“In telling what I know,” began Watson, “I shall use a bit of a preface.
It's necessary, in a way, if you are to understand me; besides, it will
give you the advantage of looking into the Blind Spot with the clear
eyes of reason. I intend to tell all, to omit nothing. My purpose in
doing this is that, in case we should fail tonight, you will be able to
give my account to the world.”
It was a strange introduction. His listeners exchanged thoughtful
glances. But they all affirmed, and Sir Henry hitched his chair almost
impatiently.
“All right, Mr. Watson. Please proceed.”
“To begin with,” said Watson, “I assume that you all know of Dr.
Holcomb's announcement concerning the Blind Spot. You remember that he
promised to solve the occult; how he foretold that he would prove it not
by immaterial but by the very material means; that he would produce the
fact and the substance.
“Now, the professor had promised to deliver something far greater than
he had thought it to be. At the same time, what he knew of the
Blind Spot was part conjecture and part fact. Like his forebears and
contemporaries, he looked upon man as the real being.
“But it's a question, now, as to which is reality and which is not.
There is not a branch of philosophy that looks upon the question in that
light. Bishop Berkeley came near and he has been followed by others; but
they all have been deceived by their own sophistry. However, except for
the grossest materialists, all thinkers take cognizance of a hereafter.
“No one dreamed of a Blind Spot and what it may lead to, what it might
contain. We are five-sensed; we interpret the universe by the measure of
five yardsticks. Yet, the Blind Spot takes even those away; the more we
know, it seems, the less certain we are of ourselves. As I said to Mme.
Le Fabre, it is a difficult question to determine, after all, just who
are the ghosts. At any rate, I KNOW”--and he paused for effect--“I know
that there are uncounted millions who look upon us and our workings as
entirely supernatural!
“Remember that what I have to tell you is just as real as your own lives
have been since babyhood.
“It was slightly over a year ago that my last night on the earth
arrived.
“I had gone out for the evening, in the forlorn hope of meeting a
friend, of having some slight taste of pleasure before the end came.
“For several days I had been labouring under a sort of premonition,
knowing that my life was slowly seeping away and that my vitality was
slipping, bit by bit, to what I thought must be death. Had I then known
what I know now, I could have saved myself. But if I had done it, if I
had saved myself, we would never have found Dr. Holcomb.
“Perhaps it was the same fate that led me to Harry, that night. I don't
know. Nevertheless, if there is any truth in what I have learned on
the other side of the Blind Spot, it would seem that there is something
higher than mere fate. I had never believed in luck; but when everything
works out to a fraction of a breath, one ceases to be sceptical on the
question of destiny and chance. _I_ say, everything that happened that
night was FORCED from the other side. In short, my giving that ring to
Harry was simply a link in the chain of circumstances. It just had to
be; the PROPHECY would not have had it otherwise.”
Without stopping to explain what he meant by the word “prophecy,” Watson
went on:
“That's what makes it puzzling. I have never been able to understand
how every bit has dovetailed with such exactness. We--you and I--are
certainly not supernatural; and yet, on the other side of the Spot, the
proof is overwhelmingly convincing.
“I was very weak that night. So weak that it is difficult for me to
remember. The last I recollect was my going to the back of the house;
to the kitchen, I think. I had a light in my hands. The boys were in the
front room, waiting. One of them had opened a door some yards away from
where I stood.
“Coming as it did, on the instant, it is difficult to describe. But I
knew it instinctively for what it was: the dot of blue on the ceiling,
and the string of light. Then, a sensation of falling, like dropping
into space itself. It is hard to describe the horrifying terror of
plunging head on from an immense height to a plain at a vastly lower
level.
“And that's all that I remember--from this side.” [Footnote: NOTE.--In
justice to Mr. Watson, the present writers have thought it best at this
stage to transpose the story from the first to the third person. Any
narrative, unless it is negative in its material, is hard to give in
the first person; for where the narrator has played an active, positive
part, he must either curb himself or fall under the slur of braggadocio.
Yet, the world wants the details exactly as they happened; hence the
transposition. EDITORS.]
Watson opened his eyes.
The first thing was light and a sense of great pain. There was a
pressure at the back of the eyeballs, a poignant sensation not unlike
a knife-thrust; that, and a sudden fear of madness, of drivelling
helplessness.
The abrupt return of consciousness in such a condition is not easy to
imagine. After all he had gone through, this strange sequel must have
been terribly puzzling to him. He was a man of good education, well
versed in psychology; in the first rush of consciousness he tried, as
best he could, to weigh himself up in the balance of aberration. And it
was this very fact that gave him his reassurance; for it told him that
he could think, could reason, could count on a mind in full function.
But he could not see. The pain in his eyeballs was blinding. There was
nothing he could distinguish; everything was woven together, a mere
blaze of wonderful, iridescent, blazing coloration.
But if he could not see, he could feel. The pain was excruciating.
He closed his eyes and fell to thinking, curiously enough, that the
experience was similar to what he had gone through when upon learning to
swim, he had first opened his eyes under the water. It had been under
a blazing sun. The pain and the colour--it was much the same, only
intensified.
Then he knew that he was very tired. The mere effort of that one thought
had cost him vitality. He dropped back into unconsciousness, such as
was more insensibility than slumber. He had strange dreams, of people
walking, of women, and of many voices. It was blurred and indistinct,
yet somehow not unreal. Then, after an unguessable length of time--he
awoke.
He was much stronger. The lapse may have been very long; he could not
know. But the pain in his eyes was gone; and he ventured to open the
lids again in the face of the light that had been so baffling. This time
he could see; not distinctly, but still enough to assure him of reality.
By closing his eyes at intervals he was able to rest them and to
accustom them gradually to the new degree of light. And after a bit he
could see plainly.
He was on a cot, and in a room almost totally different from any that
he had ever seen before. The colour of the walls, even, was dissimilar;
likewise the ceiling. It was white, in a way, and yet unlike it; neither
did it resemble any of the various tints; to give it a name that he
afterward learned--alna--implies but little. It was utterly new to him.
Apparently he was alone. The room was not large; about the size of an
ordinary bedroom. And after the first novelty of the unplaceable colour
had worn off he began to take stock of his own person.
First, he was covered by the finest of bed clothing, thick but
exceedingly light. There was no counterpane, but two blankets and two
sheets; and none of them corresponded to any colour or material he had
ever known. He only knew that their tints were light rather than dark.
Next, he moved his hands out from under the coverings, and held them up
before his eyes. He was immensely puzzled. He naturally expected to see
the worn, emaciated hands which had been his on that dramatic night; but
the ones before him were plump, normal, of a healthy pink. The wrists
likewise were in perfect condition, also his arms. He could not account
for this sudden return to health, of the vigour he had known before he
began to wear the ring. He lay back pondering.
Presently he fell to examining his clothes. There were two garments made
of a silk-like textile, rather heavy as to weight, but exceedingly soft
as to touch. They were slightly darker than the bed clothing. In a way
they were much like pyjamas, except that both were designed to be merely
slipped into place, without buttons or draw-strings. That is, they were
tailored to fit snugly over the shoulders and waist, while loose enough
elsewhere.
Then he noticed the walls of the room. They were after a simple,
symmetrical style; coved--to use an architectural expression--or curved,
where the corner would come with a radius much larger than common,
amounting to four or five feet; so that a person of ordinary height
could not stand close to the wall without stooping. Where the coved
portion flowed into the perpendicular of the wall there was a broad
moulding, like a plate rail, which acted as a support for the hanging
pictures.
Watson counted four of these pictures. Instinctively he felt that they
might give him a valuable clue as to his whereabouts. For, while his
mind had cleared enough for him to feel sure that he had truly come
through the Spot, he knew nothing more. Where was he? What would the
pictures tell?
The first was directly before his eyes. In size perhaps two by three
feet, with its greater length horizontal, it was more of a landscape
than a portrait. And Watson's eagerness for the subject itself made him
forget to note whether the work was mechanically or manually executed.
For it revealed a girl--about ten or twelve--very slightly draped,
enjoying a wild romp with a most extraordinary creature. It was this
animal that made the picture amazing; there was no subtle significance
in the scene--there was nothing remarkable about the technique. The
whole interest, for Watson, was in the animal.
It was a deer; perfect and beautiful, but cast in a Lilliputian mould.
It stood barely a foot high, the most delicate thing he had ever looked
upon. Mature in every detail of its proportion, the dainty hoofs, the
fragile legs, smooth-coated body, and small, wide-antlered head--a
miniature eight-pointer--made such a vision as might come to the dreams
of a hunter.
Chick rose up in bed, in order to examine it more closely. Immediately
he fell back again slightly dizzy. He closed his eyes.
Shortly he began examining the other pictures. Two of these were
simple flower studies. Watson scarcely knew which puzzled him most; the
blossoms or their containers. For the vases were like large-sized loving
cups, broad as to body, and provided with a handle on either side. Their
colours were unfamiliar. As for the blossoms--in one study the blooms
were a half-dozen in number, and more like Shasta daisies than anything
else. But their colour was totally unlike, while they possessed wide,
striped stamens that gave the flowers an identity all their own. In
the other vase were several varieties, and every one absolutely
unrecognisable.
On the opposite side of the room was something fairly familiar. At
first glance it seemed a simple basket of kittens, done in black and
white--something like crayon, and yet resembling sepia. Alongside the
basket, however, was a spoon, one end resting on the edge of a saucer.
And it was the size of the spoon that commanded Chick's attention;
rather, the size of the kittens, any one of which could have curled up
comfortably in the bowl of the spoon! Judging relatively, if it were an
ordinary tablespoon, then the kittens were smaller than the smallest of
mice.
Chick gave it up. Presently he began speculating about the time. He
decided that, whatever the hour might be, it was still daylight. In one
wall of the room was a large, oval window, of a material which may as
well be called glass, frosted, so as to permit no view of what might lie
outside. But it allowed plenty of light to enter.
Cut in the opposite wall was a doorway, hung with a curtain instead of
a door. This curtain was a gauzy material, but its maroonlike shade
completely hid all view of whatever lay beyond.
Chick waited and listened. Hitherto he had not heard a sound. There was
not even that subtle, mixed hum from the distance that we are accustomed
to associate with silence. He felt certain that he was inside the Blind
Spot; but as to just where that locality might lie, he knew as little
as before. He knew only that he in a building of some sort. Where, and
what, was the building?
Just then he noticed a cord dangling from the ceiling. It came down to
within six inches of his head. He gave it a pull.
Whereupon he heard a faint, musical jangling in the distance. He tried
to analyse the sound. It was not bell-like; perhaps the word “tinkling”
would serve better. Provisionally, Chick placed the key at middle D.
A moment later he heard steps outside the curtain. They were very soft
and light and deliberate; and almost at the same instant a delicate
white hand moved the curtain aside.
It was a woman. Chick lay back and wondered. Although not beautiful she
was very good to look at, with large blue eyes of a deep tenderness and
sympathy, even features, and a wonderful fold of rich brown hair held in
place by a satiny net.
She started when she saw Chick's wide open eyes; then smiled, a motherly
smile and compassionate. She was dressed in a manner at once becoming
and odd, to one unaccustomed, in a gown that draped the entire figure,
yet left the right arm and shoulder bare. Chick noticed that arm
especially; it was white as marble, moulded full, and laced with fine
blue veins. He had never seen an arm like that. Nor such a woman. She
might have been forty.
She came over to the bed and placed a hand on Chick's forehead. Again
she smiled, and nodded.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
Now this is a strange thing; Watson could not account for it. For,
although she did not speak English, yet he could understand her quite
well. At the moment it seemed perfectly obvious; afterward, the fact
became amazing.
He answered in the same way, his thoughts directing his lips. And he
found that as long as he made no conscious attempt to select the words
for his thought, he could speak unhesitatingly.
“Where am I?”
She smiled indulgently, but did not answer.
“Is this the--Blind Spot?”
“The Blind Spot! I do not understand.”
“Who are you?”
“Your nurse. Perhaps,” soothingly, “you would like to talk to the
Rhamda.”
“The Rhamda!”
“Yes. The Rhamda Geos.”