The Dark World

I picked the sword up from the table.

'It isn't what I want,' I went on, 'But sometimes, when my mind is – abstract, something from outside floats into it. Like the need for a sword. And not any sword – just one. I don't know what the sword looks like, but I'd know if I held it in my hand.' I laughed a little. 'And if I drew it a few inches from the sheath, I could put out that fire up there as if I'd blown on it like a candleflame. And if I drew the sword all the way out – the world would come to an end!'

My uncle nodded. After a moment, he spoke.

'The doctors,' he asked. 'What do they say?'

'I know what they would say, if I told them,' I said grimly. 'Pure insanity. If I could be sure of that, I'd feel happier. One of the dogs was killed last night, you know.'

'Of course. Old Duke. Another dog from some farm, eh?'

'Or a wolf. The same wolf that got into my room last night, and stood over me like a man, and clipped off a lock of my hair.'

Something flamed up far away, beyond the window, and was gone in the dark. The Need-fire.

My uncle rose and stood looking down at me in the dimness. He laid a big hand on my shoulder.

'I think you're sick, Ed.'

'You think I'm crazy. Well, I may be. But I've got a hunch I'm going to know soon, one way or the other.'

I picked up the sheathed sword and laid it across my knees. We sat in silence for what seemed like a long time.

In the forest to the north, the Need-fire burned steadily. I could not see it. But its flames stirred in my blood – dangerously – darkly.

II. Call of the Red Witch

I COULD not sleep. The suffocating breathlessness of late summer lay like a woollen blanket over me. Presently I went into the big room and restlessly searched for cigarettes. My uncle's voice came through an open doorway.

'All right, Ed?'

'Yeah. I can't sleep yet. Maybe I'll read.'

I chose a book at random, sank into a relaxer chair and switched on a lamp. It was utterly silent. I could not even hear the faint splashing of little waves on the lakeshore.

There was something I wanted -

A trained rifleman's hand, at need, will itch for the feeling of smooth wood and metal. Similarly, my hand was hungry for the feel of something – neither gun nor sword, I thought.

A weapon that I had used before. I could not remember what it was. Once I glanced at the poker leaning against the fireplace, and thought that was it; but the flash of recognition was gone instantly.

The book was a popular novel. I skimmed through it rapidly. The dim, faint, pulsing in my blood did not wane. It grew stronger, rising from sub-sensory levels. A distant excitement seemed to be growing deep in my mind.

Grimacing, I rose to return the book to its shelf. I stood there for a moment, my glance skimming over the titles. On impulse I drew out a volume I had not looked at for many years, the Book of Common Prayer.

It fell open in my hands. A sentence blazed out from the page.

I am become as it were a monster unto many.

I put back the book and returned to my chair. I was in no mood for reading. The lamp overhead bothered me, and I pressed for the switch. Instantly moonlight flooded the room – and instantly the curious sense of expectancy was heightened, as though I had lowered a – a barrier.

The sheathed sword still lay on the window-seat. I looked past it, to the clouded sky where a golden moon shone. Faint, far away, a glimmer showed – the Need-fire, blazing in the swampy wilderness of the Limberlost.

And it called.

The golden square of window was hypnotic. I lay back in my chair, half-closing my eyes, while the sense of danger moved coldly within my brain. Sometimes before I had felt this call, summoning me. And always before I had been able to resist.

This time I wavered.

'The lock of hair clipped from my head – had that given the enemy power? Superstition. My logic called it that, but a deep, inner well of conviction told me that the ancient hair-magic was not merely mummery. Since that time in Sumatra, I had been far less skeptical. And since then I had studied.

The studies were strange enough, ranging from the principles of sympathetic magic to the wild fables of lycanthropy and demonology. Yet I was amazingly quick at learning.

It was as though I took a refresher course, to remind myself of knowledge I had once known by heart. Only one subject really troubled me, and I continually stumbled across it, by roundabout references.

And that was the Force, the entity, disguised in folklore under such familiar names as the Black Man, Satan, Lucifer, and such unfamiliar names as Kutchie, of the Australian Dieris, Tuna, of the Esquimaux, the African Abonsam, and the Swiss Stratteli.

I did no research on the Black Man – but I did not need to. There was a recurrent dream that I could not help identifying with the dark force that represented evil. I would be standing before a golden square of light, very much afraid, and yet straining toward some consummation that I desired. And deep down within that glowing square that would be the beginning of motion. I knew there were certain ritual gestures to be made before the ceremony could be begun, but it was difficult to break the paralysis that held me.

A square like the moon-drenched window before me – yet not the same.

For no chill essence of fear thrust itself out at me now. Rather, the low humming I heard was soothing, gentle as a woman's crooning voice.

The golden square wavered – shook – and little tendrils of crepuscular light fingered out toward me. Ever the low humming came, alluring and disarming.

Golden fingers – tentacles – they darted here and there as if puzzled. They touched lamp, table, carpet, and drew back. They – touched me.

Swiftly they leaped forward now – avid! I had time for a momentary pulse of alarm before they wrapped me in an embrace like golden sands of sleep. The humming grew louder. And I responded to it.

As the skin of the flayed satyr Marsyas thrilled at the sound of his native Phrygian melodies! I knew this music. I knew this – chant!

Stole through the golden glow a crouching shadow – not human – with amber eyes and a bristling mane – the shadow of a wolf.

It hesitated, glanced over its shoulder questioningly. And now another shape swam into view, cowled and gowned so that nothing of its face or body showed. But it was small – small as a child.

Wolf and cowled figure hung in the golden mists, watching and waiting. The sighing murmur altered. Formed itself into syllables and words. Words in no human tongue, but – I knew them.

'Ganelon! I call you, Ganelon! By the seal in your blood – hear me!'

Ganelon! Surely that was my name. I knew it so well.

Yet who called me thus?

'I have called you before, but the way was not open. Now the bridge is made. Come to me, Ganelon!'

A sigh.

The wolf glanced over a bristling shoulder, snarling. The cowled figure bent toward me. I sensed keen eyes searching me from the darkness of the hood, and an icy breath touched me.

'He has forgotten, Medea,' said a sweet, high-pitched voice, like the tone of a child.

Again the sigh. 'Has he forgotten me? Ganelon, Ganelon! Have you forgotten the arms of Medea, the lips of Medea?'

I swung,' cradled in the golden mists, half asleep.

'He has forgotten,' the cowled figure said.

'Then let him come to me nevertheless. Ganelon! The Need-fire burns. The gateway lies open to the Dark