THE WILL OF ANUBIS
1
My next contact with the world afforded a moment I can never forget.
I opened my eyes, supposing myself to be in bed at the Regal, and
wondering why I had left the lamp on.
Instantly, memory swept back--a flood of horrors.
I sat up and looked about me.…
On setting out with Gaston Max I had dressed hastily over my pajamas.
I discovered that I still wore them. My outer garments were folded on
a chair beside the bed. Upon a small table lay my Colt and some few
other personal belongings.
The room in which I found myself was flooded with what appeared to be
sunlight. Yet it possessed no window! There was no lamp, nor could I
detect the presence of any lighting device whatever. Furthermore, and
most staggering discovery of all, there was no door!
This amazing room was square, having a polished wood floor. Its walls
were olive green at the base, this green being graduated as the walls
ascended and becoming aquamarine where they joined the ceiling which,
whilst of the same colour, was of even lighter shade.
Immediately facing me and in direct line with my bed, a square opening
showed a narrow bathroom. I could see to the end of it and all three
walls. There was no window and no door. But, like my bedroom, it
appeared to be flooded with sunlight!
Physically I felt as well as I had ever felt in my life. Having taken
in my astounding environment, I closed my eyes again for a few seconds
and then reopened them.
Yes, it was real! And at this moment:
“Good morning, Brian Woodville!”
_The Voice!_…
I clenched my fists, looking sharply about me.
“Don’t be alarmed,” the Voice went on. “You are my guest and quite
safe. Indeed, I am glad you have joined us, although you did so
somewhat reluctantly. We shall be meeting later. But in the meantime,
what attendance would you like? I can send you a Japanese manservant,
an English batman, or a French valet. On the other hand, I can
recommend a beautiful Circassian highly accomplished in matters of the
toilet, or a Nubian girl like an ebony statue carved by a Greek
master, who will prepare your bath in such a manner that it will
exhilarate and rejuvenate you.”
The Voice ceased!
“Thank you,” I said, speaking as one who comments upon a radio
programme--confident that his criticisms are unheard. “I can dispense
with their services. I’m used to preparing my own bath.” A saving
sense of humour came to my aid, and: “A cup of tea would be welcome,”
I added.
“My dear Woodville,” the Voice assured me, “it shall be brought to you
at once.”
I sprang out of bed.
Not only could I hear the Voice, but also… the Voice could hear _me_!
Could he _see_ me? I debated my next step.
A pair of comfortable slippers had been placed beside the bed. Wearing
these, I walked into the bathroom, which was tiled in green and gold
mosaic. A Gillette razor, evidently new, with a packet of unopened
blades lay upon a glass shelf, together with a shaving brush of first
quality and a sealed stick of soap.
The hot water proved to be boiling; the cold water was apparently
iced. A bath of light green marble looked inviting; and one wall
consisted of a single mirror some nine feet high and twelve feet long.
A number of jars ranged upon a shelf contained essences and crystals
of various kinds. A jade bowl the size of a cooking pot held some kind
of talc powder and was topped by a gigantic puff upon which an ebony
negress, possibly resembling that Nubian described by the Voice,
crouched to form a handle. Sunshine warmed everything.
Yet there was no window.…
I began to shave. Odd how habits of a lifetime cling to us. I suppose
a condemned man shaves for his execution. I had little more to look
forward to. Yet quite automatically I began to shave. I had not dared
to begin to think. Having been once over my aggressive beard, I was
relathering lightly when a sound like that made by an elevator
arrested me.
Dropping the brush, I hastily wiped soap from my chin and stepped to
the outer room.
A section of the wall--floor to ceiling and some four feet wide--had
opened.… From it stepped a gigantic figure in armour!
I clenched my teeth but uttered no sound. I watched the figure pace
slowly across the room. Its armoured hands held a tray. Upon the tray
I saw a bowl of fruit, rolls, butter, sugar, cream, and a teapot--also
a box of my favourite cigarettes!
The armour of this incredible servant clinked faintly, metallically,
as it set the tray upon a table. Then, standing upright and
turning--this slowly but with military precision--the figure walked
back into the opening and began to sink, apparently into the floor!
Stupid with amazement as I was, nevertheless I saw that a panel was
descending correspondingly. With the disappearance of the attendant’s
head below floor level, this panel closed completely. The wall became
whole again.
I forgot that I had been shaving. I was tied remorselessly to the
present. I dropped down upon the bed, staring at my breakfast tray.…
2
That I was awake and in possession of my senses was certain. That I
was a prisoner in the castle of Felsenweir seemed a reasonable
deduction. I ate a roll and butter and a beautifully ripened peach,
and I drank two cups of excellent tea.
I completed the operation of shaving and lighted one of the cigarettes
so thoughtfully provided by my invisible host.
A pair of new brushes and a comb by a Bond Street firm suggested some
rearrangement of my disordered hair.
Having bathed luxuriously, I groomed myself as for a lovers’ meeting,
resumed my pajama suit, added socks, shoes, the well-worn flannels,
and that pull-over which had formed the hasty make-up in which I had
left the Regal.
I sat down in a comfortably cushioned armchair and wondered when the
master of my destiny would deign to indicate the next move.
There was perfect silence in the supernaturally sunlighted apartment.
Smoking, I meditated. First, and this priority was significant, I
thought of Marusa.
From that enchanting figure my ideas wandered to the armoured
creature. Grotesque--abnormal. It undoubtedly corresponded to the
figure photographed by Lonergan--the figure which had patrolled the
battlements. It was the same as, or identical with, that black horror
which had cut off my escape on the road below Felsenweir.
A possible truth intruded--an unwelcome truth.
The Thing was not human: it was an automaton! My old theories, based
on mediæval superstitions, gave place to new ones. The great
bats--were _they_ susceptible of scientific explanation? Now that I
had seen one of the armoured men at close quarters, I was disposed to
believe, as Gaston Max had suggested, that all the mysteries that
puzzled us might prove to be reducible to a reasonable explanation.
So far, so good. But a scientist capable of these achievements, one so
far in advance of his generation, might further be capable of
producing, not only the activities, but the _appearance_ of humanity!
This was the new horror which obsessed me.
Marusa!
Was she a real woman or a creature of this master illusionist into
whose power I had fallen?
The idea was maddening. I cursed the train of reasoning which had
created it. I was beginning to ascribe powers almost godlike to my
captor. This thraldom I must shake off.
I stood up and began closely to examine the walls of my apartment. If
Gaston Max had formulated a theory, admittedly never substantiated,
respecting the origin of the Voice, surely I could discover some
explanation of why a windowless room should be flooded with sunshine.
Carefully I set to work, bringing to bear all I knew, had read, or had
heard of modern lighting devices.
I drew a blank. There was no clue to the mystery. And I was about to
smoke another cigarette, when:
“My dear Woodville!”
I dropped the match. I stood rigid, cigarette in hand.
It was the Voice!
“I don’t know what you are looking for. If it is a way out, you will
never find it. But perhaps the source of the light intrigues you? It
will be made clear in time. For the moment I am going to ask you to
have a chat with a friend which may perhaps lead to a better
understanding between us.”…
I heard that faint whining sound which I had heard before. My glance
flashed to a part of the wall. As I watched, swiftly the wall opened.
From the gap created, a man stepped out.…
3
At great speed the panel reclosed, its descent marked by the
characteristic whine. I stared at the newcomer.
I saw a man of about my own build, wearing pajamas, slippers, and a
dressing gown of bright yellow. Abundant reddish-brown hair was
brushed straight back from his forehead. It was slightly gray at the
temples, which added character to a square-cut, clean-shaven face.
He met my regard with a sort of glassy fixity of expression. This
expression was unpleasant--in fact ghastly. It was utterly
unfamiliar--as was the man’s whole appearance. But his eyes were not!
I experienced a degree of bewilderment to which I had never sunk
before.
“Lonergan!” I whispered.… “Lonergan!”
“Himself!”
It was the well-known voice! Not the voice of the Rev. Josiah Higgins,
but the voice which I had first associated with Aldous P. Kluster. And
yet, in some odd way, it was different.
I grasped his hand.
“Thank God!” I exclaimed. “I was afraid----”
But I broke off, knowing myself to be face to face with a proposition
in which stark insanity lurked immediately around the corner.
“I can guess,” said Lonergan. “It don’t matter, anyway. Whatever
happened before you arrived here--just forget it.”
I stared uncomprehendingly. For some reason I could not focus his
glance. He seemed to be looking _through_ me. I struck another match
and lighted my cigarette.
“What occurred after you left the note?”
Lonergan’s expression remained obtuse.
“The note,” he repeated. “What note?”
His manner resembled that of one groping for forgotten lines; or, as I
realized later, listening for the voice of the prompter.
“The note telling us to follow you to Felsenweir!”
“Oh!” He seated himself upon the side of the bed continuing to stare
queerly before him. “Yes. That.… Well, it was necessary.”
“Necessary?”
“Sure. Otherwise you’d have crashed with the rest of the world. I
didn’t want that to happen--not after I knew.”
I stood in front of him looking down… but found myself quite unable to
catch his eye.
“After you _knew_? Lonergan, I don’t understand you. What has
happened?”
He looked up. But although he was staring straight at me, there was no
clash of interest. He was still looking _through_ me. It was uncanny.
“Just this, Woodville: What I came to the Black Forest looking for,
I’ve found. I can explain everything. But first, you’ve got to make a
decision.”
“About what?”
“About all of us. The world ends some time this week. Are we to end
with it, or are we to go on?”
I experienced a keen pang. Lonergan had gone over to the enemy!
In the circumstances I determined to temporize. For how could I know
what had led to his defection?
“We’ll go on.”
“That’s sane,” he replied mechanically. “I figured all along there
were no bats in your belfry. You know me, and when I say you’re wise
it means something. Am I right?”
“Quite right.”
“Take it or leave it, the world checks out. Neither the United States
nor Britain nor France are going to mean a damn thing once the die is
cast. They’ll just be swept away. Only a fool would fight for a
country that’s ceased to exist except as a name--or a memory. There’s
suicide. If you like to take that route, I guess it’s open to you.
Short of it, there’s no choice.”
He spoke on monotonously. It was the voice of Lonergan--but not his
diction, his manner. I was puzzled; horrified.
“The Deluge all over again, Woodville. For you and for me there’s just
one question: not what it means to the crowd who must go under, but
whether we’re shipping in the Ark or staying to be drowned. Just one
question. But I’m here to say you’ve got to answer it in an hour. I
had less.”
“And you chose…?”
“The Ark, sure.”
“You were wise.” I marvelled that I had my voice in such good control.
Lonergan, who had been staring past me whilst he spoke, now looked up.
For a brief moment I caught and held the fugitive glance. But that
moment told me all.… Warning--entreaty--agony. These I read, and more!
Then his stare cut through mine again and became fixed on some distant
spot far behind me, so that his eyes appeared to be slightly crossed.
“Have I convinced you?”
“Entirely!”
He stood up.
“We’re here,” he said with a sudden odd note of weariness. He moved in
a mechanical way across the room. “And we’re safe.”
That whining noise accompanied his last words. A panel opened and
Lonergan stepped through. Immediately he began to drop floorward.
“But I’m glad you’re wise, Woodville,” came as the panel closed.