The Haunting of Low Fennel Part 9

The temple stood in a kind of clearing. Grotesquely horrible figures guarded the time-worn entrance. Moreen drew a deep breath of relief on emerging from the jungle path by which, amid the rustle of retreating snakes, they had come, but shrank back affrighted from the blackness of the ruined doorway. Ramsa Lal stood the lantern upon the stump of a broken pillar, where its faint yellow light was paled by the moon-rays.

"It is _you_ who must restore," he said.

One by one he handed her the jewel-encrusted vessels and hung the ropes of rubies upon her arm.

She nodded, and as Ramsa Lal took up the lantern and began to descend the steps within followed him.

"No foot save his," came back to her, "has trod these sacred steps for ages, for the secret of the jungle path is known only to the few...."

"How do you--know the way?"

Ramsa Lal did not reply.

They traversed a short tunnel; a heavy door was thrust open; and Moreen found herself standing in a small pillared hall. Through a window high in one wall, overgrown with tangled vegetation, crept a broken moonbeam.

Directly before her was the carven figure of a grotesque deity. A long, heavily clamped chest stood before it like an altar step.

She staggered forward, deposited her priceless burden upon the floor, and mechanically began to raise the lid of the chest.

"Not that one, Mem Sahib!" The voice of Ramsa Lal rose shrilly--"not that one!..."

But he spoke too late. Moreen realised that there were three divisions in the chest, each having a separate lid. As she raised the one in the centre, a breath of fetid air greeted her nostrils, and she had a vague impression that this was no chest but the entrance to a deep pit. Then all these thoughts were swept away by the crowning horror which rose out of the subterranean darkness.

A great winged creature, clammily white, rose towards her, pa.s.sed beneath her upraised hands and sailed into the darkness on the right.

She heard it flapping its great bat wings against the wall--heard them beating upon a pillar--then saw it coming back towards her into the moonlight--and knew no more.

VI

"Mem Sahib!"

Moreen opened her eyes. She lay, propped against a saddle, at the camp beside the jungle. She shuddered icily.

"Ramsa Lal--how----"

"I carried the Mem Sahib! the treasures of the temple I restored to their resting-place----"

"And the--the other----"

"The door that the Mem Sahib opened she opened by the decree of Fate. It was not for Ramsa Lal to close it. That is a pa.s.sage----"

"Yes?"

"--To the tomb of the great one who is buried in the temple!"

"Oh! heavens! that white thing----" She raised her hands to her face.

"But--the camp----"

"The camp is deserted! they all fled from----"

Moreen sat up, rigidly.

"From what?"

"From something that came for what we forgot!"

"My husband----"

"There was a ring upon his finger. I saw it, and knew where it came from, but forgot to remove it."

Moreen stood up, and turned towards the nearer tent. Ramsa Lal gently detained her.

"Not that way, Mem Sahib."

"But I must see him! I must, I _must_ tell him that he wrongs me, cruelly, wickedly! You heard his words-- Oh, G.o.d! can he have----"

"It would be useless to tell him, Mem Sahib,--he could not hear you! But that what you would tell him is true I know well; for see--it is the dawn!"

"Ramsa Lal!..."

"The unjust cannot stay in this valley through a night and live to see the dawn, Mem Sahib!"

VII

At about that same hour, Deputy-Commissioner Jack Harringay opened his eyes and looked wonderingly at a grey-haired, white-ap.r.o.ned nurse who sat watching him.

"Don't speak, Mr. Harringay," she said soothingly. "You have been very ill, but you are on the high road to recovery now."

"Nurse!..."

"Please don't speak; I know what you would ask. There has been no scandal. The attack upon you was ascribed to robbers. You have been delirious, Mr. Harringay, and have told me--many things. I am old enough, or nearly old enough, to be your mother, so you will not mind my telling you that a love like yours deserves reward. G.o.d has spared your life; be sure it was with a purpose----"

The Blue Monkey

I

A tropically hot day had been followed by a stuffy and oppressive evening. In the tiny sitting-room of our tiny cottage, my friend--who, for the purposes of this story, I shall call Mr. East--by the light of a vapour lamp was busily arranging a number of botanical specimens collected that morning. His briar fumed furiously between his teeth, and, his grim, tanned face lowered over his work, he brought to bear upon this self-imposed task all the intense nervous energy which was his.

I sat by the open window alternately watching my tireless companion and the wonderful and almost eerie effects of the moonlight on the heather.

Then:

"We came here for quiet--and rest, East," I said, smiling.

"Well!" snapped my friend. "Isn't it quiet enough for you?"