The Collected SF & Fantasy Works. Abraham Merritt

it began to pulse billows of radiance, spangled with infinite darting swarms of flashing corpuscles like uncounted hosts of dancing fireflies.

      Higher the waves rolled — phosphorescent green and iridescent violet, weird copperous yellows and metallic saffrons and a shimmer of glittering ash of rose — then wavered, split and formed into gigantic, sparkling, marching curtains of splendor.

      A vast circle of light sprang out upon the folds of the flickering, rushing curtains. Misty at first, its edges sharpened until they rested upon the blazing glory of the northern sky like a pale ring of cold flame. And about it the aurora began to churn, to heap itself, to revolve.

      Toward the ring from every side raced the majestic folds, drew themselves together, circled, seethed around it like foam of fire about the lip of a cauldron, and poured through the shining circle as though it were the mouth of that fabled cavern where old Aeolus sits blowing forth and breathing back the winds that sweep the earth.

      Yes — into the ring’s mouth the aurora flew, cascading in a columned stream to earth. Then swiftly, a mist swept over all the heavens, veiled that incredible cataract.

      “Magnetism?” muttered Drake. “I guess NOT!”

      “It struck about where the Ting–Pa was broken and seemed drawn down like the rays,” I said.

      “Purposeful,” Drake said. “And devilish. It hit on all my nerves like a — like a metal claw. Purposeful and deliberate. There was intelligence behind that.”

      “Intelligence? Drake — what intelligence could break the rays of the setting sun and suck down the aurora?”

      “I don’t know,” he answered.

      “Devils,” croaked Chiu–Ming. “The devils that defied Buddha — and have grown strong —”

      “Like a metal claw!” breathed Drake.

      Far to the west a sound came to us; first a whisper, then a wild rushing, a prolonged wailing, a crackling. A great light flashed through the mist, glowed about us and faded. Again the wailing, the vast rushing, the retreating whisper.

      Then silence and darkness dropped embraced upon the valley of the blue poppies.

      CHAPTER II

      THE SIGIL ON THE ROCKS

       Table of Contents

      Dawn came. Drake had slept well. But I, who had not his youthful resiliency, lay for long, awake and uneasy. I had hardly sunk into troubled slumber before dawn awakened me.

      As we breakfasted, I approached directly that matter which my growing liking for him was turning into strong desire.

      “Drake,” I asked. “Where are you going?”

      “With you,” he laughed. “I’m foot loose and fancy free. And I think you ought to have somebody with you to help watch that cook. He might get away.”

      The idea seemed to appall him.

      “Fine!” I exclaimed heartily, and thrust out my hand to him. “I’m thinking of striking over the range soon to the Manasarowar Lakes. There’s a curious flora I’d like to study.”

      “Anywhere you say suits me,” he answered.

      We clasped hands on our partnership and soon we were on our way to the valley’s western gate; our united caravans stringing along behind us. Mile after mile we trudged through the blue poppies, discussing the enigmas of the twilight and of the night.

      In the light of day their breath of vague terror was dissipated. There was no place for mystery nor dread under this floor of brilliant sunshine. The smiling sapphire floor rolled ever on before us.

      Whispering little playful breezes flew down the slopes to gossip for a moment with the nodding flowers. Flocks of rose finches raced chattering overhead to quarrel with the tiny willow warblers, the chi-u-teb-tok, holding fief of the drooping, graceful bowers bending down to the little laughing stream that for the past hour had chuckled and gurgled like a friendly water baby beside us.

      I had proven, almost to my own satisfaction, that what we had beheld had been a creation of the extraordinary atmospheric attributes of these highlands, an atmosphere so unique as to make almost anything of the kind possible. But Drake was not convinced.

      “I know,” he said. “Of course I understand all that — superimposed layers of warmer air that might have bent the ray; vortices in the higher levels that might have produced just that effect of the captured aurora. I admit it’s all possible. I’ll even admit it’s all probable, but damn me, Doc, if I BELIEVE it! I had too clearly the feeling of a CONSCIOUS force, a something that KNEW exactly what it was doing — and had a REASON for it.”

      It was mid-afternoon.

      The spell of the valley upon us, we had gone leisurely. The western mount was close, the mouth of the gorge through which we must pass, now plain before us. It did not seem as though we could reach it before dusk, and Drake and I were reconciled to spending another night in the peaceful vale. Plodding along, deep in thought, I was startled by his exclamation.

      He was staring at a point some hundred yards to his right. I followed his gaze.

      The towering cliffs were a scant half mile away. At some distant time there had been an enormous fall of rock. This, disintegrating, had formed a gently-curving breast which sloped down to merge with the valley’s floor. Willow and witch alder, stunted birch and poplar had found roothold, clothed it, until only their crowding outposts, thrusting forward in a wavering semicircle, held back seemingly by the blue hordes, showed where it melted into the meadows.

      In the center of this breast, beginning half way up its slopes and stretching down into the flowered fields was a colossal imprint.

      Gray and brown, it stood out against the green and blue of slope and level; a rectangle all of thirty feet wide, two hundred long, the heel faintly curved and from its hither end, like claws, four slender triangles radiating from it like twenty-four points of a ten-rayed star.

      Irresistibly was it like a footprint — but what thing was there whose tread could leave such a print as this?

      I ran up the slope — Drake already well in advance. I paused at the base of the triangles where, were this thing indeed a footprint, the spreading claws sprang from the flat of it.

      The track was fresh. At its upper edges were clipped bushes and split trees, the white wood of the latter showing where they had been sliced as though by the stroke of a scimitar.

      I stepped out upon the mark. It was as level as though planed; bent down and stared in utter disbelief of what my own eyes beheld. For stone and earth had been crushed, compressed, into a smooth, microscopically grained, adamantine complex, and in this matrix poppies still bearing traces of their coloring were imbedded like fossils. A cyclone can and does grip straws and thrust them unbroken through an inch board — but what force was there which could take the delicate petals of a flower and set them like inlay within the surface of a stone?

      Into my mind came recollection of the wailings, the crashings in the night, of the weird glow that had flashed about us when the mist arose to hide the chained aurora.

      “It was what we heard,” I said. “The sounds — it was then that this was made.”

      “The foot of Shin-je!” Chiu–Ming’s voice was tremulous. “The lord of Hell has trodden here!”

      I translated for Drake’s benefit.

      “Has the lord of Hell but one foot?” asked Dick, politely.

      “He bestrides the mountains,” said Chiu–Ming. “On the far side is his other footprint. Shin-je it was who strode the mountains and set here his foot.”

      Again I interpreted.

      Drake