He has collected a number of reports of some sort of aquatic disturbance moving downstream from London River early in the morning of the sixth November just about the time of the turning of the tide. To this he compares a report of the Astronomer Royal’s concerning an arc of light which appeared off the Nore immediately subsequent. These have led him to the opinion that a craft of unknown origin and nature moved underwater from London to the sea and then rose not only above the surface of the water but into the air itself. This craft or vessel was captained by the creature with the six arms, and the man without a nose would have been an inferior officer aboard of her. Somehow this vessel became short of personnel and applied to Evan-bach Llewellyn to make up the shortage by crimping or shanghaiing the requisite Number. For reasons which cannot be known and concerning which I, for one, would rather not speculate, several women were also required (Lord FitzMorris is of the opinion that they were required only for such duties as members of their sex commonly fulfill in the mercantile navies of various foreign nations, such as service in the steward’s branch). This being out of Llewellyn’s line of business, an appeal was made by him to the notorious and wicked Eurasian, Motilal Smith, who is known to have left his headquarters in the semi-detached villa in Maida Vale on the Fifth of November, whither he never returned.
Lord FitzMorris suggests two possible provenances for this curious and hypothetical vessel. Suppose, he suggests, the being with
the six arms to have been the original of the many East Indian and Buddhist myths depicting such creatures. It is likely, then, that the ship or submarine-aeroplane emanated from the vast and unexplored regions in the mountains which ring round the northern plateau of Thibet, the inhabitants of which have for centuries been rumoured to possess knowledge far surpassing ours, and which they jealously guard from the mundane world. The other possibility is even less likely, and is reminiscent, I fear, far more of the romances associated with the pen of Mr. Herbert G. Wells, a journalist of radical tendencies, than with proper scientific attitudes. Do not the discoveries of Professor Schiaparelli, establishing that there are canals upon the planet Mars, demonstrate that the inhabitants thereof must be given to agricultural pursuits? In which case, how unlikely that they should engage themselves in filibustering or black birding expeditions to, of all conceivable places, the civilized capital city of the British Empire!
Lord FitzMorris thinks that this theoretical craft of his must have carried off the unscrupulous Evan-bach Llewellyn in order to make up the tally of captives; how much more likely it is that this wicked man has merely fled to escape detection, prosecution, and punishment—perhaps to the mountains of wild Wales, where the King’s writ runs scarcely more than it does in the mountains of Thibet.
Concerning the present whereabouts of Motilal Smith, we are on firmer ground. That he intended to devise harm to Dame Phillipa, who had on far more than one occasion interfered with him in his nefarious traffickings, we need not doubt. The close search of Superintendent Sneath of the premises on and about Argyll Court, Primrose Alley, Fenugreek Close and Salem Yard uncovered a sodden mass of human clay lying part in and part out of a pool of muck far under the notorious Archways. It was the drowned body of Motilal Smith himself; both from the evidence of his own powerful physique and the presence of many footprints thereabouts, it is clear that a number of persons were required, and were found, to force him into that fatal submersion. The friends—silent though they are to the world, dumb by virtue of their affliction and suffering—the friends of Dame Phillipa Garreck, the so-called and by no means illnamed
People of the Abyss, whom she so constantly and so assiduously attended upon, had avenged their one friend and sole protector. It must now, one fears, go ill with them. The body of this unspeakably evil man, as well as his entire and vast estate (except the famous Negrohead opal, which was never found), was at once claimed by his half-brother, Mr. Krishna Bannerjee. The body was removed to Benares, and there subjected to that incomplete process of combustion at the burning ghauts peculiar to the Hindoo persuasion; and has long since become the prey of the wandering crocodiles which scavenge perpetually up and down the sacred waters of the River Gunga.
As I commence my last words for the present on the subject of this entire tragic affair I must confess myself baffled. Inacceptable as Lord FitzMorris’s theories are, there are really no others that I can offer in their place. All is uncertainty. All that is, save my conviction that Dame Phillipa’s noble and humanitarian labors still continue, no matter under what strange stars and skies.
The theme of “Lady Bountiful” appealed to Avram. Despite his own poverty, he was always sympathetic to the outstretched hand of a beggar on the street. Among his papers after he passed on, we found a manuscript titled “Everybody Has Somebody in Heaven,” which appears in the collection of Avram’s Jewish fantasies by the same title. It’s the tale of Tanta Sora Rifka, a saintly Jewish woman who distributes bagels to the poor. Clearly Tanta Sora and Dame Phillipa are related, gracious sisters of generosity wherever they may appear.
—
Grania Davis
The mountain air was clear and sweet, scented with wild herbs, and although the young man had come quite a distance, he was not at all tired. The cottage—it was really little more than a hut—was just as it had been described to him; clearly, many people in the district had had occasion to visit it. At one side a tiny spring poured over a lip of rock and crossed the path beneath a rough culvert. At the other side was a row of bee-hives. A goat and her kid grazed nearby, and a small black sow ate from a heap of acorns with a meditative air.
A man with white hair got up from the bench and held out his hand. “A guest,” he said. “A stranger. No matter, guest, all the same. Everyone who passes by is my guest, and the toll I charge is, I make them drink with me.” He laughed, his laugh was infectious, and the young man laughed, too, though his sallow, sullen face was not that of one who laughed often.
The hand he shook was hard and calloused. “I am called Old Steven,” the peasant said. “It used to be Black Steven, but that was a long time ago, even my moustache is white, now—” he stroked its length, affectionately—“except for here, in the middle. I am always smoking tobacco. Smoking and drinking, who can live without them?”
He excused himself, returned almost at once with bottle, glasses, and cigarettes.
“I do not usually—” the young visitor began, with a frown which seemed familiar to his face.
“If you do not smoke, you do not smoke. But I allow only Moslems to refuse a drink, and they do not often do so. One drink, a mere formality.”
They had one drink for formality, a second drink for friendship, and a third drink to show that they did not deny the Trinity.
Steven wiped his moustache between index finger and thumb of each hand, thrust in a cigarette, lit it, and smiled contentedly.
“A good thing, matches,” he said. “When I was a boy we had to use tinderboxes—how the world does change … . You came for a charm.”
The young man seemed relieved, now that the preliminaries of the visit were over. “I did,” he said.
“Your name?”
“Gabriel.”
Old Steven repeated it, nodding, blowing out smoke. “I am, of course, well-known for my charms,” he said, complacently. “I refer to those I make, not those with which Providence endowed me—although, there was a time … Well, well. My hair was black in those days. I can make quite a number of charms, although some of them are not in demand any longer. I don’t remember the last time I supplied one to keep a woman safe from Turks. Before you were born, I’m sure. But, on the other hand, charms to help barren women conceive are as much called for as ever.”
Gabriel said, scowling, that he was not married.
“My charges are really quite reasonable, too. I can guarantee you perfect protection against ghosts, vampires, werewolves, and the evil spirits of the hills and forests—their cloven hoofs and blood-red nails—”
“I am not afraid of those. I have my crucifix.” His hand went to the neck of his open shirt.
“Very well,” said Old Steven, equitably. “I’ve nothing to say against that.
“I also,” he said, “prepare an excellent charm for success in the hunt …”
“Ah …
”
“And an equally excellent one for success in love.”
“Yes …”
Old Steven nodded, benignly. “That’s it, then, is it? The love-charm?”
Gabriel hesitated, scowled again.
“Which one means most to you? Or, putting it another way, at which are you best? Take the charm for the other.”
The young man threw out his hands. “I am good at neither! And it is important to me that I must excel in one of them.”
Steven lit another cigarette. “Why only one? Take both. The price—”
But Gabriel shook his head. “It’s not the price.” He looked out on the wide-spread scene, the deep and dark-green valleys with their forest of oak and beech and pine, the mountains blue with distance, the silvery river. “It’s not the price,” he repeated.
“As far as you can see on all sides,” the old man said, quietly; “in fact, farther, my reputation is known. People have come to me from across the frontier. If it is not the price, take both.” He saw Gabriel shake his head, but continued to speak. “The hunt. A day like today. You take your gun and go off in the woods with a few friends. The road is dusty, but in the woods, in the shade, it is cool. Your friends want to go to the right, but you, you have the charm, you know that the way to turn is
left
. They may protest, but you are so certain that they follow. Presently you see something out of the corner of your eye. The others have not noticed it at all, or perhaps assume it is a branch of that dead tree. But you know better, your eye is clear, you turn swiftly, your arm and hand are quick as never before, the bird flushes, you fire! There it is, at your feet—a fine woodcock. Eh?”
Gabriel nodded, eyes gleaming.
“Or it might be a red doe, or a roe-buck. A fine stag! You can hardly count the points! Everyone admires you … . Perhaps in the winter the peasants come to you. ‘Master, a wolf. No one is such a hunter as you are. Come, save our flocks.’ They have not even seen the beast when your shot brings it down. You wait while they fetch it. They drag the creature along, shouting your praise: ‘Only one shot, and at that distance, too!’ they cry, and kiss your hand. ‘Brave one, hero,’ they call you.”
A dreamy smile played on Gabriel’s face, and he slowly, slowly nodded.
Old Steven waited a few moments; as his visitor said no word, he went on. “Then there is love. What can compare to that? A man who does not enjoy the love of woman is only half alive—if even so much. No doubt there is a young woman on whom you have looked, often, with longing, but who never returns that look. She has long, long black hair. How it glistens, how it gleams! Her lips are soft and red, and sometimes she wets them with her red little tongue. Inside her bodice the young breasts grow, ripe and sweet as fruit … .”
The young man’s eyes seemed glazed. He did not stop the slow nodding of his head.
“You return, the love-charm is in your pocket, against your heart,
here.
There is a dance, you join in, so does she. Presently you come face to face. She looks at you as if she has never seen you before. How wide her eyes grow! Her mouth opens. Her teeth are small and white. You smile at her and instantly she smiles back, then looks away, shyly … but only for an instant … and you dance together … .
“Soon the stars come out, and the moon rises. The old women are drowsing, the old men are drunk. You take her hand in yours and the two of you slip away. The moment you stop, she throws her arms around you and puts her mouth up to be kissed. The night is warm, the grass is soft. The night is dark and deep, and love is sweet.”
Gabriel made a sound between a sigh and a groan. Slowly, he
reached into his pocket, took out his purse, and began to slide its contents into his hand. “You have made up your mind?” the old man asked. “Which is it to be, then?” There was no answer. Something caught the old man’s eye. “This one is a foreign coin,” he said, touching it with his finger. “But never mind, I will take it—it is gold.”
Gabriel’s eyes fell to his hand. He picked up the coin, and an odd look came at once over his face. The dreamy, undecided expression vanished immediately. His eyelids became slits, his lips turned down in an ugly fashion, something like a sneer.
After a moment the old man said, “You have made up your mind?”
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “I have made up my mind.”
There was only an old woman before him at the ticket-window. He had crossed the river just a few minutes before. The contents of his small suitcase had not engaged the attention of the customs officials for long; and from there it was only a short walk to the railroad station.
The old woman went away, and Gabriel stepped up to the window. On the wall of the tiny office, facing him, were two framed photographs, side by side. The likeness of the older man was the same one that had been on the coin which had caught Old Steven’s attention; but Gabriel knew the younger man’s face, too; knew it very well, indeed. Once again the odd, ugly, strangely determined expression crossed his face.
The station-agent looked up. “Yes, sir,” he said, “where to?”
“One ticket, one way.” Gabriel kept looking at the face in the photograph.
“Very well, sir, a one-way ticket—but, where to? Trieste, Vienna?” He was a self-important little man, his tone grew a trifle sarcastic. “Paris? Berlin? St. Petersburg?”
Slowly, Gabriel’s eyes left the picture. He did not seem to have noticed the sarcasm.
“No,” he said. “Just to Sarajevo.”
With this story of a young man’s visit to a hill-wizard, Davidson invokes the impending cataclysm of the First World War. The language of this story is plain, and the portrait of Gavrilo Princip is sympathetic and curiously innocent until the very end, when it becomes clear that one is in the presence of a fanatic.
In “The King’s Shadow Has No Limits,” the story opens with accounts of inter-ethnic squabbles in Scythia-Pannonia-Transbalkania, and follows Dr. Eszterhazy as he passes through the Empire’s capital city and spies numerous emanations of the elderly King-Emperor. At the conclusion of this moving story, Davidson writes that Eszterhazy “heard, over and over again, in his mind, as though even now spoken next to his ear, the words which the aged Sovereign or else his very simulacrum or doppelganger had said.
After me,
this
Empire will sink like Atlantis, and the children of these children will look for it upon the maps in vain …’”
With the single word
Sarajevo
at the end of “The Lineaments of Gratified Desire,” Davidson reminds us that it is not only a mythical empire that has vanished, but the entire old order of Europe, and that we too search for its traces in vain.
—
Henry Wessells