Weird Tales volume 38 number 03 Canadian (6 page)

Brian Cullan had stumbled to the pillars, to free Fand and Dagda, The girl clung sobbing to him. He turned, as Lugh entered the throne-room with more of his silver host.

But it was toward prostrate Tethra that Cullan turned. He bent over the Fo-morian king, whose strong face looked up at him dark and proud even as it stiffened with the approach of death.

Tethra whispered, "You fought beside me as I dreamed once of my son fighting. Blood answers the call of its own, Cuchulain."

He was dead, with the whisper. Queerly, Cullan felt a stinging in his eyes. And he rose to see Giant Dagda make a gesture of salute toward the dead, black-mailed figure.

"Whatever else Tethra was, he was a warrioi !" boomed the big Tuatha.

Lugh, his face still somber, was speaking to Cullan. "You proved this day that you were no enemy to our race despite your blood, outworlder. You can stay now in this world, if you wish."

If he wished? To stay here in this world of wonder and of beauty with Fand ? Cullan took her in his arms for answer.

Golden mists, golden day, glowed warmly over the smiling yellow ocean as the fleet of Tuatha boats neared the end of its long journey homeward.

Lugh's craft drove beside that in which Brian Cullan sat with Fand.

The Tuatha lord called to them across the water.

"We go to Thandara. But you will to Hthne, for there is Fand's home as guardian of the Gateway. It has been cleared of its dead and others of my folk wili re-people it."

Thus the fleet split, the smaller portion bearing Fand and Cullan and the recovered Gateway eastward through the remembered islands.

Through the golden mists, Ethne rose in all its bubble beauty beneath that eternal rainbow of water across the sky. Cullan, with Fand in his arms, looked raptly. He had found his lost elysium, had awakened from the drab dream of Earth. He was coming home at last.

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MRS. LANNISFREE

come, and he didn't come, and then I went into his room at last, after he didn't answer to my knocks, I found him just the way he was when the sheriff got there—dead in his bed, with Lhat long black hair wound around his neck to choke him to death!

That was just six hours after I saw Mrs. Lsnnisfree.

And that is why I don't believe it when

they say that Mr. Lannisfree took his wife out off the coast of Maine that day almost a month ago and pushed her into the water and drowned her because he was jealous of that other man they say Mrs. Lannisfree liked, even if her bod}' was recovered, because I saw her just as plain as I see you now, with the moonlight white on her face and hands, walking through the woods toward the sea.

THE EYRIE (Continued from Page 2)

British composers, Arnold Bax, composed a beautiful symphonic tone-poem which pictures the golden Elysium of the Celts. Il is called "The Garden of Fand."

I should also add, perhaps, for those who may wish to explore this fascinating subject further, that beside Rolles-ton's fine popular book there are standard works by Rhys, Leahy, Joyce and many others- There is also a vast deal of material on every aspect of this subject in the standard encyclopediae of religion and folk-lore.

Edmond Hamilton.

Word from Stanton Coblentz

\Y/E WERE interested to receive an " announcement from Stanton A. Coblentz the other day concerning a new book of his scheduled for publication this fall. The title is "When Th* Birds Fly South" and it is put out by The Wings Press. Stanton Coblentz, well-known as a poet, critic and author whose work has appeared both here and in England, is an old friend of ours and of Weird Tales readers. He was kind enough to give us this little peck into his forthcoming book. This novel, "When The Birds Fly South." scheduled for publication in September, is one for the reader who has

tired of modern realism, and wishes a story of romance, mystery and wonder, a story that only a poet could have written. It is a tale of love and adventure among the mountains of Afghanistan, a tale dominated by the weird and inscrutable forces of the eas:, and by an over-towering destiny personified in Yulada. the great stone woman on the peak. It is also the tale of Dan Prescott, a lost member of an American geological expedition, who crosses "The Mountain of Vanished Men" to pass his days among the Iban-dru, a quaint mountain people that disappear mysteriously each year "when the bird3 fly south." And it is likewise the tale of the love of Prescott and dark-eyed, auburn-haired Yasma, an impetuous young daughter of the tribe.

Stan ton A. Coblentz.

READERS' VOTE

**$.

LOST ELYSIUM THE NUBDEBOUS STEAM SHfVEL THE HAD DAMCERI MRS. LANNISFREE

THE CRANBEBIY GOBLET THE FAHCS 0F TSAfl-Lt

MIL PROPRIETOR

THE MIKfidH

HIDE THE EL TO DOOM

,i. Here's a list uf nine stones in tills issue. Won't

X you lei us knuw which three you consider the

£ best? Just place the numbers: 1, 2, w;u 3 re-

X spectlvely against your three favorite tales—

i then clip It out and send It to us.

* WEIRD TALES

A 9 Rockefeller ftoza New York City 20, N.Y.

Doom comes in many guises, each one sure and deadly ....

By HAROLD LAWLOR

IT LOOKS as innocent as Coralie herself— that cranberry goblet. It has been in Michael's family for many years—the last of a set once owned, perhaps, by his grandparents. But no one really knows. Micliael himself doesn't know. It has just been around for as long as he can remember. Square at the tup, slightly convex at- the sides, its bowl is the color of ripe cranberries—a live glowing scarlet, deepening sometimes to ruby; its stem and base are of rock crystal, clear and.beautifully cut.

The first time I ever saw Michael's sister, Coralie, she held it in her hand. It was early morning and she was in bed, propped up among a number of tiny, lacy pillows. The sun was streaming brilliantly through the white Venetian blinds, and Coralie was holding the goblet between herself and the light, regarding the effect in the mirror opposite her bed.

"Look, Michael!" she cried as we came in. The goblet threw a roseate glow over her pallor. "Look how disgustingly pink and healthy I've grown while you've been Away!'"

Coralie's laughter was as crystal clear as the stem of the cranberry goblet. Michael grimicd, and I was smiling as he drew me nearer the bed. "This is Ann, Coralie," he said.

Her swift turquoise glance took in aH

3—3 Jt

that there was of me to see in one brief instant— brown hair, brown eyes, the plain blue suit I'd been married in. Then she held wide her arms like a child, and cried, "Ann, dear!"

I was quite prepared to love her. In the hectic week I'd known Michael at the lake, there'd been room only for this wonderful thing that had happened so suddenly. Our falling in love. It wasn't until we'd made our hasty decision to marry, and were driving in Michael's car to the nearest justice of the peace, that he'd turned to me and said, "I have a sister, Ann. An invalid since she was a child. She'll have to live with us."

The wind had feathered his brown hair down over his tanned forehead. His dark blue eyes were worried. I never loved him so much as at that moment. "Where else would she live?" I smiled.

He gave a sigh of relief at that, but the little furrow still remained between his brows. "You see, she's badly spoiled, I'm afraid. 1 *

So that was it He thought she'd be jealous of me. But, "I'll spoil her, too (" I promised recklessly.

And now here she was, not at all alarmed, kissing my cheek with cool lips, seeming not to resent me at all. Looking like a fragile angel among her pillows, with her turquoise eyes and pale gold hair.

THE CRANBERRY GOBLET

Michael was beaming suddenly, too, and looking oddly relieved. It was only then I realized he'd been wearing a worried frown ever since sending the telegram to Coralie announcing our sudden marriage. Men! I thought in fond despair. What had he expected us to do —claw each other's eyes out? It was absurd. As if I could help feeling fond at first sight of this sister of his—so child-like, so appealing.

'T'HERE was some mix-up about our ■** luggage. Before attending to it, Michael stayed until Coralie had filled the cranberry goblet with water from a silver carafe on the bedside table, dropped in a capsule which dissolved instantly, and swallowed the colorless mixture. Something wrong with her heart, Michael had said. From where I was standing I could see the box from which she'd taken the capsule, could even read the underscored warning, printed in red One capsule only, mornings.

I went with Michael to the door, and when he was gone I turned back to the bed. To Coralie. To shocked surprise.

Gone were the soft eyes, the dimples, the child-like air. She lay back among her pillows, and over her face was a blank expresslonlessness, infintely cold.

"We can talk now, without pretending," she said.

"Pretending?"

"You heard me." Stiff-armed, she thrust herself up to a sitting position. "You're not so naive as to think I intend to share Michael with you? He's my brother. In the past, all his attention has been for me. It's going to continue that way. You don't count at all."

She was a child, after all, I thought. Smiling. I went over-'Und sac on the edge

of the bed. "Coralie, listen to me. There's room for both of us—"

But she wasn't listening. Her eyes held that blank look of an ego turned In upon itself, and her voice was hot with resentment. "No doubt you think you'll have an easy time of it, winning him away from me. But you won't. Maybe I'm helpless, but I'm clever, too. I'll never rest till I drive you out."

An infantile threat, surely. I don't know why I took it seriously. Yet her anger was contagious. I found myself losing my temper, "And do you think I'll stand by, doing nothing, if you try it? I started for the door, determined to get out before I made an exhibition of myself.

"You won't do anything, you won't do anything," she taunted in a chant that followed me across the room. "No matter what you do, I'll win. Because—" Her voice fluttered uncertainly. "Because—''

Curious, I looked back. Her eyes were fixed, not on me, but upon the cranberry goblet. Slowly, as I watched, they turned to me. And surely that was fear lurking in their depths?

"Because," she said in a whisper now, "even if I lose I'll win."

A strange thing for her to say. It's only now that I know just how strange. But certainly, for a minute there, she must have seen the fate of the three of us in the cranberry goblet?

rTTrlERE were weeks, then, in which I ■*■ learned just how clever Coralie could be. And it took me weeks to learn. I don't know how I could have been so stupid, so blind. By the time I saw the way_ things were going, it was too late for

THE CRANBERRY GOBLET

ordinary measures. The damage was done.

In the beginning, every morning after Michael had left for the office, 1 would knock at Coralie's door eager to make amends, to try to get off on the right foot with her. But I was never permitted to enter. Mrs. Dunnigan, our housekeeper (and Coralie's willing slave), would open the door the merest slit. And her thin-lipped mouth would open the merest slit, too, in her hard, set face.

Miss Coralie was resting. Miss Coralie didn't feel well enough this morning for visitors. No, there was nothing you could do. Yes, Mrs. Whirtington, I'll let you know if she asks for you.

Days of this. Until, after a time, I stopped trying to be friendly. Perhaps she'd get over it faster if I left her alone.

Then Michael, one morning at breakfast, said mildly. "Why don't yon ever go in to see Coralie?"

I looked at him in blank amazement. Surely he must know how Coralie felt about me? "But, Michael dear, I've tried. She doesn't want to see me. I can never get in."

Mrs. Dunnigan, pouring coffee, sniffed audibly. And her narrow, black hack somehow managed to convey eloquent disbelief for Michael's "benefit. Before I could say anything, Mrs. Dunnigan was asking Michael's advice about something, so that her insinuation that I was lying was left dangling in the air until it became, somehow, truth.

What Michael believed I do not know. But he must have said something to Coralie. And always, after that, I visited her room with him in the morning before he went to work. True, between Coralie and me there was nothing more than an

exchange of polite insincerities. But she didn't dare deny me entrance—not with Michael at my side. Nor could she any longer accuse me to him of neglect.

But Coralie wasn't finished. It wen'., on. Michael's friends, who'd welcomed me so gladly at first, slowly began to withdraw, and to eye me with suspicion and dislike when we did meet. It hurt me, at first, and bewildered me, but gradually I began to understand. Their coldness always seemed to coincide with their visits to Coralie.

Whai was she saying to them about me? That I was mean, cold, heartless? Perhaps that I'd married Michael only for his money, and wanted to drive Coralie out? However she was knifing me, she was gaining her effect. She was ill, lovely, pathetic; I was well, presumably at an advantage. It's only natural that the sympathies of Michael's friends go to her.

Even by the time I grew morally certain of just how she was accomplishing her ends, it was too late to do any tiling. I couldn't go to Michael's friends and ask theni, for they would only deny it strenuously, misguidedly thinking that in so doing they were only protecting Coralie from further abuse. I most certainly wouldn't go to Coralie and tax her with what she was doing. Accuse her, and know that all the while, behind her bland surprise and pitying denial, she'd be laughing at me delightedly. She wanted me to suspect what she was doing. She just didn't want me to get any proof.

My only defense was to withdraw more and more into the shell of pretended indifference. Then Coralie for days would be gay and kind and friendly, until I began to doubt my own suspicions. Eagerly I'd make friendly overtures in