The Face in the Abyss by Abraham Merritt (spicy books to read .TXT) 📕

its golden-haired rider shouting. Behind it leaped the pack. They crossed the plain like a thunder cloud pursued by emerald and sapphire lightnings. They passed into the forest, and were

gone.

Suarra stepped out of the tree shadows, the three adventurers close behind her, white-faced and shaking. She stood looking where the dinosaurs had disappeared, and her face was set, and her eyes filled with loathing.

“Suarra!” gasped Graydon. “That thing—the thing that ran—what was it? God—it had the face of a man!”

“It was no man,” she shook her head. “It was a— Weaver. Perhaps he had tried to escape. Or perhaps Lantlu opened a way for him that he might be tempted to escape. For Lantlu delights in hunting with the Xinli—” her voice shook with hatred—“and a Weaver will do when there is

nothing better!”

“A Weaver? It had a man’s face!” It was Soames, echoing Graydon.

“No,” she repeated. “It was no—man. At least no man as you are. Long, long ago his ancestors were men like you—that is true. But now—he is—only a Weaver.”

She turned to Graydon.

“YuAtlanchi by its arts fashioned him and his kind. Remember him, Graydon—when you come to our journey’s end!”

She stepped out upon the path. There stood the cowled

figure, waiting as tranquilly as though it had never stirred. She called to the white llama, and again took her place at the head of the little caravan. Soames touched Graydon, arousing him from the troubled thought into which her enigmatic warning had thrown him.

“Take your place, Graydon,” he muttered. “We’ll follow. Later I want to talk to you. Maybe you can get your guns back—if you’re reasonable.”

“Hurry,” said Suarra, “the sun sinks, and we must go quickly. Before to-morrow’s noon you shall see your garden of jewels, and the living gold streaming for you to do with it as you will—or the gold to do as it wills with you.”

She looked the three over, swiftly, a shadow of mockery in her eyes. Soames’ lips tightened.

“Get right along, sister,” he said, sardonically. “All you have to do is show us. Then your work is done. We’ll take care of the rest.”

She shrugged, carelessly. They set forth once more along the rimmed path.

The plain was silent, deserted. From the far forests came no sound. Graydon strove for sane comprehension of what he had just beheld. A Weaver, Suarra had named. the scarlet thing—and had said that once its ancestors had been men like themselves. He remembered what, at their first meeting, she had told him of the powers of this mysterious YuAtlanchi. Did she mean that her people had mastered the secrets of evolution so thoroughly that they had learned how to reverse its processes as well? Could control—devolution!

Well, why not? In man’s long ascent from the primeval jelly on the shallow shores of the warm first seas, he had worn myriad shapes. And as he moved higher from one form to another, changing to vertebrate, discarding cold blood for warm, still was he kin to the fish he caught today, to the furred creatures whose pelts clothed his women, to the apes he brought from the jungles to study or to amuse him. Even the spiders that spun in his gardens, the scorpion that scuttled from the tread of his feet, were abysmally distant blood-brothers.

When St. Francis of Assisi had spoke of Brother Fly,

Brother Wolf, Brother Snake, he had voiced scientific truth. .

All life on earth had a common origin. Divergent now and Protean shaped, still man and beast, fish and serpent, lizard and bird, ant and bee and spider, all had come from those once similar specks of jelly, adrift millions upon millions of years ago in the shallow littorals of the first seas. Protaebion, Gregory of Edinburgh had named it— the first stuff of life from which all life was to develop.

Were the germs of all those shapes man had worn in his slow upward climb still dormant in him?

Roux, the great French scientist, had taken the eggs of frogs and, by manipulating them, had produced giant frogs and dwarfs, frogs with two heads and one body, frogs with one head and eight legs, three-headed frogs with legs numerous as centipedes’. And he had produced from these eggs, also, creatures which in no way resembled frogs at all.

Vornikoff, the Russian, and Schwartz, the German, had experimented with still higher forms of life, producing chimera, nightmare things they had been forced to slay— and quickly.

If Roux and the others had done all this—and they had done it, Graydon knew—then was it not possible for greater scientists to awaken those dormant germs in man, and similarly create—such creatures as the scarlet thing? A spider-man!

Nature, herself, had given them. the hint. Nature from time to time produced such abnormalities—human monsters marked outwardly if not inwardly with the stigmata of the beast, the fish, even the crustacean. Babies with gill slits in their throats babies with tails; babies furred. The human embryo passed through all these stages, from the protoplasmic unicell up—compressing the age-long drama of evolution into less than a year.

Might it not well be, then, that in YuAtlanchi dwelt those to whom the crucible of birth held no secrets; who could dip within it and mold from its contents what they would?

A loom is a dead machine upon which fingers work

more or less clumsily. The spider is both machine and artisan, spinning and weaving more surely, more exquisitely than can any lifeless mechanism worked by man. What man-made machine had ever approached the delicacy, the beauty of the spider’s web?

Suddenly Graydon seemed to behold a whole new world of appalling grotesquerie—spidermen and spider-women spread upon huge webs and weaving with needled fingers wondrous fabrics, mole-men and mole-women burrowing, opening mazes of subterranean passages, cloaca, for those who had wrought them into being; amphibian folk busy about the waters—a phantasmagoria of humanity, monstrously twinned with Nature’s perfect machine, while still plastic in the womb!

Shuddering, he thrust away that nightmare vision.

CHAPTER V. The Elfin Horns

THE SUN was halfway down the west when they came to the end of the oval plain. Here the mountain thrust out a bastion which almost touched the cliff at the right. Into the narrow cleft between the two they filed, and through the semi-gloom of this ravine they marched over a smooth rock floor, their way running always up, although at an easy grade. The sun was behind the westward peaks and dusk was falling when they emerged.

They stood at the edge of a little moor. Upon the left, the arc of the circular mountain resumed its march. The place was, indeed, less a moor than a barren. Its floor was clean white sand. It was dotted with hillocks, mounds flattopped as though constantly swept by brooms of wind. Upon the slopes of these mounds a fall grass grew sparsely. The hillocks arose about a hundred feet apart, with a singular regularity, like tumuli, graves in a cemetery of giants. The little barren covered about five acres. Around it clustered the forest. He heard the gurgling of a brook.

Suarra led them across the sands until she reached a mound close to the center of the place.

“You will camp here,” she said. “Water is close by. You may light a fire, and you can sleep without fear. By dawn we must be away.”

She left them, and walked with red-and-yellow robe toward one of the neighboring knolls. The white llama followed her. Graydon had expected Soames to halt her, but he did not. Instead, his eyes flashed some message to Dancret and Starrett. It seemed to Graydon they were pleased that the girl was not to share their camp, that they welcomed the distance she had put between them.

And their manner toward him had changed. They were comradely once more.

“Mind takin’ the burros over to water?” asked Soames. “Well get the fire goin’, and chow ready.”

Graydon nodded and led the animals over to the brook. Taking them back after they had drunk their fill, he looked over at the mound to which Suarra had gone. At its base stood a small square tent, glimmering in the twilight like silk. Tethered close to it was the white llama, placidly munching grass and grain. Its hampers of woven golden withes were still at its sides. Neither Suarra nor the hooded man was visible. They were, he supposed, within the tent.

At his own hillock a fire was crackling and supper being prepared. As he came up, Starrett jerked a thumb at the little tent.

“Took it out of the saddle-bags,” he said. “Looked like a folded umbrella and went up like one. Who’d ever think to find anything like that in this wilderness!”

“Lots of things I t’ink in those saddle-bags we have not yet seen maybe,” whispered Dancret

“You bet,” said Soames. “An’ the loot we’ve already seen’s enough to set us all up for life. Eh, Graydon?”

“She has promised you much more,” answered Graydon, troubled by the under-current in the New Englander’s voice.

“Yeah,” said Soames, “yeah—I guess so. But—well, let’s eat.”

The four sat around the burning sticks, as they had for so many nights before his fight with Starrett. And, to Graydon’s astonishment, they ignored the weird tragedy of the plain; avoided it, swiftly changed the subject when twice, to test them, he brought it up. Their talk was all of the treasure so close to them, and of what could be done with it when back in their own world. Piece by piece they went over the golden hoard in the white llama’s packs;

discussed Suarra’s jewels and their worth. It was as though they were bent upon infecting him with their own avarice.

“Hell! Why, with only her emeralds none of us’d have to worry!” Starrett repeated, with variations, over and over.

Graydon listened with increasing disquiet There was

something behind this studied avoidance of the destruction of the scarlet thing by the dinosaurs, this constant reference to the rich loot at hand, the reiterated emphasis upon what ease and luxuries it would bring them all.

Suddenly he realized that they were afraid, that terror of the unknown struggled with treasure lust And that therefore they were doubly dangerous. Something was hidden in the minds of the three to whose uncovering all this talk was only the preamble.

At last Soames looked at his watch.

“Nearly eight,” he said, abruptly. “Dawn breaks about five. Time to talk turkey. Graydon, come up close.”

The four drew into a huddle in the shelter of the knoll. From where they crouched, Suarra’s tent was hidden—as they were hidden to any watchers in that little silken pavilion looking now like a great silver moth at rest under the moonlight

“Graydon,” began the New Englander, “we’ve made up our minds on this thing. We’re goin’ to do it a little different. We’re glad and willin’ to let bygones be bygones. Here we are, four white men among a bunch of God knows what. White men ought to stick together. Ain’t that so?”

Graydon nodded, waiting.

“All right, then,” said Soames. “Now here’s the situation. I don’t deny that what we seen to-day gave us all a hell of a jolt. We ain’t equipped to go up against anything like that pack of hissin’ devils. But, an’ here’s the point, we can beat it out an’ come back equipped. You get me?”

Again Graydon nodded, alert to meet what he sensed was coming.

“There’s enough stuff on that llama and the girl to make all comfortable,” went on Soames. “But also it’s enough to finance the greatest little expedition that ever hit the trail for treasure. An’ that’s just what we plan doin’, Graydon. Get the hampers an’ all that’s in ‘em. Get the stuff on the girl. Beat it,