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THE WOLVES OF GOD
_OTHER WORKS BY
ALGERNON BLACKWOOD_
JULIUS LE VALLON
THE WAVE: An Egyptian Aftermath
TEN-MINUTE STORIES
DAY AND NIGHT STORIES
THE PROMISE OF AIR
THE GARDEN OF SURVIVAL
THE LISTENER and Other Stories
THE EMPTY HOUSE and Other Stories
THE LOST VALLEY and Other Stories
JOHN SILENCE: Physician Extraordinary
_With Violet Pearn_
KARMA: A Reincarnation Play
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
THE WOLVES OF GOD
_And Other Fey Stories_
BY
ALGERNON BLACKWOOD
_Author of "The Wave," "The Promise of Air," etc_
AND
WILFRED WILSON
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 FIFTH AVENUE
Copyright, 1921
By E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
_Printed in the United States of America_
TO THE MEMORY
OF
OUR CAMP-FIRES IN THE WILDERNESS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE WOLVES OF GOD 1
II. CHINESE MAGIC 27
III. RUNNING WOLF 52
IV. FIRST HATE 74
V. THE TARN OF SACRIFICE 86
VI. THE VALLEY OF THE BEASTS 113
VII. THE CALL 137
VIII. EGYPTIAN SORCERY 151
IX. THE DECOY 169
X. THE MAN WHO FOUND OUT 192
XI. THE EMPTY SLEEVE 211
XII. WIRELESS CONFUSION 230
XIII. CONFESSION 237
XIV. THE LANE THAT RAN EAST AND WEST 259
XV. "VENGEANCE IS MINE" 279
THE WOLVES OF GOD
I
THE WOLVES OF GOD
1
As the little steamer entered the bay of Kettletoft in the Orkneys the
beach at Sanday appeared so low that the houses almost seemed to be
standing in the water; and to the big, dark man leaning over the rail of
the upper deck the sight of them came with a pang of mingled pain and
pleasure. The scene, to his eyes, had not changed. The houses, the low
shore, the flat treeless country beyond, the vast open sky, all looked
exactly the same as when he left the island thirty years ago to work for
the Hudson Bay Company in distant N. W. Canada. A lad of eighteen then,
he was now a man of forty-eight, old for his years, and this was the
home-coming he had so often dreamed about in the lonely wilderness of
trees where he had spent his life. Yet his grim face wore an anxious
rather than a tender expression. The return was perhaps not quite as he
had pictured it.
Jim Peace had not done too badly, however, in the Company's service.
For an islander, he would be a rich man now; he had not married, he had
saved the greater part of his salary, and even in the far-away Post
where he had spent so many years there had been occasional opportunities
of the kind common to new, wild countries where life and law are in
the making. He had not hesitated to take them. None of the big Company
Posts, it was true, had come his way, nor had he risen very high in the
service; in another two years his turn would have come, yet he had left
of his own accord before those two years were up. His decision, judging
by the strength in the features, was not due to impulse; the move
had been deliberately weighed and calculated; he had renounced his
opportunity after full reflection. A man with those steady eyes, with
that square jaw and determined mouth, certainly did not act without good
reason.
A curious expression now flickered over his weather-hardened face as he
saw again his childhood's home, and the return, so often dreamed about,
actually took place at last. An uneasy light flashed for a moment in the
deep-set grey eyes, but was quickly gone again, and the tanned visage
recovered its accustomed look of stern composure. His keen sight took in
a dark knot of figures on the landing-pier--his brother, he knew, among
them. A wave of home-sickness swept over him. He longed to see his
brother again, the old farm, the sweep of open country, the sand-dunes,
and the breaking seas. The smell of long-forgotten days came to his
nostrils with its sweet, painful pang of youthful memories.
How fine, he thought, to be back there in the old familiar fields of
childhood, with sea and sand about him instead of the smother of
endless woods that ran a thousand miles without a break. He was glad in
particular that no trees were visible, and that rabbits scampering among
the dunes were the only wild animals he need ever meet....
Those thirty years in the woods, it seemed, oppressed his mind; the
forests, the countless multitudes of trees, had wearied him. His nerves,
perhaps, had suffered finally. Snow, frost and sun, stars, and the wind
had been his companions during the long days and endless nights in his
lonely Post, but chiefly--trees. Trees, trees, trees! On the whole, he
had preferred them in stormy weather, though, in another way, their
rigid hosts, 'mid the deep silence of still days, had been equally
oppressive. In the clear sunlight of a windless day they assumed a
waiting, listening, watching aspect that had something spectral in it,
but when in motion--well, he preferred a moving animal to one that stood
stock-still and stared. Wind, moreover, in a million trees, even the
lightest breeze, drowned all other sounds--the howling of the wolves,
for instance, in winter, or the ceaseless harsh barking of the husky
dogs he so disliked.
Even on this warm September afternoon a slight shiver ran over him as
the background of dead years loomed up behind the present scene. He
thrust the picture back, deep down inside himself. The self-control, the
strong, even violent will that the face betrayed, came into operation
instantly. The background was background; it belonged to what was past,
and the past was over and done with. It was dead. Jim meant it to stay
dead.
The figure waving to him from the pier was his brother. He knew Tom
instantly; the years had dealt easily with him in this quiet island;
there was no startling, no unkindly change, and a deep emotion, though
unexpressed, rose in his heart. It was good to be home again, he
realized, as he sat presently in the cart, Tom holding the reins,
driving slowly back to the farm at the north end of the island.
Everything he found familiar, yet at the same time strange. They passed
the school where he used to go as a little bare-legged boy; other boys
were now learning their lessons exactly as he used to do. Through the
open window he could hear the droning voice of the schoolmaster, who,
though invisible, wore the face of Mr. Lovibond, his own teacher.
"Lovibond?" said Tom, in reply to his question. "Oh, he's been dead
these twenty years. He went south, you know--Glasgow, I think it was, or
Edinburgh. He got typhoid."
Stands of golden plover were to be seen as of old in the fields, or
flashing overhead in swift flight with a whir of wings, wheeling and
turning together like one huge bird. Down on the empty shore a curlew
cried. Its piercing note rose clear above the noisy clamour of the
gulls. The sun played softly on the quiet sea, the air was keen but
pleasant, the tang of salt mixed sweetly with the clean smells of open
country that he knew so well. Nothing of essentials had changed, even
the low clouds beyond the heaving uplands were the clouds of childhood.
They came presently to the sand-dunes, where rabbits sat at their
burrow-mouths, or ran helter-skelter across the road in front of the
slow cart.
"They're safe till the colder weather comes and trapping begins," he
mentioned. It all came back to him in detail.
"And they know it, too--the canny little beggars," replied Tom. "Any
rabbits out where you've been?" he asked casually.
"Not to hurt you," returned his brother shortly.
Nothing seemed changed, although everything seemed different. He looked
upon the old, familiar things, but with other eyes. There were, of
course, changes, alterations, yet so slight, in a way so odd and
curious, that they evaded him; not being of the physical order, they
reported to his soul, not to his mind. But his soul, being troubled,
sought to deny the changes; to admit them meant to admit a change in
himself he had determined to conceal even if he could not entirely deny
it.
"Same old place, Tom," came one of his rare remarks. "The years ain't
done much to it." He looked into his brother's face a moment squarely.
"Nor to you, either, Tom," he added, affection and tenderness just
touching his voice and breaking through a natural reserve that was
almost taciturnity.
His brother returned the look; and something in that instant passed
between the two men, something of understanding that no words had
hinted at, much less expressed. The tie was real, they loved each other,
they were loyal, true, steadfast fellows. In youth they had known no
secrets. The shadow that now passed and vanished left a vague trouble in
both hearts.
"The forests," said Tom slowly, "have made a silent man of you, Jim.
You'll miss them here, I'm thinking."
"Maybe," was the curt reply, "but I guess not."
His lips snapped to as though they were of steel and could never open
again, while the tone he used made Tom realize that the subject was not
one his brother cared to talk about particularly. He was surprised,
therefore, when, after a pause, Jim returned to it of his own accord. He
was sitting a little sideways as he spoke, taking in the scene with
hungry eyes. "It's a queer thing," he observed, "to look round and see
nothing but clean empty land, and not a single tree in sight. You see,
it don't look natural quite."
Again his brother was struck by the tone of voice, but this time by
something else as well he could not name. Jim was excusing himself,
explaining. The manner, too, arrested him. And thirty years disappeared
as though they had not been, for it was thus Jim acted as a boy when
there was something unpleasant he had to say and wished to get it over.
The tone, the gesture, the manner, all were there. He was edging up to
something he wished to say, yet dared not utter.
"You've had enough of trees then?" Tom said sympathetically, trying to
help, "and things?"
The instant the last two words were out he realized that they had been
drawn from him instinctively, and that it was the anxiety of deep
affection which had prompted them. He had guessed without knowing he had
guessed, or rather, without intention or attempt to guess. Jim had a
secret. Love's clairvoyance had discovered it, though not yet its hidden
terms.
"I have----" began the other, then paused, evidently to choose his
words with care. "I've had enough of trees." He was about to speak of
something that his brother had unwittingly touched upon in his chance
phrase, but instead of finding the words he sought, he gave a sudden
start, his breath caught sharply. "What's that?" he exclaimed, jerking
his body round so abruptly that Tom automatically pulled the reins.
"What is it?"
"A dog barking," Tom answered, much surprised. "A farm dog barking. Why?
What did you think it was?" he asked, as he flicked the horse to go on
again. "You made me jump," he added, with a laugh. "You're used to
huskies, ain't you?"
"It sounded so--not like a dog, I mean," came the slow explanation.
"It's long since I heard a sheep-dog bark, I suppose it startled me."
"Oh, it's a dog all right," Tom assured him comfortingly, for his heart
told him infallibly the kind of tone to use. And presently, too, he
changed the subject in his blunt, honest fashion, knowing that, also,
was the right and kindly thing to do. He pointed out the old farms as
they drove along, his brother silent again, sitting stiff and rigid at
his side. "And it's good to have you back, Jim, from those outlandish
places. There are not too many of the family left now--just you and I,
as a matter of fact."
"Just you and I," the other repeated gruffly, but in a sweetened tone
that proved he appreciated the ready sympathy and tact. "We'll stick
together, Tom, eh? Blood's thicker than water, ain't it? I've learnt
that much, anyhow."
The voice had something gentle and appealing in it, something his
brother heard now for the first time. An elbow nudged into his side, and
Tom knew the gesture was not solely a sign of affection, but grew
partly also from the comfort born of physical contact when the heart is
anxious. The touch, like the last words, conveyed an appeal for help.
Tom was so surprised he couldn't believe it quite.
Scared! Jim scared! The thought puzzled and afflicted him who knew his
brother's character inside out, his courage, his presence of mind in
danger, his resolution. Jim frightened seemed an impossibility, a
contradiction in terms; he was the kind of man who did not know the
meaning of fear, who shrank from nothing, whose spirits rose highest
when things appeared most hopeless. It must, indeed, be an uncommon,
even a terrible danger that could shake such nerves; yet Tom saw the
signs and read them clearly. Explain them he could not, nor did he try.
All he knew with certainty was that his brother, sitting now beside him
in the cart, hid a secret terror in his heart. Sooner or later, in his
own good time, he would share it with him.
He ascribed it, this simple Orkney farmer, to those thirty years of
loneliness and exile in wild desolate places, without companionship,
without the society of women, with only Indians, husky dogs, a few
trappers or fur-dealers like himself, but none of the wholesome, natural
influences that sweeten life within reach. Thirty years was a long, long
time. He began planning schemes to help. Jim must see people as much as
possible, and his mind ran quickly over the men and women available. In
women the neighbourhood was not rich, but there were several men of
the right sort who might be useful, good fellows all. There was John
Rossiter, another old Hudson Bay man, who had been factor at Cartwright,
Labrador, for many years, and had returned long ago to spend his last
days in civilization. There was Sandy McKay, also back from a long spell
of rubber-planting in Malay.... Tom was still busy making plans when
they reached the old farm and presently sat down to their first meal
together since that early breakfast thirty years ago before Jim caught
the steamer that bore him off to exile--an exile that now returned him
with nerves unstrung and a secret terror hidden in his heart.
"I'll ask no questions," he decided. "Jim will tell me in his own good
time. And meanwhile, I'll get him to see as many folks as possible." He
meant it too; yet not only for his brother's sake. Jim's terror was so
vivid it had touched his own heart too.
"Ah, a man can open his lungs here and breathe!" exclaimed Jim, as the
two came out after supper and stood before the house, gazing across the
open country. He drew a deep breath as though to prove his assertion,
exhaling with slow satisfaction again. "It's good to see a clear horizon
and to know there's all that water between--between me and where I've
been." He turned his face to watch the plover in the sky, then looked
towards the distant shore-line where the sea was just visible in the
long evening light. "There can't be too much water for me," he added,
half to himself. "I guess they can't cross water--not that much water at
any rate."
Tom stared, wondering uneasily what to make of it.
"At the trees again, Jim?" he said laughingly. He had overheard the last
words, though spoken low, and thought it best not to ignore them
altogether. To be natural was the right way, he believed, natural and
cheery. To make a joke of anything unpleasant, he felt, was to make it
less serious. "I've never seen a tree come across the Atlantic yet,
except as a mast--dead," he added.
"I wasn't thinking of the trees just then," was the blunt reply, "but
of--something else. The damned trees are nothing, though I hate the
sight of 'em. Not of much account, anyway"--as though he compared them
mentally with another thing. He puffed at his pipe, a moment.
"They certainly can't move," put in his brother, "nor swim either."
"Nor another thing," said Jim, his voice thick suddenly, but not
with smoke, and his speech confused, though the idea in his mind was
certainly clear as daylight. "Things can't hide behind 'em--can they?"
"Not much cover hereabouts, I admit," laughed Tom, though the look in
his brother's eyes made his laughter as short as it sounded unnatural.
"That's so," agreed the other. "But what I meant was"--he threw out his
chest, looked about him with an air of intense relief, drew in another
deep breath, and again exhaled with satisfaction--"if there are no
trees, there's no hiding."
It was the expression on the rugged, weathered face that sent the blood
in a sudden gulping rush from his brother's heart. He had seen men
frightened, seen men afraid before they were actually frightened; he
had also seen men stiff with terror in the face both of natural and
so-called supernatural things; but never in his life before had he seen
the look of unearthly dread that now turned his brother's face as white
as chalk and yet put the glow of fire in two haunted burning eyes.
Across the darkening landscape the sound of distant barking had floated
to them on the evening wind.
"It's only a farm-dog barking." Yet it was Jim's deep, quiet voice that
said it, one hand upon his brother's arm.
"That's all," replied Tom, ashamed that he had betrayed himself, and
realizing with a shock of surprise that it was Jim who now played the
role of comforter--a startling change in their relations. "Why, what did
you think it was?"
He tried hard to speak naturally and easily, but his voice shook. So
deep was the brothers' love and intimacy that they could not help but
share.
Jim lowered his great head. "I thought," he whispered, his grey beard
touching the other's cheek, "maybe it was the wolves"--an agony of
terror made both voice and body tremble--"the Wolves of God!"
2
The interval of thirty years had been bridged easily enough; it was the
secret that left the open gap neither of them cared or dared to cross.
Jim's reason for hesitation lay within reach of guesswork, but Tom's
silence was more complicated.
With strong, simple men, strangers to affectation or pretence, reserve
is a real, almost a sacred thing. Jim offered nothing more; Tom asked no
single question. In the latter's mind lay, for one thing, a singular
intuitive certainty: that if he knew the truth he would lose his
brother. How, why, wherefore, he had no notion; whether by death, or
because, having told an awful thing, Jim would hide--physically or
mentally--he knew not, nor even asked himself. No subtlety lay in Tom,
the Orkney farmer. He merely felt that a knowledge of the truth involved
separation which was death.
Day and night, however, that extraordinary phrase which, at its first
hearing, had frozen his blood, ran on beating in his mind. With it came
always the original, nameless horror that had held him motionless where
he stood, his brother's bearded lips against his ear: _The Wolves of
God_. In some dim way, he sometimes felt--tried to persuade himself,
rather--the horror did not belong to the phrase alone, but was a
sympathetic echo of what Jim felt himself. It had entered his own mind
and heart. They had always shared in this same strange, intimate way.
The deep brotherly tie accounted for it. Of the possible transference of
thought and emotion he knew nothing, but this was what he meant perhaps.
At the same time he fought and strove to keep it out, not because it
brought uneasy and distressing feelings to him, but because he did not
wish to pry, to ascertain, to discover his brother's secret as by some
kind of subterfuge that seemed too near to eavesdropping almost.
Also, he wished most earnestly to protect him. Meanwhile, in spite of
himself, or perhaps because of himself, he watched his brother as a wild
animal watches its young. Jim was the only tie he had on earth. He loved
him with a brother's love, and Jim, similarly, he knew, loved him. His
job was difficult. Love alone could guide him.
He gave openings, but he never questioned:
"Your letter did surprise me, Jim. I was never so delighted in my life.
You had still two years to run."
"I'd had enough," was the short reply. "God, man, it was good to get
home again!"
This, and the blunt talk that followed their first meeting, was all
Tom had to go upon, while those eyes that refused to shut watched
ceaselessly always. There was improvement, unless, which never occurred
to Tom, it was self-control; there was no more talk of trees and water,
the barking of the dogs passed unnoticed, no reference to the loneliness
of the backwoods life passed his lips; he spent his days fishing,
shooting, helping with the work of the farm, his evenings smoking over
a glass--he was more than temperate--and talking over the days of long
ago.
The signs of uneasiness still were there, but they were negative, far
more suggestive, therefore, than if open and direct. He desired no
company, for instance--an unnatural thing, thought Tom, after so many
years of loneliness.
It was this and the awkward fact that he had given up two years before
his time was finished, renouncing, therefore, a comfortable pension--it
was these two big details that stuck with such unkind persistence in
his brother's thoughts. Behind both, moreover, ran ever the strange
whispered phrase. What the words meant, or whence they were derived, Tom
had no possible inkling. Like the wicked refrain of some forbidden song,
they haunted him day and night, even his sleep not free from them
entirely. All of which, to the simple Orkney farmer, was so new an
experience that he knew not how to deal with it at all. Too strong to
be flustered, he was at any rate bewildered. And it was for Jim, his
brother, he suffered most.
What perplexed him chiefly, however, was the attitude his brother showed
towards old John Rossiter. He could almost have imagined that the two
men had met and known each other out in Canada, though Rossiter showed
him how impossible that was, both in point of time and of geography as
well. He had brought them together within the first few days, and Jim,
silent, gloomy, morose, even surly, had eyed him like an enemy. Old
Rossiter, the milk of human kindness as thick in his veins as cream, had
taken no offence. Grizzled veteran of the wilds, he had served his full
term with the Company and now enjoyed his well-earned pension. He was
full of stories, reminiscences, adventures of every sort and kind;
he knew men and values, had seen strange things that only the true
wilderness delivers, and he loved nothing better than to tell them over
a glass. He talked with Jim so genially and affably that little response
was called for luckily, for Jim was glum and unresponsive almost to
rudeness. Old Rossiter noticed nothing. What Tom noticed was, chiefly
perhaps, his brother's acute uneasiness. Between his desire to help, his
attachment to Rossiter, and his keen personal distress, he knew not what
to do or say. The situation was becoming too much for him.
The two families, besides--Peace and Rossiter--had been neighbours
for generations, had intermarried freely, and were related in various
degrees. He was too fond of his brother to feel ashamed, but he was glad
when the visit was over and they were out of their host's house. Jim had
even declined to drink with him.
"They're good fellows on the island," said Tom on their way home, "but
not specially entertaining, perhaps. We all stick together though. You
can trust 'em mostly."
"I never was a talker, Tom," came the gruff reply. "You know that." And
Tom, understanding more than he understood, accepted the apology and
made generous allowances.
"John likes to talk," he helped him. "He appreciates a good listener."
"It's the kind of talk I'm finished with," was the rejoinder. "The
Company and their goings-on don't interest me any more. I've had
enough."
Tom noticed other things as well with those affectionate eyes of his
that did not want to see yet would not close. As the days drew in, for
instance, Jim seemed reluctant to leave the house towards evening. Once
the full light of day had passed, he kept indoors. He was eager and
ready enough to shoot in the early morning, no matter at what hour he
had to get up, but he refused point blank to go with his brother to the
lake for an evening flight. No excuse was offered; he simply declined to
go.
The gap between them thus widened and deepened, while yet in another
sense it grew less formidable. Both knew, that is, that a secret lay
between them for the first time in their lives, yet both knew also that
at the right and proper moment it would be revealed. Jim only waited
till the proper moment came. And Tom understood. His deep, simple love
was equal to all emergencies. He respected his brother's reserve. The
obvious desire of John Rossiter to talk and ask questions, for instance,
he resisted staunchly as far as he was able. Only when he could help and
protect his brother did he yield a little. The talk was brief, even
monosyllabic; neither the old Hudson Bay fellow nor the Orkney farmer
ran to many words:
"He ain't right with himself," offered John, taking his pipe out of his
mouth and leaning forward. "That's what I don't like to see." He put a
skinny hand on Tom's knee, and looked earnestly into his face as he said
it.
"Jim!" replied the other. "Jim ill, you mean!" It sounded ridiculous.
"His mind is sick."
"I don't understand," Tom said, though the truth bit like rough-edged
steel into the brother's heart.
"His soul, then, if you like that better."
Tom fought with himself a moment, then asked him to be more explicit.
"More'n I can say," rejoined the laconic old backwoodsman. "I don't know
myself. The woods heal some men and make others sick."
"Maybe, John, maybe." Tom fought back his resentment. "You've lived,
like him, in lonely places. You ought to know." His mouth shut with a
snap, as though he had said too much. Loyalty to his suffering brother
caught him strongly. Already his heart ached for Jim. He felt angry with
Rossiter for his divination, but perceived, too, that the old fellow
meant well and was trying to help him. If he lost Jim, he lost the
world--his all.
A considerable pause followed, during which both men puffed their pipes
with reckless energy. Both, that is, were a bit excited. Yet both had
their code, a code they would not exceed for worlds.
"Jim," added Tom presently, making an effort to meet the sympathy half
way, "ain't quite up to the mark, I'll admit that."
There was another long pause, while Rossiter kept his eyes on his
companion steadily, though without a trace of expression in them--a
habit that the woods had taught him.
"Jim," he said at length, with an obvious effort, "is skeered. And it's
the soul in him that's skeered."
Tom wavered dreadfully then. He saw that old Rossiter, experienced
backwoodsman and taught by the Company as he was, knew where the secret
lay, if he did not yet know its exact terms. It was easy enough to put
the question, yet he hesitated, because loyalty forbade.
"It's a dirty outfit somewheres," the old man mumbled to himself.
Tom sprang to his feet, "If you talk that way," he exclaimed angrily,
"you're no friend of mine--or his." His anger gained upon him as he said
it. "Say that again," he cried, "and I'll knock your teeth----"
He sat back, stunned a moment.
"Forgive me, John," he faltered, shamed yet still angry. "It's pain to
me, it's pain. Jim," he went on, after a long breath and a pull at his
glass, "Jim _is_ scared, I know it." He waited a moment, hunting for the
words that he could use without disloyalty. "But it's nothing he's done
himself," he said, "nothing to his discredit. I know _that_."
Old Rossiter looked up, a strange light in his eyes.
"No offence," he said quietly.
"Tell me what you know," cried Tom suddenly, standing up again.
The old factor met his eye squarely, steadfastly. He laid his pipe
aside.
"D'ye really want to hear?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Because, if
you don't--why, say so right now. I'm all for justice," he added, "and
always was."
"Tell me," said Tom, his heart in his mouth. "Maybe, if I knew--I might
help him." The old man's words woke fear in him. He well knew his
passionate, remorseless sense of justice.
"Help him," repeated the other. "For a man skeered in his soul there
ain't no help. But--if you want to hear--I'll tell you."
"Tell me," cried Tom. "I _will_ help him," while rising anger fought
back rising fear.
John took another pull at his glass.
"Jest between you and me like."
"Between you and me," said Tom. "Get on with it."
There was a deep silence in the little room. Only the sound of the sea
came in, the wind behind it.
"The Wolves," whispered old Rossiter. "The Wolves of God."
Tom sat still in his chair, as though struck in the face. He shivered.
He kept silent and the silence seemed to him long and curious. His heart
was throbbing, the blood in his veins played strange tricks. All he
remembered was that old Rossiter had gone on talking. The voice,
however, sounded far away and distant. It was all unreal, he felt, as he
went homewards across the bleak, wind-swept upland, the sound of the sea
for ever in his ears....
Yes, old John Rossiter, damned be his soul, had gone on talking. He had
said wild, incredible things. Damned be his soul! His teeth should be
smashed for that. It was outrageous, it was cowardly, it was not true.
"Jim," he thought, "my brother, Jim!" as he ploughed his way wearily
against the wind. "I'll teach him. I'll teach him to spread such wicked
tales!" He referred to Rossiter. "God blast these fellows! They come
home from their outlandish places and think they can say anything! I'll
knock his yellow dog's teeth...!"
While, inside, his heart went quailing, crying for help, afraid.
He tried hard to remember exactly what old John had said. Round Garden
Lake--that's where Jim was located in his lonely Post--there was a tribe
of Redskins. They were of unusual type. Malefactors among them--thieves,
criminals, murderers--were not punished. They were merely turned out by
the Tribe to die.
But how?
The Wolves of God took care of them. What were the Wolves of God?
A pack of wolves the Redskins held in awe, a sacred pack, a spirit
pack--God curse the man! Absurd, outlandish nonsense! Superstitious
humbug! A pack of wolves that punished malefactors, killing but never
eating them. "Torn but not eaten," the words came back to him, "white
men as well as red. They could even cross the sea...."
"He ought to be strung up for telling such wild yarns. By God--I'll
teach him!"
"Jim! My brother, Jim! It's monstrous."
But the old man, in his passionate cold justice, had said a yet more
terrible thing, a thing that Tom would never forget, as he never could
forgive it: "You mustn't keep him here; you must send him away. We
cannot have him on the island." And for that, though he could scarcely
believe his ears, wondering afterwards whether he heard aright, for
that, the proper answer to which was a blow in the mouth, Tom knew that
his old friendship and affection had turned to bitter hatred.
"If I don't kill him, for that cursed lie, may God--and Jim--forgive
me!"
3
It was a few days later that the storm caught the islands, making them
tremble in their sea-born bed. The wind tearing over the treeless
expanse was terrible, the lightning lit the skies. No such rain had ever
been known. The building shook and trembled. It almost seemed the sea
had burst her limits, and the waves poured in. Its fury and the noises
that the wind made affected both the brothers, but Jim disliked the
uproar most. It made him gloomy, silent, morose. It made him--Tom
perceived it at once--uneasy. "Scared in his soul"--the ugly phrase came
back to him.
"God save anyone who's out to-night," said Jim anxiously, as the old
farm rattled about his head. Whereupon the door opened as of itself.
There was no knock. It flew wide, as if the wind had burst it. Two
drenched and beaten figures showed in the gap against the lurid sky--old
John Rossiter and Sandy. They laid their fowling pieces down and took
off their capes; they had been up at the lake for the evening flight and
six birds were in the game bag. So suddenly had the storm come up that
they had been caught before they could get home.
And, while Tom welcomed them, looked after their creature wants, and
made them feel at home as in duty bound, no visit, he felt at the same
time, could have been less opportune. Sandy did not matter--Sandy never
did matter anywhere, his personality being negligible--but John Rossiter
was the last man Tom wished to see just then. He hated the man; hated
that sense of implacable justice that he knew was in him; with the
slightest excuse he would have turned him out and sent him on to his own
home, storm or no storm. But Rossiter provided no excuse; he was all
gratitude and easy politeness, more pleasant and friendly to Jim even
than to his brother. Tom set out the whisky and sugar, sliced the lemon,
put the kettle on, and furnished dry coats while the soaked garments
hung up before the roaring fire that Orkney makes customary even when
days are warm.
"It might be the equinoctials," observed Sandy, "if it wasn't late
October." He shivered, for the tropics had thinned his blood.
"This ain't no ordinary storm," put in Rossiter, drying his drenched
boots. "It reminds me a bit"--he jerked his head to the window that
gave seawards, the rush of rain against the panes half drowning his
voice--"reminds me a bit of yonder." He looked up, as though to find
someone to agree with him, only one such person being in the room.
"Sure, it ain't," agreed Jim at once, but speaking slowly, "no ordinary
storm." His voice was quiet as a child's. Tom, stooping over the kettle,
felt something cold go trickling down his back. "It's from acrost the
Atlantic too."
"All our big storms come from the sea," offered Sandy, saying just what
Sandy was expected to say. His lank red hair lay matted on his forehead,
making him look like an unhappy collie dog.
"There's no hospitality," Rossiter changed the talk, "like an
islander's," as Tom mixed and filled the glasses. "He don't even ask
'Say when?'" He chuckled in his beard and turned to Sandy, well pleased
with the compliment to his host. "Now, in Malay," he added dryly, "it's
probably different, I guess." And the two men, one from Labrador, the
other from the tropics, fell to bantering one another with heavy humour,
while Tom made things comfortable and Jim stood silent with his back to
the fire. At each blow of the wind that shook the building, a suitable
remark was made, generally by Sandy: "Did you hear that now?" "Ninety
miles an hour at least." "Good thing you build solid in this country!"
while Rossiter occasionally repeated that it was an "uncommon storm" and
that "it reminded" him of the northern tempests he had known "out
yonder."
Tom said little, one thought and one thought only in his heart--the wish
that the storm would abate and his guests depart. He felt uneasy about
Jim. He hated Rossiter. In the kitchen he had steadied himself already
with a good stiff drink, and was now half-way through a second; the
feeling was in him that he would need their help before the evening was
out. Jim, he noticed, had left his glass untouched. His attention,
clearly, went to the wind and the outer night; he added little to the
conversation.
"Hark!" cried Sandy's shrill voice. "Did you hear that? That wasn't
wind, I'll swear." He sat up, looking for all the world like a dog
pricking its ears to something no one else could hear.
"The sea coming over the dunes," said Rossiter. "There'll be an awful
tide to-night and a terrible sea off the Swarf. Moon at the full, too."
He cocked his head sideways to listen. The roaring was tremendous, waves
and wind combining with a result that almost shook the ground. Rain hit
the glass with incessant volleys like duck shot.
It was then that Jim spoke, having said no word for a long time.
"It's good there's no trees," he mentioned quietly. "I'm glad of that."
"There'd be fearful damage, wouldn't there?" remarked Sandy. "They might
fall on the house too."
But it was the tone Jim used that made Rossiter turn stiffly in his
chair, looking first at the speaker, then at his brother. Tom caught
both glances and saw the hard keen glitter in the eyes. This kind of
talk, he decided, had got to stop, yet how to stop it he hardly knew,
for his were not subtle methods, and rudeness to his guests ran too
strong against the island customs. He refilled the glasses, thinking in
his blunt fashion how best to achieve his object, when Sandy helped the
situation without knowing it.
"That's my first," he observed, and all burst out laughing. For Sandy's
tenth glass was equally his "first," and he absorbed his liquor like
a sponge, yet showed no effects of it until the moment when he would
suddenly collapse and sink helpless to the ground. The glass in
question, however, was only his third, the final moment still far away.
"Three in one and one in three," said Rossiter, amid the general
laughter, while Sandy, grave as a judge, half emptied it at a single
gulp. Good-natured, obtuse as a cart-horse, the tropics, it seemed, had
first worn out his nerves, then removed them entirely from his body.
"That's Malay theology, I guess," finished Rossiter. And the laugh broke
out again. Whereupon, setting his glass down, Sandy offered his usual
explanation that the hot lands had thinned his blood, that he felt the
cold in these "arctic islands," and that alcohol was a necessity of life
with him. Tom, grateful for the unexpected help, encouraged him to talk,
and Sandy, accustomed to neglect as a rule, responded readily. Having
saved the situation, however, he now unwittingly led it back into the
danger zone.
"A night for tales, eh?" he remarked, as the wind came howling with
a burst of strangest noises against the house. "Down there in the
States," he went on, "they'd say the evil spirits were out. They're a
superstitious crowd, the natives. I remember once----" And he told a
tale, half foolish, half interesting, of a mysterious track he had seen
when following buffalo in the jungle. It ran close to the spoor of a
wounded buffalo for miles, a track unlike that of any known animal, and
the natives, though unable to name it, regarded it with awe. It was
a good sign, a kill was certain. They said it was a spirit track.
"You got your buffalo?" asked Tom.
"Found him two miles away, lying dead. The mysterious spoor came to an
end close beside the carcass. It didn't continue."
"And that reminds me----" began old Rossiter, ignoring Tom's attempt to
introduce another subject. He told them of the haunted island at Eagle
River, and a tale of the man who would not stay buried on another island
off the coast. From that he went on to describe the strange man-beast
that hides in the deep forests of Labrador, manifesting but rarely, and
dangerous to men who stray too far from camp, men with a passion for
wild life over-strong in their blood--the great mythical Wendigo. And
while he talked, Tom noticed that Sandy used each pause as a good moment
for a drink, but that Jim's glass still remained untouched.
The atmosphere of incredible things, thus, grew in the little room, much
as it gathers among the shadows round a forest camp-fire when men who
have seen strange places of the world give tongue about them, knowing
they will not be laughed at--an atmosphere, once established, it is
vain to fight against. The ingrained superstition that hides in every
mother's son comes up at such times to breathe. It came up now. Sandy,
closer by several glasses to the moment, Tom saw, when he would be
suddenly drunk, gave birth again, a tale this time of a Scottish planter
who had brutally dismissed a native servant for no other reason than
that he disliked him. The man disappeared completely, but the villagers
hinted that he would--soon indeed that he had--come back, though "not
quite as he went." The planter armed, knowing that vengeance might
be violent. A black panther, meanwhile, was seen prowling about the
bungalow. One night a noise outside his door on the veranda roused him.
Just in time to see the black brute leaping over the railings into the
compound, he fired, and the beast fell with a savage growl of pain. Help
arrived and more shots were fired into the animal, as it lay, mortally
wounded already, lashing its tail upon the grass. The lanterns, however,
showed that instead of a panther, it was the servant they had shot to
shreds.
Sandy told the story well, a certain odd conviction in his tone and
manner, neither of them at all to the liking of his host. Uneasiness and
annoyance had been growing in Tom for some time already, his inability
to control the situation adding to his anger. Emotion was accumulating
in him dangerously; it was directed chiefly against Rossiter, who,
though saying nothing definite, somehow deliberately encouraged both
talk and atmosphere. Given the conditions, it was natural enough the
talk should take the turn it did take, but what made Tom more and more
angry was that, if Rossiter had not been present, he could have stopped
it easily enough. It was the presence of the old Hudson Bay man that
prevented his taking decided action. He was afraid of Rossiter, afraid
of putting his back up. That was the truth. His recognition of it made
him furious.
"Tell us another, Sandy McKay," said the veteran. "There's a lot in such
tales. They're found the world over--men turning into animals and the
like."
And Sandy, yet nearer to his moment of collapse, but still showing no
effects, obeyed willingly. He noticed nothing; the whisky was good, his
tales were appreciated, and that sufficed him. He thanked Tom, who just
then refilled his glass, and went on with his tale. But Tom, hatred
and fury in his heart, had reached the point where he could no longer
contain himself, and Rossiter's last words inflamed him. He went over,
under cover of a tremendous clap of wind, to fill the old man's glass.
The latter refused, covering the tumbler with his big, lean hand.
Tom stood over him a moment, lowering his face. "You keep still," he
whispered ferociously, but so that no one else heard it. He glared into
his eyes with an intensity that held danger, and Rossiter, without
answering, flung back that glare with equal, but with a calmer, anger.
The wind, meanwhile, had a trick of veering, and each time it shifted,
Jim shifted his seat too. Apparently, he preferred to face the sound,
rather than have his back to it.
"Your turn now for a tale," said Rossiter with purpose, when Sandy
finished. He looked across at him, just as Jim, hearing the burst of
wind at the walls behind him, was in the act of moving his chair again.
The same moment the attack rattled the door and windows facing him. Jim,
without answering, stood for a moment still as death, not knowing which
way to turn.
"It's beatin' up from all sides," remarked Rossiter, "like it was goin'
round the building."
There was a moment's pause, the four men listening with awe to the roar
and power of the terrific wind. Tom listened too, but at the same time
watched, wondering vaguely why he didn't cross the room and crash his
fist into the old man's chattering mouth. Jim put out his hand and took
his glass, but did not raise it to his lips. And a lull came abruptly in
the storm, the wind sinking into a moment's dreadful silence. Tom and
Rossiter turned their heads in the same instant and stared into each
other's eyes. For Tom the instant seemed enormously prolonged. He
realized the challenge in the other and that his rudeness had roused it
into action. It had become a contest of wills--Justice battling against
Love.
Jim's glass had now reached his lips, and the chattering of his teeth
against its rim was audible.
But the lull passed quickly and the wind began again, though so gently
at first, it had the sound of innumerable swift footsteps treading
lightly, of countless hands fingering the doors and windows, but then
suddenly with a mighty shout as it swept against the walls, rushed
across the roof and descended like a battering-ram against the farther
side.
"God, did you hear that?" cried Sandy. "It's trying to get in!" and
having said it, he sank in a heap beside his chair, all of a sudden
completely drunk. "It's wolves or panthersh," he mumbled in his stupor
on the floor, "but whatsh's happened to Malay?" It was the last thing he
said before unconsciousness took him, and apparently he was insensible
to the kick on the head from a heavy farmer's boot. For Jim's glass had
fallen with a crash and the second kick was stopped midway. Tom stood
spell-bound, unable to move or speak, as he watched his brother suddenly
cross the room and open a window into the very teeth of the gale.
"Let be! Let be!" came the voice of Rossiter, an authority in it, a
curious gentleness too, both of them new. He had risen, his lips were
still moving, but the words that issued from them were inaudible, as the
wind and rain leaped with a galloping violence into the room, smashing
the glass to atoms and dashing a dozen loose objects helter-skelter on
to the floor.
"I saw it!" cried Jim, in a voice that rose above the din and clamour of
the elements. He turned and faced the others, but it was at Rossiter he
looked. "I saw the leader." He shouted to make himself heard, although
the tone was quiet. "A splash of white on his great chest. I saw them
all!"
At the words, and at the expression in Jim's eyes, old Rossiter, white
to the lips, dropped back into his chair as if a blow had struck him.
Tom, petrified, felt his own heart stop. For through the broken window,
above yet within the wind, came the sound of a wolf-pack running,
howling in deep, full-throated chorus, mad for blood. It passed like a
whirlwind and was gone. And, of the three men so close together, one
sitting and two standing, Jim alone was in that terrible moment wholly
master of himself.
Before the others could move or speak, he turned and looked full into
the eyes of each in succession. His speech went back to his wilderness
days:
"I done it," he said calmly. "I killed him--and I got ter go."
With a look of mystical horror on his face, he took one stride, flung
the door wide, and vanished into the darkness.
So quick were both words and action, that Tom's paralysis passed only as
the draught from the broken window banged the door behind him. He seemed
to leap across the room, old Rossiter, tears on his cheeks and his lips
mumbling foolish words, so close upon his heels that the backward blow
of fury Tom aimed at his face caught him only in the neck and sent him
reeling sideways to the floor instead of flat upon his back.
"Murderer! My brother's death upon you!" he shouted as he tore the door
open again and plunged out into the night.
And the odd thing that happened then, the thing that touched old John
Rossiter's reason, leaving him from that moment till his death a foolish
man of uncertain mind and memory, happened when he and the unconscious,
drink-sodden Sandy lay alone together on the stone floor of that
farm-house room.
Rossiter, dazed by the blow and his fall, but in full possession of his
senses, and the anger gone out of him owing to what he had brought
about, this same John Rossiter sat up and saw Sandy also sitting up and
staring at him hard. And Sandy was sober as a judge, his eyes and
speech both clear, even his face unflushed.
"John Rossiter," he said, "it was not God who appointed you executioner.
It was the devil." And his eyes, thought Rossiter, were like the eyes of
an angel.
"Sandy McKay," he stammered, his teeth chattering and breath failing
him. "Sandy McKay!" It was all the words that he could find. But Sandy,
already sunk back into his stupor again, was stretched drunk and
incapable upon the farm-house floor, and remained in that condition till
the dawn.
Jim's body lay hidden among the dunes for many months and in spite of
the most careful and prolonged searching. It was another storm that laid
it bare. The sand had covered it. The clothes were gone, and the flesh,
torn but not eaten, was naked to the December sun and wind.
II
CHINESE MAGIC
1
Dr. Owen Francis felt a sudden wave of pleasure and admiration sweep
over him as he saw her enter the room. He was in the act of going out;
in fact, he had already said good-bye to his hostess, glad to make his
escape from the chattering throng, when the tall and graceful young
woman glided past him. Her carriage was superb; she had black eyes with
a twinkling happiness in them; her mouth was exquisite. Round her
neck, in spite of the warm afternoon, she wore a soft thing of fur or
feathers; and as she brushed by to shake the hand he had just shaken
himself, the tail of this touched his very cheek. Their eyes met fair
and square. He felt as though her eyes also touched him.