemed to have been
labouring under a series of heavy enchantments. First Oceaxe had
enslaved him, then Tydomin, then Spadevil, and lastly Catice. They
had forced him to murder and violate; he had guessed nothing, but had
imagined that he was travelling as a free and enlightened stranger.
What was this nightmare journey for - and would it continue, in the
same way? ...
The silence of the forest was so intense that he heard no sound
except the pumping of blood through his arteries.
Putting his hand to his face, he found that his remaining probe had
disappeared and that he was in possession of three eyes. The third
eye was on his forehead, where the old sorb had been. He could not
guess its use. He still had his third arm, but it was nerveless.
Now he puzzled his head for a long time, trying unsuccessfully to
recall that name which had been the last word spoken by Catice.
He got up, with the intention of resuming his journey. He had no
toilet to make, and no meal to prepare. The forest was tremendous.
The nearest tree appeared to him to have a circumference of at least
a hundred feet. Other dim boles looked equally large. But what gave
the scene its aspect of immensity was the vast spaces separating tree
from tree. It was like some gigantic, supernatural hall in a life
after death. The lowest branches were fifty yards or more from the
ground. There was no underbrush; the soil was carpeted only by the
dead, wet leaves. He looked all around him, to find his direction,
but the cliffs of Sant, which he had descended, were invisible -
every way was like every other way, he had no idea which quarter to
attack. He grew frightened, and muttered to himself. Craning his
neck back, he stared upward and tried to discover the points of the
compass from the direction of the sunlight, but it was impossible.
While he was standing there, anxious and hesitating, he heard the
drum taps. The rhythmical beats proceeded from some distance off.
The unseen drummer seemed to be marching through the forest, away
from him.
"Surtur!" he said, under his breath. The next moment he marvelled at
himself for uttering the name. That mysterious being had not been in
his thoughts, nor was there any ostensible connection between him and
the drumming.
He began to reflect - but in the meantime the sounds were travelling
away. Automatically he started walking in the same direction. The
drum beats had this peculiarity - though odd and mystical, there was
nothing awe-inspiring in them, but on the contrary they reminded him
of some place and some life with which he was perfectly familiar.
Once again they caused all his other sense impressions to appear
false.
The sounds were intermittent. They would go on for a minute, or for
five minutes, and then cease for perhaps a quarter of an hour.
Maskull followed them as well as he could. He walked hard among the
huge, indistinct trees, in the attempt to come up with the origin of
the noise, but the same distance always seemed to separate them. The
forest from now onward descended. The gradient was mostly gentle -
about one foot in ten - but in some places it was much steeper, and
in other parts again it was practically level ground for quite long
stretches. There were great swampy marshes, through which Maskull
was obliged to splash. It was a matter of indifference to him how
wet he became - if only he could catch sight of that individual with
the drum. Mile after mile was covered, and still he was no nearer to
doing so.
The gloom of the forest settled down upon his spirits. He felt
despondent, tired, and savage. He had not heard the drum beats for
some while, and was half inclined to discontinue the pursuit.
Passing around a great, columnar tree trunk, he almost stumbled
against a man who was standing on the farther side. He was leaning
against the trunk with one hand, in an attitude of repose. His other
hand was resting on a staff. Maskull stopped short and started at
him.
He was nearly naked, and of gigantic build. He over-topped Maskull
by a head. His face and body were faintly phosphorescent. His eyes
- three in number - were pale green and luminous, shining like lamps.
His skin was hairless, but the hair of his head was piled up in
thick, black coils, and fastened like a woman's. His features were
absolutely tranquil, but a terrible, quiet energy seemed to lie just
underneath the surface.
Maskull addressed him. "Did the drumming come from you?"
The man shook his head.
"What is your name?"
He replied in a strange, strained, twisted voice. Maskull gathered
that the name he gave was "Dreamsinter."
"What is that drumming?"
"Surtur," said Dreamsinter.
"Is it advisable for me to follow it?"
"Why?"
"Perhaps he intends me to. He brought me here from Earth."
Dreamsinter caught hold of him, bent down, and peered into his face.
"Not you, but Nightspore."
This was the first time that Maskull had heard Nightspore's name
since his arrival on the planet. He was so astonished that he could
frame no more questions.
"Eat this," said Dreamsinter. "Then we will chase the sound
together." He picked something up from the ground and handed it to
Maskull. He could not see distinctly, but it felt like a hard, round
nut, of the size of a fist.
"I can't crack it."
Dreamsinter took it between his hands, and broke it into pieces.
Maskull then ate some of the pulpy interior, which was intensely
disagreeable.
"What am I doing in Tormance, then?" he asked.
"You came to steal Muspel-fire, to give a deeper life to men - never
doubting if your soul could endure that burning."
Maskull could hardly decipher the strangled words.
"Muspel.. .. That's the name I've been trying to remember ever since
I awoke."
Dreamsinter suddenly turned his head sideways, and appeared to listen
for something. He motioned with his hand to Maskull to keep quiet.
"Is it the drumming?"
"Hush! They come."
He was looking toward the upper forest. The now familiar drum rhythm
was heard - this time accompanied by the tramp of marching feet.
Maskull saw, marching through the trees and heading toward them,
three men in single file separated from one another by only a yard or
so. They were travelling down hill at a swift pace, and looked
neither to left nor right. They were naked. Their figures were
shining against the black background of the forest with a pale,
supernatural light - green and ghostly. When they were abreast of
him, about twenty feet off, he perceived who they were. The first
man was himself - Maskull. The second was Krag. The third man was
Nightspore. Their faces were grim and set.
The source of the drumming was out of sight. The sound appeared to
come from some point in front of them. Maskull and Dreamsinter put
themselves in motion, to keep up with the swiftly moving marchers.
At the same time a low, faint music began.
Its rhythm stepped with the drum beats, but, unlike the latter, it
did not seem to proceed from any particular quarter of the forest.
It resembled the subjective music heard in dreams, which accompanies
the dreamer everywhere, as a sort of natural atmosphere, rendering
all his experiences emotional. it seemed to issue from an unearthly
orchestra, and was strongly troubled, pathetic and tragic. Maskull
marched, and listened; and as he listened, it grew louder and
stormier. But the pulse of the drum interpenetrated all the other
sounds, like the quiet beating of reality.
His emotion deepened. He could not have said if minutes or hours
were passing. The spectral procession marched on, a little way
ahead, on a path parallel with his own and Dreamsinter's. The music
pulsated violently. Krag lifted his arm, and displayed a long,
murderous-looking knife. He sprang forward and, raising it over the
phantom Maskull's back, stabbed him twice, leaving the knife in the
wound the second time. Maskull threw up his arms, and fell down
dead. Krag leaped into the forest and vanished from sight.
Nightspore marched on alone, stern and unmoved.
The music rose to crescendo. The whole dim, gigantic forest was
roaring with sound. The tones came from all sides, from above, from
the ground under their feet. It was so grandly passionate that
Maskull felt his soul loosening from its bodily envelope.
He continued to follow Nightspore. A strange brightness began to
glow in front of them. It was not daylight, but a radiance such as
he had never seen before, and such as he could not have imagined to
be possible. Nightspore moved straight toward it. Maskull felt his
chest bursting. The light flashed higher. The awful harmonies of
the music followed hard one upon another, like the waves of a wild,
magic ocean.. .. His body was incapable of enduring such shocks, and
all of a sudden he tumbled over in a faint that resembled death.
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