The Motion Demon (16 page)

‘Unfortunately, the one I dreamed is typical and has never proven itself wrong. Last night I saw a secluded old ruin with broken windows. Every time this accursed building appears in my dreams some misfortune occurs.’

‘What does this house have to do with the switchman?’

‘In one of its empty windows I clearly saw his face. He leaned out of this black den and waved towards me a checkered kerchief that he always wears around his neck.’

‘And so?’

‘It was a farewell gesture. That man will die soon—today, tomorrow, at any moment.’

‘
A nightmare’s nod, then trust in God,
’ I said, trying to calm him. Joszt merely forced a smile and became silent.

And yet, that day, Glodzik perished through his own mistake. An engine, led astray by a wrong signal he set, cut off both his legs; he died on the spot.

The incident affected me deeply, and for a long time I avoided a conversation with Joszt on the subject. Finally, perhaps a year later, I addressed it in a casual way.

‘Since when have you had these ominous premonitions? As far as I remember you never used to exhibit similar abilities.’

‘You’re right,’ he retorted, disagreeably touching upon the subject. ‘That cursed ability developed in me only later.’

‘Forgive me for annoying you with this unpleasant matter, but I’d like to find a way of freeing you from this fatal faculty. When did you first notice it?’

‘Eight years ago, more or less.’

‘Therefore a year after you moved to this area?’

‘Yes, a year after coming to Szczytnisk. Then, in December, right on Christmas Eve, I had a presentiment of Groceli’s death, who was the chief officer here at the time. The affair became widely known, and in a matter of several days I had secured the sinister nickname “The Seer”! Mountaineers began to run away from me as from a tawny owl.’

‘Odd! And yet there must be something to it. What’s happening here is a classic example of so-called “second sight”. A long time ago I read a lot on this subject in books of old magic. Supposedly Scottish and Irish Mountain Men are frequently endowed with a similar ability.’

‘Yes, I also studied the histories of this manifestation with an obvious interest. It even seems to me that I’ve found a cause in its general characteristics. Your reference to Scottish Mountain Men is quite apt, only it necessitates a few additional words. You forgot to mention that these people, detested by their neighbours and often driven out like lepers beyond the village limits, exhibit their fatal ability only as long as they stay on the island; when they move to the Continent they lose their sad gift and are no different than the average person.’

‘Interesting. This would then affirm that this outstanding psychic phenomenon is, after all, dependent on factors of a chthonic nature.’

‘Indeed. This phenomenon has many telluric elements to it. We are sons of the Earth and are subject to its powerful influences, even in areas ostensibly separated from its core.’

‘Do you think your own clairvoyance arises from the same source?’ I asked after a momentary hesitation.

‘Of course. These surroundings influence me; I remain at the mercy of the atmosphere here. My ominous ability has obviously resulted from the spirit of this region. I live on the frontier of two worlds.’

‘Ultima Thule?’ I whispered, bowing my head.

‘Ultima Thule!’ Joszt repeated like an echo.

Gripped by fear, I ceased talking. After a while, shaking off this feeling, I asked: ‘Since you clearly understand everything, why haven’t you moved to another place?’

‘I can’t. I absolutely can’t. I feel that if I left, I should act against my destiny.’

‘You’re superstitious, Kazik.’

‘No, this is not superstition. This is destiny. I have a deep belief that only here, on this patch of earth, will I fulfill some important mission. What it is, I don’t know exactly; I only have a slight inkling of it.’

He broke off, as if frightened by what he had said. After a moment, turning his grey eyes to the rocky wall of the border, eyes shining from the glare of the sunset, he added in a low voice:

‘Do you know that it sometimes seems to me that here at this perpendicular boundary the visible world ends and that there, on the other side, begins a different, new world, a
mare tenebrarum
unknown in the human language.’

He lowered his eyes, wearied from the summits’ crimson glow, towards the ground, and then turned to the opposite direction where lay the train area.

‘And here,’ he added, ‘here life ends. Here is its final exertion, its last outskirt. Here its creative force is depleted. And so I stand in this place as a sentry over Life and Death, as a trustee of the secrets on this and the other side of the grave.’

Saying these words, he looked deeply into my face. He was beautiful at that moment. The infused, inspired glance of meditative eyes, the eyes of a poet and a mystic, had so much fire concentrated in them that I could not bear their radiant power, and I bent my head in reverence. Then he asked a final question:

‘It’s late already,’ observed Joszt, ‘and shadows are descending from the mountains. You have to rest early today; the journey has tired you.’

Thus ended our memorable conversation. From then on we did not talk about death or the menacing gift of second sight. I steered clear of discussions on this dangerous latter subject, for it apparently caused him pain.

Until one day he himself reminded me of his gloomy abilities.

That was ten years ago, in the middle of summer, in July. The dates of these events I remember clearly; they are forever imprinted in my mind.

It was Wednesday, the 13th of July, a holiday. As usual, I arrived in the morning for a visit; we were both to set off with guns to a neighbouring ravine frequented by wild boars. I found Joszt in a serious, collected mood. He said little, as if taken up with a stubborn thought; he shot badly, absentmindedly. In the evening, upon our parting, he shook my hand warmly and gave me a sealed letter in an envelope without an address.

‘Listen, Roman,’ he said in a voice shaky from emotion. ‘Important changes are going to occur in my life; it’s even possible that I might be forced to leave for a long time, to change my residence. If this happens, open this letter and send it to the enclosed address; I won’t be able to do this for various reasons that at present I cannot mention. You’ll understand later.’

‘Are you going to leave me, Kazik?’ I asked in a voice choked up with pain. ‘Why? Have you received some bad news? Why are you so unclear?’

‘You’ve guessed it. Last night in my sleep I saw again that dilapidated house, and inside the figure of someone very close to me. That’s all. Farewell, Roman!’

We fell into each other’s arms for a long, long moment. In an hour I was already at my place and torn apart by a storm of conflicting emotions; I gave orders like an automaton.

That night I couldn’t sleep a wink, and I paced the platform restlessly. At daybreak, unable to endure the uncertainty any longer, I phoned Szczytnisk. Joszt answered immediately and thanked me sincerely for my thoughtfulness. His voice was calm and assured, the content of his words cheerful, almost playful, and they had a soothing effect; I breathed freely.

Thursday and Friday followed quietly. Every couple of hours I spoke to Joszt by telephone, every time I received a reassuring answer: Nothing important had occurred. Likewise, Saturday was similar.

I started to regain my composure, and retiring for the night around nine in the staff area, I chastised him through the telephone about tawny owls, ravens, and similar portentous creatures, who, unable to find their own peace, disturb the peace of others. He received my reproaches humbly and wished me a good night. Somehow, I managed to fall asleep soon thereafter.

I slept a couple of hours. Suddenly, in the midst of deepest sleep, I heard a nervous ringing. Half awake, I tore myself away from the ottoman, shading my eyes from the blinding light of a gas-lamp. The bell called again; I ran up to the telephone, placing my ear to the receiver.

Joszt spoke in a broken voice:

‘Forgive me…for interrupting your sleep…. I have to send out…freight train number 21…early today…. I feel a little strange…. I will be leaving in half an hour…give the appropriate sig…. Ha!...’

The fine membrane, after giving off a couple of grating tones, suddenly stopped vibrating.

With a loudly beating heart, I listened intently, hoping to hear something more—but in vain. From the other side of the wire came the hollow silence of the night.

Then I myself started to speak. Leaning into the mouthpiece of the telephone, I threw out into space impatient words, words of torment…. A stony silence answered. Finally, staggering like a drunkard, I went to the back of the room.

I took out my watch and glanced at the dial; it was ten minutes past midnight. Instinctively, I checked the time with the wall clock above the desk. A peculiar thing! The clock had stopped. The immobile hands, one on top of the other, marked the twelfth hour; the station clock had stopped ten minutes ago—that is, at the moment of the sudden cessation of talking on the other end of the line. A cold shiver ran down my spine.

I stood helpless in the middle of the room, not knowing where to turn, where to begin. For a moment I wanted to get on a trolley and drive on as fast as possible to Szczytnisk. But I stopped myself. I couldn’t desert the station now; my assistant wasn’t present, the staff were asleep, and a freight train could drive up to the platform at any moment. The safety of Krepacz rested squarely on my shoulders. Nothing remained but to wait.

Therefore I waited, pouncing from one corner of the room to the other like a wounded animal; I waited tight-lipped, going out every minute to the platform to listen for signals. In vain, for nothing announced the coming of the train. Therefore, I returned to the office to circle the room again a couple of times before renewing my attempts with the telephone. Unsuccessfully. No one answered.

In the large station hall, glaringly lit with white gaslight, I suddenly felt terribly alone. Some type of strange, vague dread seized me with its rapacious claws and shook me so strongly that I started to tremble as if in a fever.

Weary, I sat down on the ottoman and buried my face in my palms. I feared looking ahead of me, lest I glimpse the black hands of the clock that indicated the unchanging hour of midnight; like a child I feared glancing around the room, so as not to see something terrible that would chill my blood. Thus, two hours went by.

Suddenly, I gave a start. The bells of the telegraph were ringing. I jumped to the table, eagerly setting in motion the receiving device.

A long white tape slowly groaned out from the ticker block. Leaning over a green rectangular woollen cloth, I clasped in my hand the creeping ribbon and searched for any marks. But the roll had no writing on it; no sign of an etching needle. I waited with strained eyes, following the ribbon’s movement. Finally, the first words appeared in lengthy minute intervals, words mysterious as a puzzle, assembled with great difficulty and effort by a hand shaky and uncertain. . . .

‘…Chaos… gloom… the incoherency of a dream… far away… grey… dawn… oh!... how heavy I feel… to break away… abomination! abomination!... a grey mass… thick… puffy… finally… I’ve separated myself… I’m here.’

After the last word came a longer pause of several minutes; the paper continued to spin out in a lazy billow. And again the marks appeared—now with a certain assuredness, more resolute:

‘…I’m here! I’m here! I’m here! My body is lying there… on the sofa… and it’s cold, brr… it’s slowly disintegrating… from within…. Nothing matters to me anymore…. Some waves are coming… large, bright waves… a whirlpool!... Can you feel this tremendous whirlpool?... No! you’re not able to feel it…. Everything before me is strange… everything now…. A wonderful vortex!... It’s grabbing me… with it!... It has me!... I’m going, going…. Farewell… Rom….’

The dispatch suddenly broke off; the apparatus stood still. Then, apparently, I lost consciousness and fell to the floor. So, at least, claimed my assistant who turned up at three in the morning; upon entering the office, he found me lying on the ground, my hand wrapped in sashes of telegraph paper.

When I came to, I asked about the freight train. It hadn’t arrived. Then, without hesitation, I got on the trolley, and in the midst of vanishing darkness, I started the motor for Szczytnisk. In half an hour I was there.

I immediately noticed that something unusual had occurred. The typically quiet and lonely station was filled with a throng of people crowding about the staff office.

Forcefully pushing aside the mob, I cleared a path to the inside. Here I saw several men leaning over a sofa on which was lying, with eyes closed, Joszt.

I thrust away someone and sprang to my friend, grabbing him by the hand. But Joszt’s hand, cold and hard like marble, slipped out of mine and fell inertly beyond the edge of the couch. On a face fixed by cold death, in the midst of tousled, luxuriant grey hair, a serene, blissful smile was spread out….