This Way to the End Times: Classic Tales of the Apocalypse Read online

  “Strange, strange,” he muttered, stroking the horse’s muzzle. “The uncle plays music, the girl stares alone at the stars of the night. . . . ” He considered a moment. “I may be over suspicious. If witch she be, there is naught to be gained from me. If they be simple refugees as she says, and lovers of music, they may enjoy the airs from Ascolais; it will repay, in some measure, their hospitality.” He reached into his saddlebag, brought forth his flute, and tucked it inside his jerkin.

  He ran back to where the girl awaited him.

  “You have not told me your name,” she reminded him, “that I may introduce you to my uncle.”

  “I am Guyal of Sfere, by the River Scaum in Ascolais. And you?”

  She smiled, pushing the portal wider. Warm yellow light fell into the cobbled street.

  “I have no name. I need none. There has never been any but my uncle; and when he speaks, there is no one to answer but I.”

  Guyal stared in astonishment; then, deeming his wonder too apparent for courtesy, he controlled his expression. Perhaps she suspected him of wizardry and feared to pronounce her name lest he make magic with it.

  They entered a flagged hall, and the sound of piping grew louder.

  “I will call you Ameth, if I may,” said Guyal. “That is a flower of the south, as golden and kind and fragrant as you seem to be.”

  She nodded. “You may call me Ameth.”

  They entered a tapestry-hung chamber, large and warm. A great fire glowed at one wall, and here stood a table bearing food. On a bench sat the musician—an old man, untidy, unkempt. His white hair hung tangled down his back; his beard, in no better case, was dirty and yellow. He wore a ragged kirtle, by no means clean, and the leather of his sandals had broken into dry cracks. Strangely, he did not take the flute from his mouth, but kept up his piping; and the girl in yellow, so Guyal noted, seemed to move in rhythm to the tones.

  “Uncle Ludowik,” she cried in a gay voice, “I bring you a guest, Sir Guyal of Sfere.”

  Guyal looked into the man’s face and wondered. The eyes though somewhat rheumy with age, were gray and bright—feverishly bright and intelligent; and, so Guyal thought, awake with a strange joy. This joy further puzzled Guyal, for the lines of the face indicated nothing other than years of misery.

  “Perhaps you play?” inquired Ameth. “My uncle is a great musician, and this is his time for music. He has kept the routine for many years . . .” She turned and smiled at Ludowik the musician. Guyal nodded politely.

  Ameth motioned to the bounteous table. “Eat, Guyal, and I will pour you wine. Afterwards perhaps you will play the flute for us.”

  “Gladly,” said Guyal, and he noticed how the joy on Ludowik’s face grew more apparent, quivering around the corners of his mouth.

  He ate and Ameth poured him golden wine until his head went to reeling. And never did Ludowik cease his piping—now a tender melody of running water, again a grave tune that told of the lost ocean to the west, another time a simple melody such as a child might sing at his games. Guyal noted with wonder how Ameth fitted her mood to the music—grave and gay as the music led her. Strange! thought Guyal. But then—people thus isolated were apt to develop peculiar mannerisms, and they seemed kindly withal.

  He finished his meal and stood erect, steadying himself against the table. Ludowik was playing a lilting tune, a melody of glass birds swinging round and round on a red string in the sunlight. Ameth came dancing over to him and stood close—very close—and he smelled the warm perfume of her loose golden hair. Her face was happy and wild. . . . Peculiar how Ludowik watched so grimly, and yet without a word. Perhaps he misdoubted a stranger’s intent. Still . . .

  “Now,” breathed Ameth, “perhaps you will play the flute; you are so strong and young.” Then she said quickly, as she saw Guyal’s eyes widen, “I mean you will play on the flute for old uncle Ludowik, and he will be happy and go off to bed—and then we will sit and talk far into the night.”

  “Gladly will I play the flute,” said Guyal. Curse the tongue of his, at once so fluent and yet so numb. It was the wine. “Gladly will I play. I am accounted quite skillful at my home manse at Sfere.”

  He glanced at Ludowik, then stared at the expression of crazy gladness he had surprised. Marvellous that a man should be so fond of music.

  “Then—play!” breathed Ameth, urging him a little toward Ludowik and the flute.

  “Perhaps,” suggested Guyal, “I had better wait till your uncle pauses. I would seem discourteous—”

  “No, as soon as you indicate that you wish to play, he will let off. Merely take the flute. You see,” she confided, “he is rather deaf.”

  “Very well,” said Guyal, “except that I have my own flute.” And he brought it out from under his jerkin. “Why—what is the matter?” For a startling change had come over the girl and the old man. A quick light had risen in her eyes, and Ludowik’s strange gladness had gone, and there was but dull hopelessness in his eyes, stupid resignation.

  Guyal slowly stood back, bewildered. “Do you not wish me to play?”

  There was a pause. “Of course,” said Ameth, young and charming once more. “But I’m sure that Uncle Ludowik would enjoy hearing you play his flute. He is accustomed to the pitch—another scale might be unfamiliar . . .”

  Ludowik nodded, and hope again shone in the rheumy old eyes. It was indeed a fine flute, Guyal saw, a rich piece of white metal, chased and set with gold, and Ludowik clutched this flute as if he would never let go.

  “Take the flute,” suggested Ameth. “He will not mind in the least.” Ludowik shook his head, to signify the absence of his objections. But Guyal, noting with distaste the long stained beard, also shook his head. “I can play any scale, any tone on my flute. There is no need for me to use that of your uncle and possibly distress him. Listen,” and he raised his instrument. “Here is a song of Kaiin, called ‘The Opal, the Pearl and the Peacock.’”

  He put the pipe to his lips and began to play, very skillfully indeed, and Ludowik followed him, filling in gaps, making chords. Ameth, forgetting her vexation, listened with eyes half-closed, and moved her arm to the rhythm.

  “Did you enjoy that?” asked Guyal, when he had finished.

  “Very much. Perhaps you would try it on Uncle Ludowik’s flute? It is a fine flute to play, very soft and easy to the breath.”

  “No,” said Guyal, with sudden obstinacy. “I am able to play only my own instrument.” He blew again, and it was a dance of the festival, a quirking carnival air. Ludowik, playing with supernal skill, ran merry phrases as might fit, and Ameth, carried away by the rhythm, danced a dance of her own, a merry step in time to the music.

  Guyal played a wild tarantella of the peasant folk, and Ameth danced wilder and faster, flung her arms, wheeled, jerked her head in a fine display. And Ludowik’s flute played a brilliant obbligato, hurtling over, now under, chording, veering, warping little silver strings of sound around Guyal’s melody, adding urgent little grace-phrases.

  Ludowik’s eyes now clung to the whirling figure of the dancing girl. And suddenly he struck up a theme of his own, a tune of wildest abandon, of a frenzied beating rhythm; and Guyal, carried away by the force of the music, blew as he never had blown before, invented trills and runs, gyrating arpeggios, blew high and shrill, loud and fast and clear.

  It was as nothing to Ludowik’s music. His eyes were starting; sweat streamed from his seamed old forehead; his flute tore the air into quivering ecstatic shreds.

  Ameth danced frenzy; she was no longer beautiful, she appeared grotesque and unfamiliar. The music became something more than the senses could bear. Guyal’s own vision turned pink and gray; he saw Ameth fall in a faint, in a foaming fit; and Ludowik, fiery-eyed, staggered erect, hobbled to her body and began a terrible intense concord, slow measures of most solemn and frightening meaning.

  Ludowik played death.

  Guyal of Sfere turned and ran wide-eyed from the hall. Ludowik, never noticing, continued his terribl
e piping, played as if every note were a skewer through the twitching girl’s shoulder-blades.

  Guyal ran through the night, and cold air bit at him like sleet. He burst into the shed, and the white horse softly nickered at him. On with the saddle, on with the bridle, away down the streets of old Carchasel, past the gaping black windows, ringing down the starlit cobbles, away from the music of death!

  Guyal of Sfere galloped up the mountain with the stars in his face, and not until he came to the shoulder did he turn in the saddle to look back.

  The verging of dawn trembled into the stony valley. Where was Carchasel? There was no city—only a crumble of ruins. . . .

  Hark! A far sound? . . .

  No. All was silence.

  And yet . . .

  No. Only crumbled stones in the floor of the valley.

  Guyal, fixed of eye, turned and went his way, along the trail which stretched north before him.

  The walls of the defile which led the trail were steep gray granite, stained scarlet and black by lichen, mildewed blue. The horse’s hooves made a hollow clop-clop-clop on the stone, loud to Guyal’s ears, hypnotic to his brain, and after the sleepless night he found his frame sagging. His eyes grew dim and warm with drowsiness, but the trail ahead led to unseen vistas, and the void in Guyal’s brain drove him without surcease.

  The lassitude became such that Guyal slipped halfway from his saddle. Rousing himself, he resolved to round one more bend in the trail and then take rest.

  The rock beetled above and hid the sky where the sun had passed the zenith. The trail twisted around a shoulder of rock; ahead shone a patch of indigo heaven. One more turning, Guyal told himself. The defile fell open, the mountains were at his back and he looked out across a hundred miles of steppe. It was a land shaded with subtle colors, washed with delicate shadows, fading and melting into the lurid haze at the horizon. He saw a lone eminence cloaked by a dark company of trees, the glisten of a lake at its foot. To the other side a ranked mass of gray-white ruins was barely discernible. The Museum of Man? . . . After a moment of vacillation, Guyal dismounted and sought sleep within the Expansible Egg.

  The sun rolled in sad sumptuous majesty behind the mountains; murk fell across the tundra. Guyal awoke and refreshed himself in a rill nearby. Giving meal to his horse, he ate dry fruit and bread; then he mounted and rode down the trail. The plain spread vastly north before him, into desolation; the mountains lowered black above and behind; a slow cold breeze blew in his face. Gloom deepened; the plain sank from sight like a drowned land. Hesitant before the murk, Guyal reined his horse. Better, he thought, to ride in the morning. If he lost the trail in the dark, who could tell what he might encounter?

  A mournful sound. Guyal stiffened and turned his face to the sky. A sigh? A moan? A sob? . . . Another sound, closer, the rustle of cloth, a loose garment. Guyal cringed into his saddle. Floating slowly down through the darkness came a shape robed in white. Under the cowl and glowing with eer-light looked a drawn face with eyes like the holes in a skull.

  It breathed its sad sound and drifted away on high. . . . There was only the blow of the wind past Guyal’s ears.

  He drew a shuddering breath and slumped against the pommel. His shoulders felt exposed, naked. He slipped to the ground and established the shelter of the Egg about himself and his horse. Preparing his pallet, he lay himself down; presently, as he lay staring into the dark, sleep came on him and so the night passed.

  He awoke before dawn and once more set forth. The trail was a ribbon of white sand between banks of gray furze and the miles passed swiftly.

  The trail led toward the tree-clothed eminence Guyal had noted from above; now he thought to see roofs through the heavy foliage and smoke on the sharp air. And presently to right and left spread cultivated fields of spikenard, callow and mead-apple. Guyal continued with eyes watchful for men.

  To one side appeared a fence of stone and black timber: the stone chiseled and hewn to the semblance of four globes beaded on a central pillar, the black timbers which served as rails fitted in sockets and carved in precise spirals. Behind this fence a region of bare earth lay churned, pitted, cratered, burnt and wrenched, as if visited at once by fire and the blow of a tremendous hammer. In wondering speculation Guyal gazed and so did not notice the three men who came quietly upon him.

  The horse started nervously; Guyal, turning, saw the three. They barred his road and one held the bridle of his horse.

  They were tall, well-formed men, wearing tight suits of somber leather bordered with black. Their headgear was heavy maroon cloth crumpled in precise creases, and leather flaps extended horizontally over each ear. Their faces were long and solemn, with clear golden-ivory skin, golden eyes and jet-black hair. Clearly they were not savages: they moved with a silky control, they eyed Guyal with critical appraisal, their garb implied the discipline of an ancient convention.

  The leader stepped forward. His expression was neither threat nor welcome. “Greetings, stranger; whither bound?”

  “Greetings,” replied Guyal cautiously. “I go as my star directs . . . You are the Saponids?”

  “That is our race, and before you is our town Saponce.” He inspected Guyal with frank curiosity. “By the color of your custom I suspect your home to be in the south.”

  “I am Guyal of Sfere, by the River Scaum in Ascolais.”

  “The way is long,” observed the Saponid. “Terrors beset the traveler. Your impulse must be most intense, and your star must draw with fervent allure.”

  “I come,” said Guyal, “on a pilgrimage for the ease of my spirit; the road seems short when it attains its end.”

  The Saponid offered polite acquiescence. “Then you have crossed the Fer Aquilas?”

  “Indeed; through cold wind and desolate stone.” Guyal glanced back at the looming mass. “Only yesterday at night-fall did I leave the gap. And then a ghost hovered above till I thought the grave was marking me for its own.”

  He paused in surprise; his words seemed to have released a powerful emotion in the Saponids. Their features lengthened, their mouths grew white and clenched. The leader, his polite detachment a trifle diminished, searched the sky with ill-concealed apprehension. “A ghost . . . in a white garment, thus and so, floating on high?”

  “Yes; is it a known familiar of the region?”

  There was a pause.

  “In a certain sense,” said the Saponid. “It is a signal of woe. . . . But I interrupt your tale.”

  “There is little to tell. I took shelter for the night, and this morning I fared down to the plain.”

  “Were you not molested further? By Koolbaw the Walking Serpent, who ranges the slopes like fate?”

  “I saw neither walking serpent nor crawling lizard; further, a blessing protects my trail and I come to no harm so long as I keep my course.”

  “Interesting, interesting.”

  “Now,” said Guyal, “permit me to inquire of you, since there is much I would learn; what is this ghost and what evil does he commemorate?”

  “You ask beyond my certain knowledge,” replied the Saponid cautiously. “Of this ghost it is well not to speak lest our attention reinforce his malignity.”

  “As you will,” replied Guyal. “Perhaps you will instruct me . . .” He caught his tongue. Before inquiring for the Museum of Man, it would be wise to learn in what regard the Saponids held it, lest, learning his interest, they seek to prevent him from knowledge.

  “Yes?” inquired the Saponid. “What is your lack?”

  Guyal indicated the seared area behind the fence of stone and timber. “What is the portent of this devastation?”

  The Saponid stared across the area with a blank expression and shrugged. “It is one of the ancient places; so much is known, no more. Death lingers here, and no creature may venture across the place without succumbing to a most malicious magic which raises virulence and angry sores. Here is where those whom we kill are sent. . . . But away. You will desire to rest and refresh yourself at
Saponce. Come; we will guide you.”

  He turned down the trail toward the town, and Guyal, finding neither words nor reasons to reject the idea, urged his horse forward.

  As they approached the tree-shrouded hill the trail widened to a road. To the right hand the lake drew close, behind low banks of purple reeds. Here were docks built of heavy black baulks and boats rocked to the wind-feathered ripples. They were built in the shape of sickles, with bow and stern curving high from the water.

  Up into the town, and the houses were hewn timber, ranging in tone from golden brown to weathered black. The construction was intricate and ornate, the walls rising three stories to steep gables overhanging front and back. Pillars and piers were carved with complex designs: meshing ribbons, tendrils, leaves, lizards, and the like. The screens which guarded the windows were likewise carved, with foliage patterns, animal faces, radiant stars: rich textures in the mellow wood. It was clear that much expressiveness had been expended on the carving.

  Up the steep lane, under the gloom cast by the trees, past the houses half-hidden by the foliage, and the Saponids of Saponce came forth to stare. They moved quietly and spoke in low voices, and their garments were of an elegance Guyal had not expected to see on the northern steppe.

  His guide halted and turned to Guyal. “Will you oblige me by waiting till I report to the Voyevode, that he may prepare a suitable reception?”

  The request was framed in candid words and with guileless eyes. Guyal thought to perceive ambiguity in the phrasing, but since the hooves of his horse were planted in the center of the road, and since he did not propose leaving the road, Guyal assented with an open face. The Saponid disappeared and Guyal sat musing on the pleasant town perched so high above the plain.

  A group of girls approached to glance at Guyal with curious eyes. Guyal returned the inspection, and now found a puzzling lack about their persons, a discrepancy which he could not instantly identify. They wore graceful garments of woven wool, striped and dyed various colors; they were supple and slender, and seemed not lacking in coquetry. And yet . . .