Black Gods and Scarlet Dreams (63 page)

And yet — was it this precious casket that they fought for? No one had a glance to spare for the crouching girl or the burden she hugged. Every face was lifted raptly, every eye stared blindly and exultantly into the upper dark as if the thing that was Andred were visible and — and infinitely desirable. It was a lust for that thing upon their faces that made joy so vivid there. Jirel's brain had almost ceased recording sensation in the bewilderment of what she watched.

When the dance ended she scarcely knew it. Lulled into a dizzy trance by the mad spinning of the dancers, she was almost nodding on her knees in their center, feeling her brain whirl with their whirling — feeling the motion slow about her so imperceptibly that nothing but the whirl itself registered on her mind. But the dancers were slackening — and with them, the whirl above. The wind no longer raved through the dark; it was a slow sigh now, growing softer and gentler as the circle of dancers ceased to spin. . . .

And then there was a great, soft, puffing sigh from the darkness above her that blew out her awareness like a candle-flame. . . .

Daylight fingering through the arrow-slits touched Jirel's closed lids. She awoke painfully, blinking in the light. Every muscle and bone of her supple body ached from the buffeting of last night's storm and violence, and the cold stones were hard beneath her. She sat up, groping by instinct for her knife. It lay a little distance off, rusting with last night's blood.

And the casket — the casket! . . .

Panic swelling in her throat quieted in an instant as she saw that precious, molding thing lying on its side at her elbow. A little thing, its iron hinges rusty, its leather whitened and eaten with rot from two centuries in a nameless, dripping place; but safe, unopened. She picked it up, shaking it experimentally. And she heard the softest shifting within, a sound and weight like finest flour moving gently.

A rustle and a sigh from beyond brought her head up, and she stared around her in the shadows of the halls. In a broad, uneven circle the bodies of last night's dancers lay sprawled.

Dead? No, slow breathing stirred them as they lay, and upon the face of the nearest — it was Damara — was a look of such glutted satiety that Jirel glanced away in disgust. But they all shared it. She had seen revelers asleep after a night of drunken feasting with not half such surfeit, such almost obscene satisfaction upon their faces as Alaric's drugged company wore now. Remembering that obscure lusting she had seen in their eyes last night, she wondered what nameless satiety they had achieved in the dark after her own consciousness went out. . . .

A footfall sounded upon stone behind her and she spun half-way round, rising on one knee and shifting the knife-hilt firmer in her fist. It was Alaric, a little unsteady on his feet, looking down upon her with a sort of half-seeing abstraction. His scarlet tunic was dusty and rumpled as if he had slept in it all night upon the floor and had only just risen. He ran a hand through his ruffled hair and yawned, and looked down at her with a visible effort at focusing his attention.

“I'll have your horse brought up,” he said, his eyes sliding indifferently away from her even as he spoke. “You may go now.”

Jirel gaped up at him, her lips parting in amazement over white teeth. He was not watching her. His eyes had shifted focus and he was staring blindly into some delightful memory that had blotted out Jirel's very existence. And upon his face that look of almost obscene satiety relaxed every feature until even his sword-gash mouth hung loose.

“B-but—” Jirel blinked and clutched at the mildewed box she had risked her life for. He came back into focus for an impatient instant to say carelessly:

“Oh — that! Take the thing.”

“You — you know what it is? I thought you wanted—”

He shrugged. “I could not have explained to you last night what it was I wanted of — Andred. So I said it was the treasure we sought — you could understand that. But as for that rotting little box — I don't know or care what lies inside. I've had — a better thing. . . .” And his remembering eyes shifted again to escape hers and stare blissfully into the past.

“Then why did you — save me?”

“Save you?” He laughed. “We had no thought of you or your treasure in what we — did — last night. You have served your purpose — you may go free.”

“Served — what purpose?”

Impatiently for an instant he brought himself wholly back out of his remembering dream to say: “You did what we were holding you for — called up Andred into our power. Lucky for you that the dogs sensed what happened after you had slipped off to dare the ghost alone. And lucky for us, too. I think Andred might not have come even to take you, had he sensed our presence. Make no doubt of it — he feared us, and with good reason.” 

Jirel looked up at him for a long instant, a little chill creeping down her spine, before she said in a shaken whisper:

“What — are you?” And for a moment she almost hoped he would not answer. But he smiled, and the look of deformity deeped upon his face.

“A hunter of undeath,” he said softly. “A drinker of undeath, when I can find it. . . . My people and I lust after that dark force which the ghosts of the violent dead engender, and we travel far sometimes between — feastings.” His eyes escaped hers for an instant to stare gloatingly into the past. Still looking with that unfocused gaze, in a voice she had not heard before from him, he murmured, “I wonder if any man who has not tasted it could guess the utter ecstasy of drinking up the undeath of a strong ghost . . . a ghost as strong as Andred's . . . feeling that black power pouring into you in deep drafts as you suck it down — a thirst that strengthens as you drink — feel — darkness — spreading through every vein more sweetly than wine, more intoxicating. . . . To be drunk on undeath — a joy almost unbearable.”

Watching him, Jirel was aware of a strong shudder that rose in the pit of her stomach and ran strongly and shakingly along her limbs. With an effort she tore her gaze away. The obscene ecstasy that Alaric's inward-looking eyes dwelt upon was a thing she would not see even in retrospect, through another's words and eyes. She scrambled to her feet, cradling the leather box in her arm, averting her eyes from his.

“Let me go, then,” she said in a lowered voice, obscurely embarrassed as if she had looked inadvertently upon something indescribable. Alaric glanced up at her and smiled.

“You are free to go,” he said, “but waste no time returning with your men for vengeance against the force we imposed on you.” His smile deepened at her little twitch of acknowledgment, for that thought had been in her mind. “Nothing holds us now at Hellsgarde. We will leave today on — another search. One thing before you go — we owe you a debt for luring Andred into our power, for I think he would not have come without you. Take a warning away with you, lady.”

“What is it?” Jirel's gaze flicked the man's briefly and fell again. She would not look into his eyes if she could help it. “What warning?”

“Do not open that box you carry.”

And before she could get her breath to speak he had smiled at her and turned away, whistling for his men. Around her on the floor Jirel heard a rustling and a sigh as the sleepers began to stir. She stood quiet for an instant longer, staring down in bewilderment at the small box under her arm, before she turned to follow Alaric into the outer air.

Last night was a memory and a nightmare to forget. Not even the dead men still on their ghastly guard before the door could mar her triumph now.

Jirel rode back across the causeway in the strong light of morning, moving like a rider in a mirage between blue skies and blue reflecting waters. Behind her Hellsgarde Castle was a vision swimming among the mirroring pools of the marsh. And as she rode, she remembered.

The vortex of violence out of which she had snatched this box last night — the power and terror of the thing that had treasured it so long . . . what lay within? Something akin to — Andred? Alaric might not know, but he had guessed. . . . His warning still sounded in her ears.

She rode awhile with bent brows, but presently a wicked little smile began to thin the red lips of Joiry's sovereign lady. Well . . . she had suffered much for Guy of Garlot, but she thought now that she would not smash in his handsome, grinning face with her sword-hilt as she had dreamed so luxuriously of doing. No . . . she would have a better vengeance. . . .

She would hand him a little iron-bound leather box.

Catherine Lucille Moore (January 24, 1911 – April 4, 1987) was an American science fiction and fantasy writer, as C. L. Moore. She was one of the first women to write in the genre, and paved the way for many other female writers in speculative fiction.

She was born on January 24, 1911 in Indianapolis, Indiana. She was chronically ill as a child and spent much of her time reading literature of the fantastic. She left college during The Great Depression to work as a secretary at the Fletcher Trust Company in Indianapolis. Her first stories appeared in pulp magazines in the 1930s, including two significant series in Weird Tales.

One series concerns the rogue and adventurer, Northwest Smith, and his wanderings through the Solar System; the other is a short fantasy series about Jirel of Joiry (one of the first female protagonists in sword-and-sorcery fiction).

The most famous of the Northwest Smith stories is "Shambleau", which marked Moore’s first professional sale. It appeared in the magazine in November 1933, with the sale netting her a hundred dollars.

The first and most famous of the Jirel of Joiry stories is "Black God’s Kiss", which received the cover illustration (painted by Margaret Brundage) in the October 1934 Weird Tales. Her early stories were notable for their emphasis on the senses and emotions, which was highly unusual at the time.

Moore's work also appeared in Astounding Science Fiction magazine throughout the 1940s. Several stories written for that magazine were later collected in her first published book, Judgment Night, published by Gnome Press in 1952.

Included in that collection were “Judgment Night” (first published in August and September, 1943), the lush rendering of a future galactic empire with a sober meditation on the nature of power and its inevitable loss; “The Code” (July, 1945), an homage to the classic Faust with modern theories and Lovecraftian dread; “Promised Land” (February, 1950) and “Heir Apparent” (July, 1950) both documenting the grim twisting that mankind must undergo in order to spread into the solar system; and “Paradise Street” (September, 1950), a futuristic take on the Old West conflict between lone hunter and wilderness-taming settlers.

Moore met Henry Kuttner, also a science fiction writer, in 1936 when he wrote her a fan letter (mistakenly thinking that "C. L. Moore" was a man), and they married in 1940.

Afterwards, almost all of their stories were written in collaboration under various pseudonyms, most commonly “Lewis Padgett”. (Another pseudonym, one Moore often employed for works that involved little or no collaboration, was "Lawrence O’Donnell".)

In this very prolific partnership they managed to combine Moore's style with Kuttner's more cerebral storytelling. Their stories include the classic "Mimsy Were the Borogoves" (the basis for the film The Last Mimzy) and "Vintage Season".

They also collaborated on a story that combined Moore’s signature characters, Northwest Smith and Jirel of Joiry: "Quest of the Starstone" (1937).

After Kuttner's death in 1958, Moore wrote almost no fiction and taught his writing course at the University of Southern California. She did write for a few television shows under her married name, but upon marrying Thomas Reggie (who was not a writer) in 1963, she ceased writing entirely.

C. L. Moore was an active member of the Tom and Terri Pinckard Science Fiction literary salon, and was a frequent contributor to literary discussions with the regular membership including Larry Niven, Norman Spinrad. A.E. van Vogt, Jerry Pournelle, Robert Bloch, George Clayton Johnson, and others, as well as many visiting writers and speakers. Over time she developed Alzheimer's but this was not obvious for several years. She had ceased to attend the meetings when she was nominated to be the first woman Grand Master of the Science Fiction Writers of America, but the nomination was withdrawn at the request of her husband, Thomas Reggie, who said that due to the Alzheimer's progress the award and ceremony would be at best confusing and likely upsetting to her. This was a cause of considerable dismay to the SFWA former presidents with whom she was a great favorite for receiving the award.

C. L. Moore died on April 4, 1987 at her home in Hollywood, California after a long battle with Alzheimer's disease.