But it was not until the end of the week, when Vance approached him with
purpose in his eyes and manner, that Henriot knew his fears unfounded,
and caught himself trembling with sudden anticipation--because the
invitation, so desired yet so dreaded, was actually at hand. Firmly
determined to keep caution uppermost, yet he went unresistingly to a
secluded corner by the palms where they could talk in privacy. For
prudence is of the mind, but desire is of the soul, and while his brain
of to-day whispered wariness, voices in his heart of long ago shouted
commands that he knew he must obey with joy.
It was evening and the stars were out. Helouan, with her fairy
twinkling lights, lay silent against the Desert edge. The sand was at
the flood. The period of the Encroaching of the Desert was at hand, and
the deeps were all astir with movement. But in the windless air was a
great peace. A calm of infinite stillness breathed everywhere. The flow
of Time, before it rushed away backwards, stopped somewhere between the
dust of stars and Desert. The mystery of sand touched every street with
its unutterable softness.
And Vance began without the smallest circumlocution. His voice was low,
in keeping with the scene, but the words dropped with a sharp
distinctness into the other's heart like grains of sand that pricked the
skin before they smothered him. Caution they smothered instantly;
resistance too.
"I have a message for you from my aunt," he said, as though he brought
an invitation to a picnic. Henriot sat in shadow, but his companion's
face was in a patch of light that followed them from the windows of the
central hall. There was a shining in the light blue eyes that betrayed
the excitement his quiet manner concealed. "We are going--the day after
to-morrow--to spend the night in the Desert; she wondered if, perhaps,
you would care to join us?"
"For your experiment?" asked Henriot bluntly.
Vance smiled with his lips, holding his eyes steady, though unable to
suppress the gleam that flashed in them and was gone so swiftly. There
was a hint of shrugging his shoulders.
"It is the Night of Power--in the old Egyptian Calendar, you know," he
answered with assumed lightness almost, "the final moment of
Leyel-el-Sud, the period of Black Nights when the Desert was held to
encroach with--with various possibilities of a supernatural order. She
wishes to revive a certain practice of the old Egyptians. There _may_ be
curious results. At any rate, the occasion is a picturesque one--better
than this cheap imitation of London life." And he indicated the lights,
the signs of people in the hall dressed for gaieties and dances, the
hotel orchestra that played after dinner.
Henriot at the moment answered nothing, so great was the rush of
conflicting emotions that came he knew not whence. Vance went calmly on.
He spoke with a simple frankness that was meant to be disarming. Henriot
never took his eyes off him. The two men stared steadily at one another.
"She wants to know if you will come and help too--in a certain way
only: not in the experiment itself precisely, but by watching merely
and--" He hesitated an instant, half lowering his eyes.
"Drawing the picture," Henriot helped him deliberately.
"Drawing what you see, yes," Vance replied, the voice turned graver in
spite of himself. "She wants--she hopes to catch the outlines of
anything that happens--"
"Comes."
"Exactly. Determine the shape of anything that comes. You may remember
your conversation of the other night with her. She is very certain of
success."
This was direct enough at any rate. It was as formal as an invitation to
a dinner, and as guileless. The thing he thought he wanted lay within
his reach. He had merely to say yes. He did say yes; but first he looked
about him instinctively, as for guidance. He looked at the stars
twinkling high above the distant Libyan Plateau; at the long arms of the
Desert, gleaming weirdly white in the moonlight, and reaching towards
him down every opening between the houses; at the heavy mass of the
Mokattam Hills, guarding the Arabian Wilderness with strange, peaked
barriers, their sand-carved ridges dark and still above the Wadi Hof.
These questionings attracted no response. The Desert watched him, but it
did not answer. There was only the shrill whistling cry of the lizards,
and the sing-song of a white-robed Arab gliding down the sandy street.
And through these sounds he heard his own voice answer: "I will
come--yes. But how can I help? Tell me what you propose--your plan?"
And the face of Vance, seen plainly in the electric glare, betrayed his
satisfaction. The opposing things in the fellow's mind of darkness
fought visibly in his eyes and skin. The sordid motive, planning a
dreadful act, leaped to his face, and with it a flash of this other
yearning that sought unearthly knowledge, perhaps believed it too. No
wonder there was conflict written on his features.
Then all expression vanished again; he leaned forward, lowering his
voice.
"You remember our conversation about there being types of life too vast
to manifest in a single body, and my aunt's belief that these were known
to certain of the older religious systems of the world?"
"Perfectly."
"Her experiment, then, is to bring one of these great Powers back--we
possess the sympathetic ritual that can rouse some among them to
activity--and win it down into the sphere of our minds, our minds
heightened, you see, by ceremonial to that stage of clairvoyant vision
which can perceive them."
"And then?" They might have been discussing the building of a house, so
naturally followed answer upon question. But the whole body of meaning
in the old Egyptian symbolism rushed over him with a force that shook
his heart. Memory came so marvellously with it.
"If the Power floods down into our minds with sufficient strength for
actual form, to note the outline of such form, and from your drawing
model it later in permanent substance. Then we should have means of
evoking it at will, for we should have its natural Body--the form it
built itself, its signature, image, pattern. A starting-point, you see,
for more--leading, she hopes, to a complete reconstruction."
"It might take actual shape--assume a bodily form visible to the eye?"
repeated Henriot, amazed as before that doubt and laughter did not break
through his mind.
"We are on the earth," was the reply, spoken unnecessarily low since no
living thing was within earshot, "we are in physical conditions, are we
not? Even a human soul we do not recognise unless we see it in a
body--parents provide the outline, the signature, the sigil of the
returning soul. This," and he tapped himself upon the breast, "is the
physical signature of that type of life we call a soul. Unless there is
life of a certain strength behind it, no body forms. And, without a
body, we are helpless to control or manage it--deal with it in any way.
We could not know it, though being possibly _aware_ of it."
"To be aware, you mean, is not sufficient?" For he noticed the italics
Vance made use of.
"Too vague, of no value for future use," was the reply. "But once obtain
the form, and we have the natural symbol of that particular Power. And a
symbol is more than image, it is a direct and concentrated expression of
the life it typifies--possibly terrific."
"It may be a body, then, this symbol you speak of."
"Accurate vehicle of manifestation; but 'body' seems the simplest word."
Vance answered very slowly and deliberately, as though weighing how much
he would tell. His language was admirably evasive. Few perhaps would
have detected the profound significance the curious words he next used
unquestionably concealed. Henriot's mind rejected them, but his heart
accepted. For the ancient soul in him was listening and aware.
"Life, using matter to express itself in bodily shape, first traces a
geometrical pattern. From the lowest form in crystals, upwards to more
complicated patterns in the higher organisations--there is always first
this geometrical pattern as skeleton. For geometry lies at the root of
all possible phenomena; and is the mind's interpretation of a living
movement towards shape that shall express it." He brought his eyes
closer to the other, lowering his voice again. "Hence," he said softly,
"the signs in all the old magical systems--skeleton forms into which the
Powers evoked descended; outlines those Powers automatically built up
when using matter to express themselves. Such signs are material symbols
of their bodiless existence. They attract the life they represent and
interpret. Obtain the correct, true symbol, and the Power corresponding
to it can approach--once roused and made aware. It has, you see, a
ready-made mould into which it can come down."
"Once roused and made aware?" repeated Henriot questioningly, while this
man went stammering the letters of a language that he himself had used
too long ago to recapture fully.
"Because they have left the world. They sleep, unmanifested. Their forms
are no longer known to men. No forms exist on earth to-day that could
contain them. But they may be awakened," he added darkly. "They are
bound to answer to the summons, if such summons be accurately made."
"Evocation?" whispered Henriot, more distressed than he cared to admit.
Vance nodded. Leaning still closer, to his companion's face, he thrust
his lips forward, speaking eagerly, earnestly, yet somehow at the same
time, horribly: "And we want--my aunt would ask--your draughtsman's
skill, or at any rate your memory afterwards, to establish the outline
of anything that comes."
He waited for the answer, still keeping his face uncomfortably close.
Henriot drew back a little. But his mind was fully made up now. He had
known from the beginning that he would consent, for the desire in him
was stronger than all the caution in the world. The Past inexorably drew
him into the circle of these other lives, and the little human dread
Vance woke in him seemed just then insignificant by comparison. It was
merely of To-day.
"You two," he said, trying to bring judgment into it, "engaged in
evocation, will be in a state of clairvoyant vision. Granted. But shall
I, as an outsider, observing with unexcited mind, see anything, know
anything, be aware of anything at all, let alone the drawing of it?"
"Unless," the reply came instantly with decision, "the descent of Power
is strong enough to take actual material shape, the experiment is a
failure. Anybody can induce subjective vision. Such fantasies have no
value though. They are born of an overwrought imagination." And then he
added quickly, as though to clinch the matter before caution and
hesitation could take effect: "You must watch from the heights above. We
shall be in the valley--the Wadi Hof is the place. You must not be too
close--"
"Why not too close?" asked Henriot, springing forward like a flash
before he could prevent the sudden impulse.
With a quickness equal to his own, Vance answered. There was no faintest
sign that he was surprised. His self-control was perfect. Only the glare
passed darkly through his eyes and went back again into the sombre soul
that bore it.
"For your own safety," he answered low. "The Power, the type of life,
she would waken is stupendous. And if roused enough to be attracted by
the patterned symbol into which she would decoy it down, it will take
actual, physical expression. But how? Where is the Body of Worshippers
through whom it can manifest? There is none. It will, therefore, press
inanimate matter into the service. The terrific impulse to form itself a
means of expression will force all loose matter at hand towards
it--sand, stones, all it can compel to yield--everything must rush into
the sphere of action in which it operates. Alone, we at the centre, and
you, upon the outer fringe, will be safe. Only--you must not come too
close."
But Henriot was no longer listening. His soul had turned to ice. For
here, in this unguarded moment, the cloven hoof had plainly shown
itself. In that suggestion of a particular kind of danger Vance had
lifted a corner of the curtain behind which crouched his horrible
intention. Vance desired a witness of the extraordinary experiment, but
he desired this witness, not merely for the purpose of sketching
possible shapes that might present themselves to excited vision. He
desired a witness for another reason too. Why had Vance put that idea
into his mind, this idea of so peculiar danger? It might well have lost
him the very assistance he seemed so anxious to obtain.
Henriot could not fathom it quite. Only one thing was clear to him. He,
Henriot, was not the only one in danger.
They talked for long after that--far into the night. The lights went
out, and the armed patrol, pacing to and fro outside the iron railings
that kept the desert back, eyed them curiously. But the only other thing
he gathered of importance was the ledge upon the cliff-top where he was
to stand and watch; that he was expected to reach there before sunset
and wait till the moon concealed all glimmer in the western sky,
and--that the woman, who had been engaged for days in secret preparation
of soul and body for the awful rite, would not be visible again until he
saw her in the depths of the black valley far below, busy with this man
upon audacious, ancient purposes.