CHAPTER VIII.
THE FACE IN THE ABYSS.
THE white sands of the barren were wan in the first gleaming of the dawn when Graydon awakened. He arose with the thought of Suarra warm around his heart. Chilling that warmth, swift upon him like a pall fell that bleak consciousness of doom against which he had struggled before he slept; and bleaker, heavier now; not to be denied.
A wind was sweeping down from the heights. Beneath it he shivered. He walked to the hidden brook; doffed clothing; dipped beneath its icy flow. Strength poured back into him at the touch of the chill current.
Returning, he saw Suarra, less than half clad, slipping out of the silken tent. Clearly, she too, was bound for the brook. He waved a hand. She smiled; then long silken lashes covered the midnight eyes; rose-pearl grew her face, her throat, her breasts. She slipped back behind the silken folds.
He turned his head from her; passed on to the camp.
He looked down upon the three—gaunt Soames, little Dancre, giant Sterrett. He stooped and plucked from Soames’s belt an automatic—his own. He satisfied him self that it was properly loaded, and thrust it into his pocket. Under Soames’s left arm pit was another. He took it out and put it in the holster from which he had withdrawn his. He slipped into Sterrett’s a new magazine of cartridges. Dancre’s gun was ready for use.
“They’ll have their chance, anyway,” he said to himself.
He stood over them for a moment; scanned them. The scores of tiny punctures had closed. Their breathing was normal. They seemed to be asleep. And yet—they looked like dead men. Like dead men, livid and wan and bloodless as the pallid sands beneath the growing dawn.
Graydon shuddered; turned his back upon them.
He made coffee; threw together a breakfast; went back to rouse the three. He found Soames sitting up, looking around him, dazedly.
“Come get something to eat, Soames,” he said, and gently, for there was a helplessness about the gaunt man that roused his pity—black hearted even as the New Englander had shown himself. Soames looked at him, blankly; then stumbled up and stood staring, as though waiting further command. Graydon leaned down and shook Sterrett by the shoulder. The giant mumbled, opened dull eyes; lurched to his feet. Dancre awakened, whimpering.
As they stood before him—gaunt man, little man, giant—a wonder, a fearful wonder, seized him. For these were not the men he had known. No! What was it that had changed these men so, sapped the life from them until they seemed, even as Suarra had said, already dead?
A verse from the Rime of the Ancient Mariner rang in his ears—
“They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
It had been strange, even in a dream,
To have seen those dead men rise.”
Shuddering again, he led the way to the fire. They followed him, stiffly, mechanically, like automatons. And like automatons they took the steaming coffee from him and drank it; the food and swallowed it. Their eyes, blank, devoid of all expression, followed his every movement.
Graydon studied them, the fear filled wonder growing. They seemed to hear nothing, see nothing—save for their recognition of himself—to be cut off from all the world. Suddenly he became conscious of others near him; turned his head and saw close behind him Suarra and the hooded pair. The eyes of Soames, of Sterrett and of Dancre turned with his own. And now he knew that not even memory had been left them! Blankly, with no recognition—unseeing—they stared at Suarra.
“It is time to start, Graydon,” she said softly, her own eyes averted from their dead gaze. “We leave the llama here. It cannot walk. Take with you only your own animal, your weapons and what belongs to you. The other animals will stay here.”
He chilled, for under her words he read both sentence of death and of banishment. Death of all of them perhaps—banishment for him even if he escaped death. In his face she read his heart, accurately; tried to soften his sorrow.
“They may escape,” she continued, hastily. “And if they do, the animals will be here awaiting them. And it is well for you to have your own with you, in case—in case—”
She faltered. He shook his head.
“No use, Suarra,” he smiled. “I understand.”
“Oh, trust me, trust me,” she half sobbed. “Do as I say, Graydon.”
He said no more. He unhobbled his burro; fixed the saddlebags; took his own rifle and strapped it to them. He picked up the rifles of the others and put them in their hands. They took them, as mechanically as they had the coffee and the food.
Now blue cowl and yellow swung into the lead, Suarra at their heels.
“Come on, Soames,” he said. “Come, Sterrett. It’s time to start, Dancre.”
Obediently they swung upon the trail, marching side by side—gaunt man at left, giant in the center, little man at right. Like marionettes they marched, obediently, unquestioning, without word. If they knew the llama and its treasures were no longer with them, they gave no sign. If they knew Graydon again carried his guns, they gave no sign either.
Another line of the “Rime” echoed in his memory—
“They raised their limbs like lifeless tools—”
Graydon swung in behind them, the patient burro trotting at his side.
They crossed the white sands, entering a broad way stretching through close growing, enormous trees, as though it had once been a road of stone upon whose long deserted surface the leaves had rotted for centuries; upon which turf had formed, but in which no trees had been able to get root hold. And as they went on, he had evidence that it had been actually such a road. For where there had been washouts the faces of gigantic cut and squared granite blocks were exposed.
For an hour they passed along this ancient buried trail. They emerged from it, abruptly, out upon a broad platform of bare rock. Before them were the walls of a split mountain. Its precipices towered thousands of feet. Between them, like a titanic sword cut, was a rift, a prodigious cleavage which widened as it reached up ward as though each side had shrunk away from the splitting blade as it had struck downward. The platform was the thresh old of this rift. Fifty feet wide from edge to edge it ran. At each edge stood a small, conical shaped building—temple or guard house—whose crumbling stones were covered with a gray lichen so ancient looking that it might have been withered old Time’s own flower.
The cowled figures neither turned nor stopped. They crossed the threshold between the ruined cones; behind them Suarra; and after her, never hesitating, the stiffly marching three. Then over it went Graydon and the burro.
The way led downward at an angle barely saved from difficult steepness. No trees, no vegetation of any kind, could he see—unless the ancient, gray and dry lichen that covered the road and whispered under their feet could be called vegetation. But it gave resistance, that lichen; made the descent easier. It covered the straight rock walls that arose on each side.
The gorge was dark, as he had expected. The light that fell through its rim thousands of feet overhead was faint. But the gray lichens seemed to take it up and diffuse it. It was no darker than an early northern twilight. Every object was plainly visible.
Down they went and ever down; for half an hour; an hour. Always straight ahead the road stretched, never varying in its width and growing no darker, even the gray lichens lightened it. He estimated its drop was about fifteen feet in the hundred. He looked back and upward along its narrowing vista. They must be, he thought, half a mile or more below the level of the rift threshold.
The road angled. A breast of rock jutted abruptly out of the cliff, stretching from side to side like a barrier. The new road was narrower, barely wide enough for the three marionettes in front to walk on side by side. As they wheeled into it Graydon again felt a pang of pity. They were like doomed men marching to execution; hope less; helpless and—drugged. Nay—they were men who had once been slain and drawn inexorably on to a second death!
Never speaking, never turning, with mechanical swing of feet, rifles held slack in limp arms, their march was a grotesquerie tinged with horror.
The new road was darker than the old. He had an uneasy feeling that the rocks were closing high over his head; that what they were entering was a tunnel. The gray lichens rapidly dwindled on walls and underfoot. As they dwindled, so did the light.
At last the gray lichens ceased to be. He moved through a half darkness in which barely could he see, save as shadows, those who went before.
And now he was sure that the rocks had closed overhead, burying them. He fought against a choking oppression that came with the knowledge.
And yet—it was not so dark, after all. Strange, he thought, strange that there should be light at all in this covered way—and stranger still was that light itself. It seemed to be in the air—to be of the air. It came neither from walls nor roof. It seemed to filter in, creeping, along the tunnel from some source far ahead. A light that was as though it came from radiant atoms, infinitely small, that shed their rays as they floated slowly by.
Thicker grew these luminous atoms whose radiance only, and not their bodies, could be perceived by the eye. Lighter and lighter grew the way.
Again, and as abruptly as before, it turned.
They stood within a cavern that was like a great square auditorium to some gigantic stage; the interior of a cube of rock whose four sides, whose roof a hundred feet over head, and whose floor were smooth and straight as though trued by giant spirit level and by plane.
And at his right dropped a vast curtain—a curtain of solid rock lifted a foot above the floor and drawn aside at the far end for a quarter of its sweep. From beneath it and from the side, streamed the radiant atoms whose slow drift down the tunnel had filled it with its ever increasing luminosity.
They streamed from beneath it and around the side, swiftly now, like countless swarms of fireflies, each carrying a lamp of diamond light.
“There”—Suarra pointed to the rocky curtain’s edge—“there lies your way. Beyond it is that place I promised I would show you—the place where the jewels grow like fruit in a garden and the living gold flows forth. Here we will wait you. Now go.”
Long Graydon looked at that curtain and at the streaming radiant atoms pouring from beyond it. Gaunt man, little man, giant man stood, beside him, soulless faces staring at him—awaiting his command, his movement.
In the hooded pair he sensed a cynical amusement—in yellow cowl, at least. For blue cowl seemed but to wait—as though—as though even now he knew what the issue must be. Were they baiting him, he wondered; playing him for their amusement? What would happen if he were to refuse to go farther; refuse to walk around the edge of that lifted curtain; summon the three and march them back to the little camp in the barren? Would they go? Would they be allowed to go?
He looked at Suarra. In her eyes of midnight velvet was sorrow, a sorrow unutterable; despair and agony—and love!
Whatever moved that pair she called the Two Lords—in her, at least, was no cynical gaming with human souls. And he remembered her promise—that he could look upon the Face and conquer it.
Well, he would not retreat now, even if they would let him. He would accept no largess at the hands of this pair who, or so it now seemed to him, looked upon her as a child who must be taught what futile thing it was that she had picked for chosen toy. He would not shame himself—nor her.
“Wait here,” he spoke to the three staring ones. “Wait here—do you understand Soames—Dancre—Sterrett! Do not move! Wait here until I come back.”
They only stared on at him; unanswering either with tongue or face.
“Stay here!” he repeated sharply.
He walked up to the hooded pair.
“To hell with you!” he said, clearly and as coldly as he felt they themselves might speak were they to open those silent lips of theirs. “Do you understand that? I said to hell with you!”
They did not move. He caught Suarra in his arms; kissed her; suddenly reckless of them. He felt her lips cling to his.
“Remember!” he whispered. “I will come back to you!”
He strode over to the curtain’s edge, swinging his automatic as he went. He strode past the edge and full into the rush of the radiance. For perhaps a dozen heart beats he stood there, motionless, turned to stone, blank incredulity stamped deep upon his face. And then the revolver dropped from nerveless hand; clattered upon floor of stone.
For Graydon looked into a vast cavern filled with the diamonded atoms, throbbing with a dazzling light that yet was crystalline clear. The cavern was like a gigantic hollow globe that had been cut in two, and one half cast away. It was from its curving walls that the luminosity streamed, and these walls were jetty black and polished like mirrors, and the rays that issued from them seemed to come from infinite depths within them, darting through them with prodigious speed—like rays shot up through inconceivable depths of black water, be neath which in some unknown firmament, blazed a sun of diamond incandescence.
And out of these curving walls, hanging to them like the grapes of precious jewels in the enchanted vineyards of the Paradise of El-Shiraz, like flowers in a garden of the King of the Djinn, grew clustered gems!
Great crystals, cabochon and edged, globular and angled, alive under that jubilant light with the very soul of fire that is the lure of jewel. Rubies that glowed with every rubrous tint from that clear scarlet that is sunlight streaming through the fin ger tips of delicate maids to deepest sullen reds of bruised hearts; sapphires that shone with blues as rare as that beneath the blue bird’s wings and blues as deep as those which darken beneath the creamy crest of the Gulf Stream’s crisping waves; huge emeralds that gleamed now with the peacock verdancies of tropic shallows, and now were green as the depths of a jungle glade; diamonds that glittered with irised fires or shot forth showers of rainbowed rays; great burning opals; gems burning with amethystine flames; unknown jewels whose unfamiliar beauty checked die heart with wonder.
But it was not the clustered jewels within this chamber of radiance that had released the grip of his hand upon the automatic; turned him into stone.
It was—the Face!
From where he stood a flight of Cyclopean steps ran down a hundred feet or more into the heart of the cavern. At their left was the semiglobe of gemmed and glittering rock. At their right was—space!
An abyss, whose other side he could not see, but which fell sheer away from the stairway in bottomless depth upon depth.
The Face looked at him from the far side of this cavern. Its eyes were level with his. Bodiless, its chin rested upon the floor a little beyond the last monolithic step. It was carved out of the same black rock as the walls, but within it was no faintest sparkle of the darting luminescences.
It was man’s face and devil’s face in one; Luciferean; arrogant; ruthless. Colossal, thirty yards or more in width from ear to ear, it bent a little over the abyss, as though listening. Upon the broad brow power was throned, an evil and imperial power—power that could have been godlike in beneficence had it so willed, but which had chosen instead the lot of Satan. The nose was harpy curved, vulture bridged and cruel. Merciless was the huge mouth, the lips full and lecherous; the corners cynically drooping.
Upon all its carved features was stamped the very secret soul of humanity’s insatiable, eternal hunger for gold. Greed and avarice were graven there—and spendthrift recklessness and callous waste. It was the golden lust given voice of stone. It promised, it lured, it threatened, it cajoled. And it—summoned!
He looked into the eyes of the Face, a hundred feet above the chin. They were made of pale blue crystals, cold as the glint of the Polar ice. Within them was centered all the Face’s demoniac strength.
And as Graydon glared into their chill depths swift visions passed from them to his own. Ravishing of cities and looting of ships; men drunk with greed wresting great golden nuggets from the breast of earth; men crouching like spiders in the hearts of shining yellow webs and gloating over hordes of golden flies.
He heard the shouts of loot crazed legions sacking golden capitols; the shouting of all Argonauts since first gold and men were born. And he thrilled to their clamor; answered it with shoutings of his own!
Poured into him from the cold eyes other visions—visions of what gold, gold without end, could do for him. Flaming lures of power over men and nations, power limitless and ruthless as that which sat upon the Face’s own brow—fair women—earthly Paradises—Fata Morganas of the senses.
There was a fire in his blood, a Satanic ecstasy, a flaming recklessness.
Why—the Face was not of stone! The eyes were not cold jewels!
The Face was living!
And it was promising him this world and dominion over all this world—if he would but come to it!
He took a step down the stairway.
There came to him Suarra’s heartbroken cry!
It checked him.
He looked again at the colossal Face.
And now he saw that all the darting luminous atoms from the curving walls were concentrated upon it. It threw them back, into the chamber and under and past the curtain of rock, and out into the abyss. And that there was a great circlet of gold around the Face’s brow—a wide, deep crown almost like a cap. From that crown, like drops of yellow blood, great globes of gold fell slowly! They crept sluggishly down the cheeks.
From the eyes ran slowly other huge golden drops—like tears.
And out of each down turned corner of the mouth the gold dripped like slaver!
The drops of golden sweat, the golden tears, the golden slaver rolled and joined a rivulet of golo that crept out from behind the Face, crawled sluggishly to the verge of the abyss and over its lip into the unfathomable depths—
“Look into my eyes! Look into my eyes!”
The command came to him—imperious, not to be disobeyed. It seemed to him that the Face had spoken it. He stared again straight into the cold blue crystals. And forgotten now was its horror. All that he knew was—its promise!
Graydon dropped to the second step, then to the third. He wanted to run on, straight to that gigantic mask of black rock that sweated, wept and slavered gold, take from it what it had offered—give it what ever it should demand in return—
He was thrust aside. Reeled and caught himself at the very edge of the stairway.
Past him rushed the three—gaunt man, giant man and little man.
He caught a glimpse of their faces. There was no blankness in them now, no vagueness. No, they were as men reborn. Their eyes were burning bright. And upon the face of each was set the stamp of the Face—its arrogance, its avarice, its recklessness and its cruelty.
Faster, faster they ran down the steps—rushing to the gigantic Face and what it had promised them. As it had promised—him!
Rage, murderous and confusing, shook him. By Heaven, they couldn’t get away with that! Earth and the dominion of earth! They were his own for the taking. The Face had promised them to him first. He would kill them.
He leaped down behind them;
Something caught his feet, pinioned them, wrapped itself around his knees; brought him to an abrupt halt. He heard a sharp hissing. Raging, cursing, he looked down. Around his ankles, around his knees, were the coils of a white serpent. It bound him tightly, like a rope. Its head was level with his heart and its eyes looked unwinkingly into his.
For a breathless moment revulsion shook him, an instinctive and panic terror. He forgot the Face—forgot the three. The white serpent’s head swayed; then shot forward, its gaze fastened upon something beyond him. Graydon’s gaze followed its own.
He saw—the Snake Mother!
At one and the same time real and unreal, she lay stretched out upon the radiant air, her shining lengths half coiled. She lay within the air directly between him and the Face. He saw her—and yet plainly through her he could see all that weird cavern and all that it held. Her purple eyes were intent upon him.
And instantly his rage and all that fiery poison of golden lust that had poured into him—were wiped away. In their place flowed contrition, shame, a vast thankfulness.
He remembered—Suarra!
Through this phantom of the Snake Mother—if phantom it was—he stared full and fearlessly into the eyes of the Face. And their spell was broken. All that Graydon saw now was its rapacity, its ruthlessness and its horror.
The white serpent loosed its coils; released him! Slipped away. The phantom of the Snake Mother vanished.
Trembling, he looked down the stairway. The three men were at its end. They were running—running toward the Face. In the crystalline luminosity they stood out like moving figures cut from black cardboard. They were flattened by it—three outlines, sharp as silhouettes cut from black paper. Lank and gaunt silhouette, giant silhouette and little one, they ran side by side. And now they were at the point of the huge chin. He watched them pause there for an instant, striking at each other, each trying to push the others away. Then as one, and as though answering some summons irresistible, they began to climb up the cliffed chin of the Face—climbing Graydon knew up to the cold blue eyes and what those eyes had seemed to promise.
Now they were in the full focus of the driving rays, the storm of the luminous atoms. For an instant they stood out, still like three men cut from cardboard a little darker than the black stone.
Then they seemed to gray, their outlines to grow misty—nebulous. They ceased their climbing. They writhed as though in sudden intolerable agony.
They faded out!
Where they had been there hovered for a breath something like three wisps of stained cloud.
The wisps dissolved—like mist.
In their place stood out three glistening droplets of gold!
Sluggishly the three droplets began to roll down the Face. They drew together and became one. They dripped slowly down to the crawling golden stream, were merged with it—were carried to the lip of the abyss—
And over into the gulf!
From high over that gulf came a burst of the elfin horns. And now, in that strange light, Graydon saw at last what it was that sent forth these notes—what it was that had beaten out on the moonlit barren the souls of the three; breaking them; turning them into dead men walking.
Their bodies were serpents, sinuous, writhing and coiling, silver scaled. But they were serpents—winged. They dipped and drifted and eddied on snowy long feathered wings, blanched, phosphorescent plumes fringed like the tails of ghostly Birds of Paradise.
Large and small, some the size of the great python, some no longer than the little fer-de-lance, they writhed and coiled and spun through the sparkling air above the abyss, trumpeting triumphantly, calling to each other with their voices like elfin horns.
Fencing joyously with each other with bills that were like thin, straight swords!
Winged serpents, Paradise plumed, whose bills were sharp rapiers. Winged serpents sending forth their pæans of faery trumpets while that crawling stream of which Soames—Dancre—Sterrett—were now a part dripped, dripped, slowly, so slowly, down into the unfathomable void.
Graydon fell upon the great step, sick in every nerve and fiber of his being. He crept up the next, and the next—rolled over the last, past the edge of the rocky curtain, out of the brilliancy of the diamonded light and the sight of the Face and that trumpet clamor of the flying serpents.
He saw Suarra, flying to him, eyes wild with gladness.
Then he seemed to sink through wave after wave of darkness into oblivion.