Velvet Shadows (17 page)

I also saw the blow Bessie aimed at me, and in my cramped position I could not dodge. Pain exploded in my head and then there was nothing.

About me was darkness and pain gnawed at me, but I was once more conscious. I was so sick that the slightest movement made me retch, brought an answering stab through my head. For a long time, I did not know where I was—or who—I was only aware of the pain and sickness.

Slowly I was able to see a little more. There was a lighter space to one side. My eyes were drawn to that because it was a small escape from the terrible smothering dark.

There was worse than the stench of my own sickness, such odors as I had never been forced to breathe. I tried to move and discovered that my wrists were still knotted together, that I lay on my side on a pile of stinking rags.

So—I had failed in the one small chance I had been offered. As my mind moved sluggishly, that was my first thought. So deep was my physical misery that the future no longer mattered. I heard a small bleating sound monotonously repeated, and realized that cry was my own, nor could I control it. So far had I been reduced to a dumb and suffering animal that I had no will or resolution left. Had someone come to kill me at that moment I would have waited without protest for the blow to fall.

How long that period of dark and pain lasted I did not know, nor what forces had been set to work through the night and early morning. Nor, at that moment, would I have cared, for nothing beyond my own misery had any meaning.

I must have lapsed into unconsciousness several times. The last time I opened my eyes the light was pale gray and the window, over which hung a sleazy curtain of filthy cloth, was completely visible. To turn my head was such agony that I dared not attempt it more than once. Before me on the other side were only grimed boards, a stained wall over which insects scuttled.

My pile of rags lay near the middle of that cubby. There was a door opposite and nothing else.

But outside the window there moved a vague shape. The pane was so thick with dirt it could have been painted over. A sound—I watched dully, uncaring.

The sound grew louder, there was a crash, a tinkle of glass falling inward. A moment later an arm swept aside the rotten fabric of the curtain which tore like a spider web. Someone was climbing in.

I watched apathetically. This seemed to have nothing to do with me, my pain and misery. With the window open there was more light in the room and the man who had entered straightened to his full height.

I heard him give a sharp exclamation as he knelt beside me. Now I could see his features. Though my eyes blurred when I tried to focus on them clearly. I—knew him. He had a name—only I could not remember it. And that last small failure, that I could not remember, brought
tears to my eyes, running unchecked down my bruised cheeks.

“Tamaris! Good God above, what have they done to you! Tamaris!”

I cried out in pain at his touch. He flinched back and then returned to cut the bonds about my wrists. There was no feeling in my hands, which lay wooden and lifeless.

“Please—” I whispered. “Please—my head—it hurts so—”

“Yes.” He did not try to touch me again. Rather he went to the window and whistled. Then he leaned out and I heard a murmur of voices.

After he returned to kneel by me, taking my numb hands into his, rubbing them so that the agony of returning circulation made me cry out. But his fingers pressed instantly on my lips and he leaned close to whisper.

“My brave girl, you must help me a little in order that I can help you. We cannot get out save through the window. Whicker has gone to round up some more of the crew. When he comes you must be strong enough, brave enough, to move—”

I could hear his words but they were like meaningless noises. He was hurting me, that was all I understood. If he would only go, allow me to slip back into the darkness where the pain did not reach. But that he would not do, his voice, his touch, kept me conscious.

“Alain!” That was his name. I had remembered his name!

“Yes, it is Alain. Be still, rest, gather all your strength so we shall be ready when Whicker returns. We have sent for the police also. You are safe—safe—”

Behind his head I saw the door of the room begin to move. I struggled to cry out a warning.

“Be still—rest—” He smiled at me. Smiled! When behind him—

The massive bulk of Bessie—I remembered now. With her others. She held a poker in her hand. No, that was wrong—I had used a poker. So this punishment had come to me—this lying in hell. But why should Alain be here? Now Bessie leaned over him ready to strike—

Somehow I found my voice. “Alain—behind—!”

He swung about without getting to his feet. Strong as he was, how could he defend himself against the giantess? I could see what she held was really a hammer. She shouted in that shrill voice, “Git ‘im, boys, when I lay ‘im out. Jo'll pay top price for the likes of this boyo!”

But she was not to knock out her prey so easily. Alain dodged, and I saw a pistol in his hand. Bessie edged back from that threat, her men also giving way. Then they divided forces, Bessie to the right, the others to the left. Alain could not defend himself from two directions at once.

Where my own peril had left me defeated and witless, his brought me strength. I edged along the rags of that noisome bed, flung myself at Bessie. My crooked fingers caught in the drapery of her dress at knee level.

Her arm swung down but the hammer did not thud home on my head or Alain's, rather to the floor. Bessie, overbalanced, staggered back. Outside the door there was a thunderous crash. By the force of her own unwilling retreat she had carried supporters with her.

Alain was on his feet, now he stooped and drew me up. My head throbbed with such pain I was afraid I might faint. And with the agony was vertigo which sent the walls of the den in a sickening dance around me.

Shielding me as best he could with his own body, Alain backed to the window, his pistol aimed at the door. Though we could hear shufflings beyond, they had not come to attack again.

“We must get outside,” he said. “There is more room there and Whicker's men can't be too far away.”

“Git ‘em, boys!” came Bessie's cry.

Alain fired. The crash of the shot was deafening. A scream answered, then sounds as if they were moving out of range.

He had me at the window but I could not help myself. I felt a dull anger at my own uselessness, and that anger strengthened me. But it was not lack of will, rather lack of strength in limbs and muscles which hindered me.

“I cannot climb out—”

“Hold on!” His one-handed grip on me tightened. “Can you sit on the sill and drop out?”

How simple—of course I could and would do that. I fell rather than sat on the sill. Alain lifted and I was able to swing my feet over and down. As he kept watch on the door, I fell from the window, leaving him behind.

This was an alley even more noisome than the room. The jar of my striking its slime-encrusted pavement nearly shattered me. I fought faintness, I must remain alive and conscious. This I must do or Alain, too, might become a victim.

I pushed up to my knees. Then, leaning against a scabrous wall, vilely damp, I somehow stood upright. Though I dared not move away from that support.

“Alain—” I wanted to call to him that I was all right, that he must join me. But all I produced was a rasping croak.

I slid along the wall, my goal the window. Perhaps if he saw me he would come. Why was he not already here? There had been no sound of another shot. But those within had knives—

“Alain!” I saw nothing but the window.

So it was that when they closed about me it was a shock. Whicker's men? One glance told me no. They were strangely alike, the three of them, small and thin, dark of skin, moving noiselessly. Their faces were blank of expression, only their eyes were alive. Those regarded me dully. Still it was plain they were determined on my capture.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

As, for the last time, I forced out a weak cry of “Alain!” the centermost of those three who had closed in upon me threw something straight into my face. I gasped, coughed, choked, trying to breathe through the dust clogging my
mouth and nose. And I was still coughing and helpless when they laid hands on me. They pulled me unresisting down the lane, my will gone. I could no longer fight as they pushed me into a cart drawn by a pair of mules.

Two of the strangers spread bags over my body. Then we jolted off, and I was a prisoner within flesh and muscle where not even my voice would obey my frantic commands.

The cart bumped along and I could hear the clamor of the Coast all about. Then those sounds dwindled and I knew we must be drawing out of that section of the city. Who were these men? Followers of D'Lys? D'Lys was dead. Was that why they had tracked me down—in order to take vengeance? But how had they known where to find me?

I had seen too much, endured too much. That confidence born at Alain's coming seeped away. And what had happened to Alain?

That Bessie could and would summon reinforcements, of that I was sure. And then perhaps he would suffer the fate she had threatened, of being knocked out and shanghaied aboard some ship. From there he could not escape. All because of me.

My thoughts were heavy burdens as the cart creaked on. But being in the open revived me somewhat, or else the spark Alain had ignited had not wholly died. Although my body still lay limp, my mind cleared. And I began a silent fight against what held me captive. Since I had surely been kidnapped for some evil purpose, I must expect danger at the end of this journey.

Alain found me at Bessie's somehow. But I could not hope for another such miracle. I could only pray for his own escape.

We passed through very quiet streets now. Our goal must be whatever hiding place D'Lys had found, the one Mrs. Pleasant's people had never discovered. Finally the cart bumped to a stop. My head still ached, but now the pain was not so intense.

Those sacks over me were thrown aside. Hands closed
on my shoulders and, with unusual strength for their slender bodies, two of the men swung me down to the pavement. The day was well advanced and we were in a thick-walled courtyard with a single gate the third man was barring. Along two sides were buildings, on the third some open-fronted sheds in which horses stamped and snorted. Leaving me to stand, still unable to take a step on my own initiative, my captors unharnessed the mules and took them to the sheds.

The windows of the house section were covered by thick wooden shutters. And the doors, with the exception of the nearest, were not only closed, but had boards nailed across them. Soil drifted from what had once been flower beds and there were fresh animal droppings everywhere. Deserted as the place might look at first glance, it was plainly in use.

My captors returned, the one in the lead taking my arm to pull me forward. I was a puppet in his hands, though my mind struggled to break those bonds the choking dust had laid upon me.

We entered a vast kitchen with a hearth capable of taking a good-sized log. Hung over a fire, dwarfed in that cavern, was a pot on a chain. And from that steam arose.

Standing near, a long-handled spoon ready, was a woman who turned such a seamed face in my direction it was like meeting Death (if Death might be of my sex) engaged in a grotesque parody of a household task. Wrinkled and withered though her face might be (her hands were veritable claws), she was dressed in the brightest of colors. Her wide skirt was a red which clashed with the brilliant orange of her blouse. And twisted around her head, hiding all but a wisp of gray fluff over her forehead, was a blue scarf.

She dug into the pot with her spoon, brought that back up to her chin, dribbling contents over blouse and skirt. Holding spoon at lip level, she blew on it vehemently, sending more of the liquid flying. Then, extending a pallid tongue, she lapped, as might a cat, at what was left.

Apparently the taste did not suit her, for she turned to
the table behind, clawed up a thick pinch of dried stuff and tossed that into the pot. Then, slamming the spoon on the table, she hobbled to meet us.

Though her shoulders were so bent she had to screw her head up at a painful angle to face us, she had once been a tall woman. And it was plain she ruled this household, for the men waited for her to speak first.

I could understand nothing of what she said. Her language was a thick and gutteral one, some of the words delivered with a hissing intonation. But it must have included dismissal as all three men left.

Now she peered straight at me. Around her gaunt neck was a chain of small polished bones and from this dangled a huge spike, like a monster tooth. Her skin was very black, but had a grayish overtinge as if powdered with ashes, adding to her appearance of extreme age. She raised a claw finger, crooked it to beckon.

“Come!” She croaked in French.

I was drawn forward like a dog on a tight leash. We went out of the kitchen into a much smaller room in which there was only a large packing case placed against one wall. To that she pointed with the order: “Sit.”

Again that which held me made me obey. She hobbled back toward the kitchen, having made no attempt to secure me. Apparently she was confident that I remained a helpless prisoner.

The men returned, were fed by bowls of the pottage and rounds of coarse bread. Having eaten, they did not again go outside, but passed into another section of the house, that behind the boarded shutters.

Time dragged slowly. But I began to feel that weird bondage was waning. With great concentration of will I was able to make a single finger on my right hand respond to my bidding. A finger, then my hand raised an inch or so from where it lay helplessly on my knee.

So spurred by a small victory I strove to move my toes within the wrecks of my shoes. If I could stand, walk—I could get out, for I did not believe that the old woman had the physical strength to oppose me.

Only, before I could achieve more than a small beginning, she came back, one of the men behind her carrying a large hamper. Dismissing him with a jerk of the chin (he scuttled away as if he were very glad to go), the hag began to unpack the hamper. There were gourds with stoppers, a length of white cloth she did not unfold, a bowl which she placed on the floor, getting down on her knees with a grunt of pain to do so.

Into the bowl she sifted the contents of several small packets, stirring them together with the care of a master cook, using a white paddle instead of a spoon. Each of the packets she so emptied was hung with feathers and pieces of yellow bone.

Having finished, she arose swiftly to her feet and came to me, gesturing me to stand. My freedom was still too limited to defy her. There was a noise at the door and two of the men came, tugging a tin bath in which water sloshed. She pointed to a position on the floor not far from the bowl. They set it there and retreated as quickly as their comrade.

Now the crone caught at the torn draperies of my dress. “Off—all off,” she ordered.

Not lingering to see if she was obeyed, she went to the bowl, stooped to pick up a gourd, drew out its stopper, and sniffed the contents.

My fingers fumbled at the pins in my torn bodice. In spite of all my awakening will I could not resist her order. Slowly, clumsily, I dropped my clothing piece by piece, revolted by my own actions, unable to stop.

Meanwhile she poured into the bath the contents of more than one gourd. The odor arising from the inter- mingling of those liquids was sickly sweet.

I dropped my last garment, standing as I never had in anyone's company during my adult life. And I was hot with shame.

The woman had brought out a paddle with a longer | handle, stirred the water vigorously, the cloud of scent rising. Nor did that dissipate, but seemed to hang directly above the bath like a fog.

“Come—” Again she crooked a finger.

I went unwillingly, the spell (which was all I could term it) still holding.

“In—”

I stepped into the bath. The water was warm, oily against my shrinking skin. At another sign I squatted down and she came closer with a white cloth. So armed, she bathed me, washing even my hair, and I had to endure it, though her touch, like that of the water, aroused in me a sick revulsion.

When she seemed satisfied with her labors, she left me sitting in the water, the scent now wedded to my skin, my hair, so I feared I would never be free of it. With its cloying intensity it carried a suggestion of evil so pronounced I felt myself stained and defiled.

The crone left the room, to return with a lighted splinter of wood which she inserted into the bowl, blowing at it in small puffs. A strong smell of incense aroused. When this was alight to her satisfaction, she ordered me out of the bath and brought me to the bowl, standing me directly over it, the basin between my feet, the curling yellow smoke weaving an envelope about my body. As the water before it, it made me feel unclean.

She made no effort to dry me; perhaps the smoke was intended to do that. Leaving me imprisoned in its cloud, she shook out the folded cloth she had earlier taken from the hamper. It was a garment of sorts, very wide and loose, sewn to it at random bunches of feathers both black and white. While on the front was traced a crude design in black paint.

The smoke was dying away, but she left me there until the substance in the bowl was only ashes. She checked now and then so I felt as if I were a pot on the boil. When the last tendril of smoke vanished she lifted the bowl from the floor, holding it with a black cloth between it and her fingers.

Into the warm ashes the crone dipped a brush made of black feathers tied together, catching up the powdery stuff. With that she painted my breasts, outlined below those
symbols I did not understand, working until all the ashes were used. The marks clung paint-wise to my still-damp body.

Having so completed her task, she withdrew a step or two to view her handiwork. Whatever she saw must have pleased her, for she set aside bowl and brush, to pick up the white garment. With the ease of one who had done this action more than once, she spun this over my head. It was so loose she had no difficulty in lifting one of my inert arms after the other to insert into the wide sleeves. With a little grunt she withdrew a second time, to survey me up and down. Then she clapped her hands and called out.

As if they had been waiting, two of the men returned to lug out the bath, while she repacked the hamper. Both men made a wide circle around me, avoided even looking in my direction—as if I were now an object to inspire fear and awe.

When they had gone the crone shuffled to the pile of my discarded clothing. She picked it up and searched each piece, finding my money, weighing also the handkerchief I had tied around the bracelet, but not opening that. Rather she made a sound of pleasure and stowed the purse in the front of her blouse.

But as she stooped once more the handkerchief clattered to the floor and unwound so that the spider bracelet lay in plain sight. Spying it, the woman started back, her mouth gaping open to show toothless gums.

She did not reach to pick it up; rather she went into the kitchen and returned with that large spoon she had used earlier. Creaking to her knees, she made hard work of catching the loop of the bracelet around the spoon bowl.

Once obtained without touching it, she held it close to her eyes. Then she placed it, spoon and all, on the top of the case and came over to me. Grabbing one sleeve of the robe, keeping the material between her hands and flesh, she raised my right arm, bared it, and sniffed along the skin. I felt her whistling breath. Letting that fall, she did the same with the other.

“You wear
z'araignée
—”

She did not seem to expect an answer. Now she stood, plucking at her lower lip. Then, muttering to herself, she went back to the case and reached for the spoon handle.

“Z'araignée,”
she repeated. From her own neck she took the bone necklace, rattled it furiously over the bracelet. Her muttering held the cadence of a chant as, from somewhere within her clothing, she produced a length of thong, looped that through the bracelet, turning the ornament into a large, awkward pendant.

Back at my side she flipped up the robe to drop the thong about my neck, settling the bracelet between my breasts before she covered me again. Once more I was then ordered back to the box. My head was still swimming from the effects of the incense. This time as she left the room she closed the door, but I did not think she locked it

Only I was not alone. I watched, and could not escape, horrors which crept from the corners to squat before me, gibbering, pointing with hands which were not hands, mewing noises which were never speech.

I thought I had gone mad, or would soon. But some hard core deep within me repeated over and over that these were but illusions, things born out of that vile smoke.

Things like demons from old Bibles illustrated by Doré capered there, the darkest fears of childhood put on life. I closed my eyes, yet still they were imprinted on my lids. Also—when I dared not watch, surely they crept closer. So I must look again to make sure—

I was far past tears. Fear tensed my body into one rigid ache, and the garment I wore might have been spun of ice I was so cold. I do not know how I continued to keep a small fingerhold on sanity. But I fought in the only way I knew—first with the memory of my life with my father. Instead of seeing phantoms, I tried to picture him standing on guard as he had so often during the savagery of a storm. And this time another was shoulder to shoulder with him. Deepening into life for me came Alain Sauvage, for he was of the same breed.

With Jesse Penfold's blood in me, the shaping of my
childhood his, how could I not fight? I forced myself to center my attention upon a single one of those demons born of fear and hallucination. Then I willed to see through its misshapen body to the wall of the room, to remember who I was and that I could not be so vanquished by the tricks of devil worshippers.