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<title>"O BROTHER, WHEREART THOU"</title>
 "O BROTHER, WHERE ART THOU"   By    Ethan Coen and Joel Coen BLACK In black, we hear a chain-gang chant, many voices together, spaced around the unisonstrike of picks against rock. A title burns in: O muse! Sing in me, and through me tell the story Of that man skilled in all the ways of contending... A wanderer, harried for years on end... On the sound of an impact wecut to: A PICK splitting a rock. As the chant continues, wider angles show the chain-gang at work. They are black men in bleached and faded stripes, chained together, working under a brutal midday sun. It isflat delta countryside; the straight-ruled road stretches to infinity. Mounted guards with shotguns lazily patrol the line. The chain-gang chant is regular and, it seems, timeless. We slowly fade out, returning toBLACK The last of the voices fades. After a long beat we hear the guitar introduction to Harry McClintock's 'The Big Rock Candy Mountain.' A WHEAT FIELD A road cuts across the middle background.Noonday sun beats down. We hear the distant picks and shovels of men at work and see, rising above ground level, the occasional upraised pick and spade heaving dirt. Men are digging a ditch alongside the road. Aftera long beat, three men pop up in the wheat field in the middle foreground. They wear faded stripes and grey duck- billed caps. They scurry abreast toward the camera, throwing an occasional glance back at theditch-diggers. A clanking sound accompanies their run. Oddly, the wheat between them sweeps down as they run. After a brief sprint they drop back down into the wheat. In the background a man enters frame left,strolling along the road, wearing a khaki uniform and sunglasses, a shotgun resting against one shoulder. He glances idly down into the ditch and strolls on out of frame right. The three men rise back up from the wheatand, clanking, resume their sprint. THREE PAIRS OF EYES They are topped by three cap bills, and peer out from behind a blind of greenery. We hear distant whistling. The men are looking at a weathered barn.A young boy, whistling, is heading down the road that leads away from the barn, jiggling the traces of the old plough horse that leads him. He turns a corner and is gone. BARNYARD The three clanking men(we can now see their leg irons) are awkwardly chasing a chicken around the yard. The squawking yardbird doesn't need to move much to elude the three bunched men. COUNTRY LANE It curves in a gentle Sinto the background. It is sun- dappled, pretty. We hear clanking footsteps approaching at a trot. The three men enter in the foreground and trot on down the lane. The leftmost has a flapping chicken tucked under onearm. AFTERNOON CAMPFIRE The three men sit in a side-by-side arc around a dying fire, one of them contentedly picking his teeth with a small chicken bone, another wiping grease off his chin with a sleeve,the third idly poking at the fire with a spit. Each of them, still bound by chains, clinks as he moves. One of them abruptly cocks his head, listening. The others notice his attitude and also freeze, listening. We hear thedistant baying of hounds. ROLLING HILLS From high on a ridge we see the three chained men running toward us. In addition to their clanks we hear a distant chugging sound. TRACKING Laterallywith the clanking, running feet. The chugging sound is very loud. RUNNING Next to a freight train. A boxcar door is open. INSIDE THE BOXCAR The lead convict hooks an elbow in and starts haulinghimself up, his two clanking friends keeping pace outside. Six hobos sit in the boxcar, lounging against sacks of O'Daniel's Flour. They impassively watch the convict clamber in as his two confederates run to keep up.The convict hauls himself to his feet. In spite of his stubble he has carefully tended hair and a pencil mustache. He is Everett. As he dusts himself off: EVERETT Say, uh, any a you boys smithies? The hobosstare. Everett gives an ingratiating smile as, behind him, the second convict starts to haul himself into the boxcar, the third convict still keeping pace outside. EVERETT Or, if not smithies per se, were youotherwise trained in the metallurgic arts before straitened circumstances forced you into a life of aimless wanderin'? The convict running outside the boxcar door stumbles and disappears and the middle convict isyanked out immediately after. Everett, just finishing his speech, flips forward in turn, smashes his chin onto the floor and is sucked out the open doorway, his clawing fingernails leaving parallel grooves on the boxcarfloorboards. The hobos impassively watch. OUTSIDE The three men tumble, clanking, down the track embankment. Squush - they come to a rest in swampland at the bottom. They shake their heads clear,then rise to their feet in the muck and watch the train recede. Its fading clatter leaves the baying of hounds. EVERETT Jesus - can't I count on you people? The second con is Delmar. DELMAR Sorry,Everett. Everett looks desperately about. EVERETT All right - if we take off through that bayou- The third con, Pete, bald but also with beard stubble, angrily cuts in. PETE Wait a minute! Who electedyou leader a this outfit? EVERETT Well, Pete, I just figured it should be the one with capacity for abstract thought. But if that ain't the consensus view, hell, let's put her to a vote! PETE Suits me! I'mvotin' for yours truly! EVERETT Well I'm votin' for yours truly too! Both men look interrogatively to Delmar. He looks from Pete to Everett, and nods agreeably. DELMAR Okay - I'm with you fellas.Everett makes a sudden hushing gesture and all listen. The baying of hounds is louder now, but through it we hear a distant scrape of metal against metal, like the workings of a rusty pump. The men turn in unison tolook up the track. A small, distant form is moving slowly up the track toward them. As it draws closer it resolves into a human-propelled flatcar. An ancient black man rhythmically pumps its long seesaw handle. Thethree convicts look out at the swampland which begins to show movement, the bowing grass trampled by men and dogs. The flatcar draws even and slows. EVERETT Mind if we join you, ol' timer? OLDMAN Join me, my sons. The three men clamber aboard and the old man resumes pumping. The three men exchange glances; Delmar waves a clanking hand before the old man's milky eyes. No reaction.DELMAR You work for the railroad, grandpa? OLD MAN I work for no man. PETE Got a name, do ya? OLD MAN I have no name. EVERETT Well, that right there may be whyyou've had difficulty finding gainful employment. Ya see, in the mart of competitive commerce, the- OLD MAN You seek a great fortune, you three who are now in chains... The men fall silent. OLDMAN And you will find a fortune - though it will not be the fortune you seek... The three convicts, faces upturned, listen raptly to the blind prophet. OLD MAN ...But first, first you must travel a long anddifficult road - a road fraught with peril, uh-huh, and pregnant with adventure. You shall see things wonderful to tell. You shall see a cow on the roof of a cottonhouse, uh-huh, and oh, so many startlements... Thecloudy eyes of the old man stare sightlessly down the track as the seesaw handle rises and falls through frame. OLD MAN ...I cannot say how long this road shall be. But fear not the obstacles in your path, forFate has vouchsafed your reward.  And though the road may wind, and yea, your hearts grow weary, still shall ye foller the way, even unto your salvation. The old man pumps - reek-a reek-a reek-a - as all contemplatehis words. Loud and sudden: OLD MAN IZZAT CLEAR? The men start, then mumble polite acknowledgement. The railroad tracks wind to the setting sun. Reek-a reek-a reek-a - the flatcar rolls, inwide shot, toward the golden horizon. FADE OUT DAY A hot dusty road leading up to a lone farmhouse. The three men walk, clanking and abreast. DELMAR How'd he know about thetreasure? EVERETT Don't know, Delmar-though the blind are reputed to possess sensitivities compensatin' for their lack of sight, even to the point of developing para- normal psychic powers. Now clearly,seein' the future would fall neatly into that ka-taggery. It's not so surprising, then, if an organism deprived of earthly vision- PETE He said we wouldn't get it! He said we wouldn't get the treasure we seek!Everett grows testy: EVERETT Well what does he know - he's an ignorant old man! Jesus, Pete, I'm telling you I buried it myself, and if your cousin still runs this-here horse farm and has a forge and someshoein' impediments to restore our liberty of movement- Bang! A rifle shot kicks up dust in front of the men. CHILD'S VOICE Hold it rah chair! The front of the farm house shows only a harshly shaded frontporch and a dark screen door. The screen door swings open and a child emerges on to the porch and steps down into the sunlight, holding a gun almost bigger than he is. The grimy-faced boy, about eight years old,wears tattered overalls. CHILD You men from the bank? PETE You Wash's boy? CHILD Yassir! And Daddy tolt me I'm to shoot whosoever from the bank! He pokes his rifle at the three men,who raise their hands. DELMAR Well, we ain't from no bank, young feller. CHILD Yassir! I'm also suppose to shoot folks servin' papers! DELMAR Well we ain't got no papers. CHILDYassir! I nicked the census man! DELMAR There's a good boy. Is your daddy about? THE BACK OF THE HOUSE Wash Hogwallop, a sour-looking bald man, sits near a rusted bathtub in a yard litteredwith ancient car parts and farm implements overgrown with weeds. He is whittling artlessly at a stick. He glances up as the three convicts clank around the corner, then returns to his whittling. WASH 'Lo, Pete.Hooor yer friends? EVERETT Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Hogwallop. M'name's Ulysses Everett McGill. DELMAR 'N I'm Delmar O'Donnell. PETE How ya been, Wash? Beenwhat, twelve, thirteen year'n? Still looking sourly at his whittling: WASH You've grown chatty. He tosses the stick aside and sighs. WASH I expect you'll want them chains knocked off. THEHOGWALLOP KITCHEN The four men and little boy sit around the kitchen table eating stew. A Sears Roebuck catalogue on the boy's chair brings him to table height. The cons are now rid of their chains and aredressed in ill-fitting farmer's wear. WASH They foreclosed on Cousin Vester. He hanged himself a year come May. PETE And Uncle Ratliff? WASH The anthrax took most of his cows. The restdon't milk, and he lost a boy to mumps. PETE Where's Cora, Cousin Wash? Wash glances at the little boy. WASH Couldn't say. Mrs. Hogwallop up and  R-U-N-N-O-F-T. EVERETT


<title>Color of Night Script at IMSDb.</title><meta name="description" content="Color of Night script at the Internet Movie Script Database."><meta name="keywords" content="Color of Night script,Color of Night movie script, Color of Night film script"><meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1" /><meta name="HandheldFriendly" content="true"><meta http-equiv="content-type"content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"><meta http-equiv="Content-Language" content="EN"><meta name=objecttype CONTENT=Document><meta name=ROBOTS CONTENT="INDEX, FOLLOW"><metaname=Subject CONTENT="Movie scripts, Film scripts"><meta name=rating CONTENT=General><meta name=distribution content=Global><meta name=revisit-after CONTENT="2 days"><link href="/style.css"rel="stylesheet" type="text/css">

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                                    COLOR OF NIGHT                                                               Written by                              Billy Ray &Matthew Chapman                                                  CREDITS                                   Credits start on a black screen, then they continue during the          whole scene at Michelle's place, and they end at thebeginning of          the scene at Bill Capa's office.                                   MICHELLE'S PLACE - INTERIOR DAY                                   Close-up on a silver lipstick stand made into a bad tastemusical          box. We see Michelle's hand selecting a lipstick then we see          Michelle putting the lipstick on her lips, seated in front of the          mirror of her dressing table. She is dressed in a green frock,and          her face shows that she is quite disturbed.           Her apartment's decoration is very heavy, with a lot of various          useless objects and gold-plated furniture and many mirrors.           She looks for a newdress in her wardrobe, and get mad at not          finding it. She then goes to a sofa covered with cushions, which          she throws all around the place, still madder at not finding her          dress. A cat, who was lyingon the armrest of the sofa, runs away          hurriedly from the mad Michelle.                                                   MICHELLE           God !...... No !......                                   Michelle is back in front of themirror of her dressing-table. She          takes the lipstick and put a lot of it on her lips, then on her          teeth, then all around her mouth. She makes faces to herself in          the mirror. She seems more and moredisturbed.           She takes a chrome-plated revolver in her drawer, starts to put          it in her purse, then takes it out, spins the cylinder of the          revolver, and puts the revolver in her mouth, as if she wantedto          kill herself. But instead, she starts sucking the barrel, while          she strokes the revolver in a quite erotic way.                                   BILL CAPA' OFFICE - INTERIORDAY                                   Large planes of ground glass. We hear, without understanding them,          some voices and laughs. Then a male voice becomesmore          understandable...                                                   BILL'S VOICE           So who do you think is the enemy ?... No, no, give me a           specific answer...                                   ... then Michelleappears on the screen. She is dressed in a green          suit, she is heavily made up, et she still seems very disturbed.           The office is very chic and evidently belongs to a very rich New-          York psycho-analyst.Beautiful and good taste furniture. Shelves          with leather-bound books.                                                   MICHELLE           You are the goddamned enemy, Capa, you and this all tower           ofpsycho-babble. You know what I hope ? That God gets real           pissed off and He shrivels up your cock, so that it points           straight down to Hell, where you belongs !...                                   During this reply,Bill Capa has appeared on the screen. He is          seated. He is wearing a long-sleeve shirt, a necktie, but no          jacket. He laughs at Michelle's lastsentence.                                                   BILL           OK... Michelle, so you will become His Avenging Angel, and           swoop down to finish me off.          He standsup.                                                   MICHELLE           Now, I finally get it : you're are like my ex-husband. You           think that everything got to be either black or white           because you got color-blind.But God is on my side now. He           knows I'm not like you                                                   BILL           Well, we are pretty much the same, Michelle. We all doit.                                                   MICHELLE           We all do what ?                                                   BILL           Tend to view our lives as we were looking through a           keyhole. I's a verylimited view of the truth. So, we have           to fill in the blanks. We invent things.                                                   MICHELLE           I don't know what youmean.                                                   BILL           You invent enemies to test your strength against. You           invent gods to protect you from theseenemies.                                                   MICHELLE          Cutting him.           What a depressing view of life you have, that is such           horse-shit!                                                   BILL           Who is the enemy ? One minute you have friends, the next           moment they've slipped away. You leave here and I wonder           who is Michelle reallyhating this week. I try to remember           and I can't bring it to mind. Do you know why ?                                                   MICHELLE           No, why don't you tellme                                                   BILL           Take a look in the mirror, Michelle                                                   MICHELLE           Which mirror ?... This mirror?...                                                   BILL           Any mirror. Tell me what you see.                                                   MICHELLE          We see Michelle as if we were watching her from behind themirror.           I see... I see your reflection over my shoulder... I see... there           is nothing much that I really like... I think I prefer the           view outside actually...                                   During this last reply, Bill,standing up, is fidgeting with          something on his desk. At Michelle's last words, he turns toward          her, looking alarmed. But he doesn't have time to do prevent her          from breaking through the glass paneand jumping outside. He yells          «Michelle» twice.                                   A STREET IN NEW-YORK - EXTERIOR DAY                                   We see Michelle's body falling all the way down. Capa'soffice          must be around the 25th floor. The body crashes on the street. A          police horse, who was near the impact, rears up in fright. As if          the asphalt were translucent, we see Michelle's bodyfrom          underneath, with the blood flowing around it.                                                   SEVERAL VOICES           All right, get back there... Stay back !... Get back in your           car... Stopit...                                   BILL CAPA'S OFFICE - INTERIOR DAY                                   We see Bill with tears in his eyes. He walks to the broken window,          and lookoutside.                                                   BILL          Voice over.           My God, it was the reddest blood I ever saw, poured around           her green dress. And... Then the reddisappeared...                                   OPHTHALMOLOGIST'S OFFICE - INTERIOR DAY                                   Bill is seated with a huge ophthalmologic device on his head. He          finishes the precedingreply.                          BILL           Christ, Ed. It was like a vibration of color broadcast from           Hell. And then the red started to fade away.                                   The ophthalmologist moves the deviceaway. We see Bill's face, and          behind him, projected on the wall, an abstract drawing made of          colored spots close together. The red spots start to blink and          then they becomegrey.                                   LARRY'S PLACE - INTERIOR DAY                                   It is the apartment of an old New-York intellectual. A bit messy.          A old Earth globe on a stand. Objects and bookseverywhere, but          with an warm atmosphere. Larry wears an open shirt and a sweater.          Bill also is in open shirt, with a sleeveless sweater. At the          beginning of the scene, Bill is lying on acouch.                                                   LARRY           Poor Capa ! You're here for me to pity you.                                   Larry puts down the newspaper he was reading. It is the New York          Post. Onthe front page, a title in large prints : «Patient's          family sues Manhattan shrink»                                                   BILL           Hell, yes. It doesn't take Sigmund Freud to figure out I           don't care tosee the color of my patients' blood.                                                   LARRY           I'm a little surprised that this happened to you.                                                   BILL           Starts to standup.           Sure. You always thought I was a cold-hearted son of a           bitch.                                                   LARRY           Not really, but there is a kind of arrogance here.          Bill laughs.           Doyou really believe that you're responsible for her           illness. You were a small recent part of her life.                                                   BILL           Yes, that's right, that's right. But it's all toofucking           glib for me, Larry. I cannot dispose of this woman that           easily.                                                   LARRY           Well, you always were a romantic. Are you involved with           anyoneelse ?                                   Larry starts to make tea in a corner of the room. Bill is seated          on an armchair during the following reply, and strokes the grey          cat who is lying on thetable.                                                   BILL           No. I am still a romantic. I just don't have anybody to be           romantic with. They want to fuck me or marry me... None of           them want to loveme                          LARRY           Maybe you don't want to be loved. You had a happy marriage           once.                                                   BILL           She loved me to death. Then she ran offand loved somebody           else to death.                                                   LARRY           Of course, there is something else here. To deny red is to           denyemotion.                                                   BILL           Oh yeah !                                                   LARRY           As you know, that could be very dangerous.                                   Bill standsup.                                                   BILL           Yes, yes, I know. Very dangerous. I know and I have got           something broken. I know it's gonna take some time toget           fixed.                                   He picks up his jacket on a chair and put it on.                                                   LARRY           You're a pretty good therapist. How long does it take a man           likeyou to forgive himself.                                                   BILL           I see you when I get back from Los Angeles.                                   During the two last replies, Bill has walked to the frontdoor.                                                   LARRY           Don't run away because of one treatment failure.                                                   BILL           I'm not running away, Larry, it's just a littletrip to Los           Angeles. Besides, you can't really run away. It's all up           here, isn't it...          He shows his forehead and pretends he is shooting a bullet in it.           Pow !... It's a package deal. The head goes


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The House on the Borderland, by William Hope HodgsonThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-useit under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: The House on the BorderlandAuthor: William Hope HodgsonRelease Date: November 10, 2003 [EBook#10002]Last updated: January 19, 2009Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE ON THE BORDERLAND ***Produced by Suzanne Shell, Sjaani and PG DistributedProofreadersTHE HOUSE ON THE BORDERLANDWilliam Hope Hodgson_From the Manuscript discovered in 1877 by Messrs. Tonnison andBerreggnog in the Ruins that lie to the South of the Village ofKraighten, in theWest of Ireland. Set out here, with Notes_.TO MY FATHER_(Whose feet tread the lost aeons)_Open the door,  And listen!Only the wind's muffled roar,  And the glistenOf tears 'round the moon.  And, in fancy, thetreadOf vanishing shoon--  Out in the night with the Dead."Hush! And hark  To the sorrowful cryOf the wind in the dark.  Hush and hark, without murmur or sigh,    To shoon that tread the lost aeons:  To the sound thatbids you to die.Hush and hark! Hush and Hark!"                               _Shoon of the Dead_AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION TO THE MANUSCRIPTMany are the hours in which I have pondered upon the story that is setforth inthe following pages. I trust that my instincts are not awrywhen they prompt me to leave the account, in simplicity, as it washanded to me.And the MS. itself--You must picture me, when first it was given into mycare,turning it over, curiously, and making a swift, jerky examination.A small book it is; but thick, and all, save the last few pages, filledwith a quaint but legible handwriting, and writ very close. I have thequeer, faint,pit-water smell of it in my nostrils now as I write, andmy fingers have subconscious memories of the soft, "cloggy" feel of thelong-damp pages.I read, and, in reading, lifted the Curtains of the Impossible thatblind themind, and looked out into the unknown. Amid stiff, abruptsentences I wandered; and, presently, I had no fault to charge againsttheir abrupt tellings; for, better far than my own ambitious phrasing,is this mutilatedstory capable of bringing home all that the oldRecluse, of the vanished house, had striven to tell.Of the simple, stiffly given account of weird and extraordinary matters,I will say little. It lies before you. The inner storymust be uncovered,personally, by each reader, according to ability and desire. And evenshould any fail to see, as now I see, the shadowed picture and conceptionof that to which one may well give the accepted titles ofHeaven and Hell;yet can I promise certain thrills, merely taking the story as a story.WILLIAM HOPE HODGSON December 17, 1907_I_THE FINDING OF THE MANUSCRIPTRight away in the west of Ireland lies a tinyhamlet called Kraighten.It is situated, alone, at the base of a low hill. Far around therespreads a waste of bleak and totally inhospitable country; where, hereand there at great intervals, one may come upon the ruins ofsome longdesolate cottage--unthatched and stark. The whole land is bare andunpeopled, the very earth scarcely covering the rock that lies beneathit, and with which the country abounds, in places rising out of thesoilin wave-shaped ridges.Yet, in spite of its desolation, my friend Tonnison and I had elected tospend our vacation there. He had stumbled on the place by mere chancethe year previously, during the course of a longwalking tour, anddiscovered the possibilities for the angler in a small and unnamed riverthat runs past the outskirts of the little village.I have said that the river is without name; I may add that no map that Ihavehitherto consulted has shown either village or stream. They seemto have entirely escaped observation: indeed, they might never exist forall that the average guide tells one. Possibly this can be partlyaccounted for bythe fact that the nearest railway station (Ardrahan) issome forty miles distant.It was early one warm evening when my friend and I arrived in Kraighten.We had reached Ardrahan the previous night, sleeping there inroomshired at the village post office, and leaving in good time on thefollowing morning, clinging insecurely to one of the typicaljaunting cars.It had taken us all day to accomplish our journey over some of theroughesttracks imaginable, with the result that we were thoroughlytired and somewhat bad tempered. However, the tent had to be erected andour goods stowed away before we could think of food or rest. And so weset to work,with the aid of our driver, and soon had the tent up upon asmall patch of ground just outside the little village, and quite near tothe river.Then, having stored all our belongings, we dismissed the driver, as hehad tomake his way back as speedily as possible, and told him to comeacross to us at the end of a fortnight. We had brought sufficientprovisions to last us for that space of time, and water we could getfrom the stream. Fuelwe did not need, as we had included a smalloil-stove among our outfit, and the weather was fine and warm.It was Tonnison's idea to camp out instead of getting lodgings in one ofthe cottages. As he put it, there was nojoke in sleeping in a room witha numerous family of healthy Irish in one corner and the pigsty in theother, while overhead a ragged colony of roosting fowls distributedtheir blessings impartially, and the whole place sofull of peat smokethat it made a fellow sneeze his head off just to put it insidethe doorway.Tonnison had got the stove lit now and was busy cutting slices of baconinto the frying pan; so I took the kettle and walkeddown to the riverfor water. On the way, I had to pass close to a little group of thevillage people, who eyed me curiously, but not in any unfriendly manner,though none of them ventured a word.As I returned with mykettle filled, I went up to them and, after afriendly nod, to which they replied in like manner, I asked themcasually about the fishing; but, instead of answering, they just shooktheir heads silently, and stared at me. Irepeated the question,addressing more particularly a great, gaunt fellow at my elbow; yetagain I received no answer. Then the man turned to a comrade and saidsomething rapidly in a language that I did notunderstand; and, at once,the whole crowd of them fell to jabbering in what, after a few moments,I guessed to be pure Irish. At the same time they cast many glances inmy direction. For a minute, perhaps, they spokeamong themselves thus;then the man I had addressed faced 'round at me and said something. Bythe expression of his face I guessed that he, in turn, was questioningme; but now I had to shake my head, and indicatethat I did notcomprehend what it was they wanted to know; and so we stood looking atone another, until I heard Tonnison calling to me to hurry up with thekettle. Then, with a smile and a nod, I left them, and all in thelittlecrowd smiled and nodded in return, though their faces still betrayedtheir puzzlement.It was evident, I reflected as I went toward the tent, that theinhabitants of these few huts in the wilderness did not know a wordofEnglish; and when I told Tonnison, he remarked that he was aware of thefact, and, more, that it was not at all uncommon in that part of thecountry, where the people often lived and died in their isolatedhamletswithout ever coming in contact with the outside world."I wish we had got the driver to interpret for us before he left," Iremarked, as we sat down to our meal. "It seems so strange for thepeople of this place noteven to know what we've come for."Tonnison grunted an assent, and thereafter was silent for a while.Later, having satisfied our appetites somewhat, we began to talk, layingour plans for the morrow; then, after asmoke, we closed the flap of thetent, and prepared to turn in."I suppose there's no chance of those fellows outside taking anything?"I asked, as we rolled ourselves in our blankets.Tonnison said that he did not think so,at least while we were about;and, as he went on to explain, we could lock up everything, except thetent, in the big chest that we had brought to hold our provisions. Iagreed to this, and soon we were both asleep.Nextmorning, early, we rose and went for a swim in the river; afterwhich we dressed and had breakfast. Then we roused out our fishingtackle and overhauled it, by which time, our breakfasts having settledsomewhat, wemade all secure within the tent and strode off in thedirection my friend had explored on his previous visit.During the day we fished happily, working steadily upstream, and byevening we had one of the prettiest creels offish that I had seen for along while. Returning to the village, we made a good feed off our day'sspoil, after which, having selected a few of the finer fish for ourbreakfast, we presented the remainder to the group ofvillagers who hadassembled at a respectful distance to watch our doings. They seemedwonderfully grateful, and heaped mountains of what I presumed to beIrish blessings upon our heads.Thus we spent several days,having splendid sport, and first-rateappetites to do justice upon our prey. We were pleased to find howfriendly the villagers were inclined to be, and that there was noevidence of their having ventured to meddle withour belongings duringour absences.It was on a Tuesday that we arrived in Kraighten, and it would be on theSunday following that we made a great discovery. Hitherto we had alwaysgone up-stream; on that day,however, we laid aside our rods, and,taking some provisions, set off for a long ramble in the oppositedirection. The day was warm, and we trudged along leisurely enough,stopping about mid-day to eat our lunch upon agreat flat rock near theriverbank. Afterward we sat and smoked awhile, resuming our walk onlywhen we were tired of inaction.For perhaps another hour we wandered onward, chatting quietly andcomfortably on this andthat matter, and on several occasions stoppingwhile my companion--who is something of an artist--made rough sketchesof striking bits of the wild scenery.And then, without any warning whatsoever, the river we hadfollowed soconfidently, came to an abrupt end--vanishing into the earth."Good Lord!" I said, "who ever would have thought of this?"And I stared in amazement; then I turned to Tonnison. He was looking,with a blankexpression upon his face, at the place where the riverdisappeared.In a moment he spoke."Let us go on a bit; it may reappear again--anyhow, it is worthinvestigating."I agreed, and we went forward once more, thoughrather aimlessly; for wewere not at all certain in which direction to prosecute our search. Forperhaps a mile we moved onward; then Tonnison, who had been gazing aboutcuriously, stopped and shaded his eyes."See!"he said, after a moment, "isn't that mist or something, overthere to the right--away in a line with that great piece of rock?" Andhe indicated with his hand.I stared, and, after a minute, seemed to see something, butcould not becertain, and said so."Anyway," my friend replied, "we'll just go across and have a glance."And he started off in the direction he had suggested, I following.Presently, we came among bushes, and, after atime, out upon the top ofa high, boulder-strewn bank, from which we looked down into a wildernessof bushes and trees."Seems as though we had come upon an oasis in this desert of stone,"muttered Tonnison, as hegazed interestedly. Then he was silent, hiseyes fixed; and I looked also; for up from somewhere about the center ofthe wooded lowland there rose high into the quiet air a great column ofhazelike spray, upon which thesun shone, causing innumerable rainbows."How beautiful!" I exclaimed."Yes," answered Tonnison, thoughtfully. "There must be a waterfall, orsomething, over there. Perhaps it's our river come to light again. Let'sgoand see."Down the sloping bank we made our way, and entered among the trees andshrubberies. The bushes were matted, and the trees overhung us, so thatthe place was disagreeably gloomy; though not darkenough to hide fromme the fact that many of the trees were fruit trees, and that, here andthere, one could trace indistinctly, signs of a long departedcultivation. Thus it came to me that we were making our waythrough theriot of a great and ancient garden. I said as much to Tonnison, and heagreed that there certainly seemed reasonable grounds for my belief.What a wild place it was, so dismal and somber! Somehow, as wewentforward, a sense of the silent loneliness and desertion of the oldgarden grew upon me, and I felt shivery. One could imagine thingslurking among the tangled bushes; while, in the very air of the place,there seemedsomething uncanny. I think Tonnison was conscious of thisalso, though he said nothing.Suddenly, we came to a halt. Through the trees there had grown upon ourears a distant sound. Tonnison bent forward, listening. Icould hear itmore plainly now; it was continuous and harsh--a sort of droning roar,seeming to come from far away. I experienced a queer, indescribable,little feeling of nervousness. What sort of place was it into whichwehad got? I looked at my companion, to see what he thought of the matter;and noted that there was only puzzlement in his face; and then, as Iwatched his features, an expression of comprehension crept overthem,and he nodded his head."That's a waterfall," he exclaimed, with conviction. "I know the soundnow." And he began to push vigorously through the bushes, in thedirection of the noise.As we went forward, the soundbecame plainer continually, showing thatwe were heading straight toward it. Steadily, the roaring grew louderand nearer, until it appeared, as I remarked to Tonnison, almost to comefrom under our feet--and still wewere surrounded by the treesand shrubs."Take care!" Tonnison called to me. "Look where you're going." And then,suddenly, we came out from among the trees, on to a great open space,where, not six paces in front ofus, yawned the mouth of a tremendouschasm, from the depths of which the noise appeared to rise, along withthe continuous, mistlike spray that we had witnessed from the top of thedistant bank.For quite a minute westood in silence, staring in bewilderment at thesight; then my friend went forward cautiously to the edge of the abyss.I followed, and, together, we looked down through a boil of spray at amonster cataract of frothingwater that burst, spouting, from the sideof the chasm, nearly a hundred feet below."Good Lord!" said Tonnison.I was silent, and rather awed. The sight was so unexpectedly grand andeerie; though this latter qualitycame more upon me later.Presently, I looked up and across to the further side of the chasm.There, I saw something towering up among the spray: it looked like afragment of a great ruin, and I touched Tonnison on theshoulder. Heglanced 'round, with a start, and I pointed toward the thing. His gazefollowed my finger, and his eyes lighted up with a sudden flash ofexcitement, as the object came within his field of view."Come along,"he shouted above the uproar. "We'll have a look at it.There's something queer about this place; I feel it in my bones." And hestarted off, 'round the edge of the craterlike abyss. As we neared thisnew thing, I saw that Ihad not been mistaken in my first impression. Itwas undoubtedly a portion of some ruined building; yet now I made outthat it was not built upon the edge of the chasm itself, as I had atfirst supposed; but perchedalmost at the extreme end of a huge spur ofrock that jutted out some fifty or sixty feet over the abyss. In fact,the jagged mass of ruin was literally suspended in midair.Arriving opposite it, we walked out on to theprojecting arm of rock,and I must confess to having felt an intolerable sense of terror as Ilooked down from that dizzy perch into the unknown depths below us--intothe deeps from which there rose ever the thunder ofthe falling waterand the shroud of rising spray.Reaching the ruin, we clambered 'round it cautiously, and, on thefurther side, came upon a mass of fallen stones and rubble. The ruinitself seemed to me, as I proceedednow to examine it minutely, to be aportion of the outer wall of some prodigious structure, it was so thickand substantially built; yet what it was doing in such a position Icould by no means conjecture. Where was therest of the house, orcastle, or whatever there had been?I went back to the outer side of the wall, and thence to the edge of thechasm, leaving Tonnison rooting systematically among the heap of stonesand rubbish onthe outer side. Then I commenced to examine the surfaceof the ground, near the edge of the abyss, to see whether there were notleft other remnants of the building to which the fragment of ruinevidently belonged. Butthough I scrutinized the earth with the greatestcare, I could see no signs of anything to show that there had ever beena building erected on the spot, and I grew more puzzled than ever.Then, I heard a cry fromTonnison; he was shouting my name, excitedly,and without delay I hurried along the rocky promontory to the ruin. Iwondered whether he had hurt himself, and then the thought came, thatperhaps he had foundsomething.I reached the crumbled wall and climbed 'round. There I found Tonnisonstanding within a small excavation that he had made among the _dÃ©bris_:he was brushing the dirt from something that looked like abook, muchcrumpled and dilapidated; and opening his mouth, every second or two, tobellow my name. As soon as he saw that I had come, he handed his prizeto me, telling me to put it into my satchel so as to protectit from thedamp, while he continued his explorations. This I did, first, however,running the pages through my fingers, and noting that they were closelyfilled with neat, old-fashioned writing which was quite legible, saveinone portion, where many of the pages were almost destroyed, beingmuddied and crumpled, as though the book had been doubled back at thatpart. This, I found out from Tonnison, was actually as he haddiscoveredit, and the damage was due, probably, to the fall of masonry upon theopened part. Curiously enough, the book was fairly dry, which Iattributed to its having been so securely buried among the ruins.Havingput the volume away safely, I turned-to and gave Tonnison a handwith his self-imposed task of excavating; yet, though we put in over anhour's hard work, turning over the whole of the upheaped stones andrubbish, wecame upon nothing more than some fragments of broken wood,that might have been parts of a desk or table; and so we gave upsearching, and went back along the rock, once more to the safety ofthe land.The nextthing we did was to make a complete tour of the tremendouschasm, which we were able to observe was in the form of an almostperfect circle, save for where the ruin-crowned spur of rock jutted out,spoiling itssymmetry.The abyss was, as Tonnison put it, like nothing so much as a giganticwell or pit going sheer down into the bowels of the earth.For some time longer, we continued to stare about us, and then, noticingthatthere was a clear space away to the north of the chasm, we bent oursteps in that direction.Here, distant from the mouth of the mighty pit by some hundreds ofyards, we came upon a great lake of silent water--silent,that is, savein one place where there was a continuous bubbling and gurgling.Now, being away from the noise of the spouting cataract, we were able tohear one another speak, without having to shout at the tops ofourvoices, and I asked Tonnison what he thought of the place--I told himthat I didn't like it, and that the sooner we were out of it the betterI should be pleased.He nodded in reply, and glanced at the woods behindfurtively. I askedhim if he had seen or heard anything. He made no answer; but stoodsilent, as though listening, and I kept quiet also.Suddenly, he spoke."Hark!" he said, sharply. I looked at him, and then away amongthe treesand bushes, holding my breath involuntarily. A minute came and went instrained silence; yet I could hear nothing, and I turned to Tonnison tosay as much; and then, even as I opened my lips to speak, therecame astrange wailing noise out of the wood on our left.... It appeared tofloat through the trees, and there was a rustle of stirring leaves, andthen silence.All at once, Tonnison spoke, and put his hand on my shoulder."Let usget out of here," he said, and began to move slowly toward where thesurrounding trees and bushes seemed thinnest. As I followed him, it cameto me suddenly that the sun was low, and that there was a rawsense ofchilliness in the air.Tonnison said nothing further, but kept on steadily. We were among thetrees now, and I glanced around, nervously; but saw nothing, save thequiet branches and trunks and the tangledbushes. Onward we went, and nosound broke the silence, except the occasional snapping of a twig underour feet, as we moved forward. Yet, in spite of the quietness, I had ahorrible feeling that we were not alone; and


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Hour of the Dragon, by Robert E. HowardThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it awayorre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Hour of the DragonAuthor: Robert E. HowardRelease Date: March 2, 2013 [EBook#42243]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUR OF THE DRAGON ***Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net                  THE HOUR OF THE DRAGON                   By Robert E. Howard    [Transcriber's Note: This etext was first published in Weird Tales    December 1935, January, February, March and April1936. Extensive    research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on    this publication was renewed.]1O Sleeper, Awake!The long tapers flickered, sending the black shadows wavering along thewalls,and the velvet tapestries rippled. Yet there was no wind in thechamber. Four men stood about the ebony table on which lay the greensarcophagus that gleamed like carven jade. In the upraised right hand ofeach man acurious black candle burned with a weird greenish light.Outside was night and a lost wind moaning among the black trees.Inside the chamber was tense silence, and the wavering of the shadows,while four pairs of eyes,burning with intensity, were fixed on the longgreen case across which cryptic hieroglyphics writhed, as if lent lifeand movement by the unsteady light. The man at the foot of thesarcophagus leaned over it and movedhis candle as if he were writingwith a pen, inscribing a mystic symbol in the air. Then he set down thecandle in its black gold stick at the foot of the case, and, mumblingsome formula unintelligible to his companions, hethrust a broad whitehand into his fur-trimmed robe. When he brought it forth again it was asif he cupped in his palm a ball of living fire.The other three drew in their breath sharply, and the dark, powerful manwho stoodat the head of the sarcophagus whispered: 'The Heart ofAhriman!' The other lifted a quick hand for silence. Somewhere a dogbegan howling dolefully, and a stealthy step padded outside the barredand bolted door. Butnone looked aside from the mummy-case over whichthe man in the ermine-trimmed robe was now moving the great flamingjewel while he muttered an incantation that was old when Atlantis sank.The glare of the gemdazzled their eyes, so that they could not be sureof what they saw; but with a splintering crash, the carven lid of thesarcophagus burst outward as if from some irresistible pressure appliedfrom within, and the four men,bending eagerly forward, saw theoccupant--a huddled, withered, wizened shape, with dried brown limbslike dead wood showing through moldering bandages.'Bring that thing _back_?' muttered the small dark man whostood on theright, with a short sardonic laugh. 'It is ready to crumble at a touch.We are fools--''Shhh!' It was an urgent hiss of command from the large man who held thejewel. Perspiration stood upon his broad whiteforehead and his eyeswere dilated. He leaned forward, and, without touching the thing withhis hand, laid on the breast of the mummy the blazing jewel. Then hedrew back and watched with fierce intensity, his lipsmoving insoundless invocation.It was as if a globe of living fire flickered and burned on the dead,withered bosom. And breath sucked in, hissing, through the clenchedteeth of the watchers. For as they watched, an awfultransmutationbecame apparent. The withered shape in the sarcophagus was expanding,was growing, lengthening. The bandages burst and fell into brown dust.The shriveled limbs swelled, straightened. Their dusky huebegan tofade.'By Mitra!' whispered the tall, yellow-haired man on the left. 'He was_not_ a Stygian. That part at least was true.'Again a trembling finger warned for silence. The hound outside was nolonger howling. Hewhimpered, as with an evil dream, and then thatsound, too, died away in silence, in which the yellow-haired man plainlyheard the straining of the heavy door, as if something outside pushedpowerfully upon it. He halfturned, his hand at his sword, but the manin the ermine robe hissed an urgent warning: 'Stay! Do not break thechain! And on your life do not go to the door!'The yellow-haired man shrugged and turned back, and thenhe stoppedshort, staring. In the jade sarcophagus lay a living man: a tall, lustyman, naked, white of skin, and dark of hair and beard. He laymotionless, his eyes wide open, and blank and unknowing as anewbornbabe's. On his breast the great jewel smoldered and sparkled.The man in ermine reeled as if from some let-down of extreme tension.'Ishtar!' he gasped. 'It is Xaltotun!--_and he lives!_ Valerius!Tarascus!Amalric! Do you see? Do you see? You doubted me--but I havenot failed! We have been close to the open gates of hell this night, andthe shapes of darkness have gathered close about us--aye, they followed_him_ tothe very door--but we have brought the great magician back tolife.''And damned our souls to purgatories everlasting, I doubt not,' mutteredthe small, dark man, Tarascus.The yellow-haired man, Valerius, laughedharshly.'What purgatory can be worse than life itself? So we are all damnedtogether from birth. Besides, who would not sell his miserable soul fora throne?''There is no intelligence in his stare, Orastes,' said the largeman.'He has long been dead,' answered Orastes. 'He is as one newly awakened.His mind is empty after the long sleep--nay, he was _dead_, notsleeping. We brought his spirit back over the voids and gulfs of nightandoblivion. I will speak to him.'He bent over the foot of the sarcophagus, and fixing his gaze on thewide dark eyes of the man within, he said, slowly: 'Awake, Xaltotun!'The lips of the man moved mechanically. 'Xaltotun!'he repeated in agroping whisper.'_You_ are Xaltotun!' exclaimed Orastes, like a hypnotist driving homehis suggestions. 'You are Xaltotun of Python, in Acheron.'A dim flame flickered in the dark eyes.'I was Xaltotun,' hewhispered. 'I am dead.''You _are_ Xaltotun!' cried Orastes. 'You are not dead! You live!''I am Xaltotun,' came the eery whisper. 'But I am dead. In my house inKhemi, in Stygia, there I died.''And the priests whopoisoned you mummified your body with their darkarts, keeping all your organs intact!' exclaimed Orastes. 'But now youlive again! The Heart of Ahriman has restored your life, drawn yourspirit back from space andeternity.''The Heart of Ahriman!' The flame of remembrance grew stronger. 'Thebarbarians stole it from me!''He remembers,' muttered Orastes. 'Lift him from the case.'The others obeyed hesitantly, as if reluctant totouch the man they hadrecreated, and they seemed not easier in their minds when they felt firmmuscular flesh, vibrant with blood and life, beneath their fingers. Butthey lifted him upon the table, and Orastes clothedhim in a curiousdark velvet robe, splashed with gold stars and crescent moons, andfastened a cloth-of-gold fillet about his temples, confining the blackwavy locks that fell to his shoulders. He let them do as theywould,saying nothing, not even when they set him in a carven throne-like chairwith a high ebony back and wide silver arms, and feet like golden claws.He sat there motionless, and slowly intelligence grew in his darkeyesand made them deep and strange and luminous. It was as if long-sunkenwitchlights floated slowly up through midnight pools of darkness.Orastes cast a furtive glance at his companions, who stood staring inmorbidfascination at their strange guest. Their iron nerves hadwithstood an ordeal that might have driven weaker men mad. He knew itwas with no weaklings that he conspired, but men whose courage was asprofound as theirlawless ambitions and capacity for evil. He turned hisattention to the figure in the ebon-black chair. And this one spoke atlast.'I remember,' he said in a strong, resonant voice, speaking Nemedianwith a curious, archaicaccent. 'I am Xaltotun, who was high priest ofSet in Python, which was in Acheron. The Heart of Ahriman--I dreamed Ihad found it again--where is it?'Orastes placed it in his hand, and he drew breath deeply as hegazedinto the depths of the terrible jewel burning in his grasp.'They stole it from me, long ago,' he said. 'The red heart of the nightit is, strong to save or to damn. It came from afar, and from long ago.While I held it,none could stand before me. But it was stolen from me,and Acheron fell, and I fled in exile into dark Stygia. Much I remember,but much I have forgotten. I have been in a far land, across misty voidsand gulfs and unlitoceans. What is the year?'Orastes answered him. 'It is the waning of the Year of the Lion, threethousand years after the fall of Acheron.''Three thousand years!' murmured the other. 'So long? Who are you?''I amOrastes, once a priest of Mitra. This man is Amalric, baron ofTor, in Nemedia; this other is Tarascus, younger brother of the king ofNemedia; and this tall man is Valerius, rightful heir of the throne ofAquilonia.''Why haveyou given me life?' demanded Xaltotun. 'What do you require ofme?'The man was now fully alive and awake, his keen eyes reflecting theworking of an unclouded brain. There was no hesitation or uncertainty inhismanner. He came directly to the point, as one who knows that no mangives something for nothing. Orastes met him with equal candor.'We have opened the doors of hell this night to free your soul andreturn it to yourbody because we need your aid. We wish to placeTarascus on the throne of Nemedia, and to win for Valerius the crown ofAquilonia. With your necromancy you can aid us.'Xaltotun's mind was devious and full ofunexpected slants.'You must be deep in the arts yourself, Orastes, to have been able torestore my life. How is it that a priest of Mitra knows of the Heart ofAhriman, and the incantations of Skelos?''I am no longer apriest of Mitra,' answered Orastes. 'I was cast forthfrom my order because of my delving in black magic. But for Amalricthere I might have been burned as a magician.'But that left me free to pursue my studies. Ijourneyed in Zamora, inVendhya, in Stygia, and among the haunted jungles of Khitai. I read theiron-bound books of Skelos, and talked with unseen creatures in deepwells, and faceless shapes in black reeking jungles. Iobtained aglimpse of your sarcophagus in the demon-haunted crypts below the blackgiant-walled temple of Set in the hinterlands of Stygia, and I learnedof the arts that would bring back life to your shriveled corpse.Frommoldering manuscripts I learned of the Heart of Ahriman. Then for a yearI sought its hiding-place, and at last I found it.''Then why trouble to bring me back to life?' demanded Xaltotun, with hispiercing gaze fixedon the priest. 'Why did you not employ the Heart tofurther your own power?''Because no man today knows the secrets of the Heart,' answered Orastes.'Not even in legends live the arts by which to loose its full powers.Iknew it could restore life; of its deeper secrets I am ignorant. Imerely used it to bring you back to life. It is the use of yourknowledge we seek. As for the Heart, you alone know its awful secrets.'Xaltotun shook hishead, staring broodingly into the flaming depths.'My necromantic knowledge is greater than the sum of all the knowledgeof other men,' he said; 'yet I do not know the full power of the jewel.I did not invoke it in the olddays; I guarded it lest it be usedagainst me. At last it was stolen, and in the hands of a featheredshaman of the barbarians it defeated all my mighty sorcery. Then itvanished, and I was poisoned by the jealous priests ofStygia before Icould learn where it was hidden.''It was hidden in a cavern below the temple of Mitra, in Tarantia,' saidOrastes. 'By devious ways I discovered this, after I had located yourremains in Set's subterraneantemple in Stygia.'Zamorian thieves, partly protected by spells I learned from sourcesbetter left unmentioned, stole your mummy-case from under the verytalons of those which guarded it in the dark, and bycamel-caravan andgalley and ox-wagon it came at last to this city.'Those same thieves--or rather those of them who still lived after theirfrightful quest--stole the Heart of Ahriman from its haunted cavernbelow thetemple of Mitra, and all the skill of men and the spells ofsorcerers nearly failed. One man of them lived long enough to reach meand give the jewel into my hands, before he died slavering and gibberingof what he hadseen in that accursed crypt. The thieves of Zamora arethe most faithful of men to their trust. Even with my conjurements, nonebut they could have stolen the Heart from where it has lain indemon-guarded darknesssince the fall of Acheron, three thousand yearsago.'Xaltotun lifted his lion-like head and stared far off into space, as ifplumbing the lost centuries.'Three thousand years!' he muttered. 'Set! Tell me what has chancedinthe world.''The barbarians who overthrew Acheron set up new kingdoms,' quotedOrastes. 'Where the empire had stretched now rose realms calledAquilonia, and Nemedia, and Argos, from the tribes that foundedthem.The older kingdoms of Ophir, Corinthia and western Koth, which had beensubject to the kings of Acheron, regained their independence with thefall of the empire.''And what of the people of Acheron?' demandedXaltotun. 'When I fledinto Stygia, Python was in ruins, and all the great, purple-toweredcities of Acheron fouled with blood and trampled by the sandals of thebarbarians.''In the hills small groups of folk still boastdescent from Acheron,'answered Orastes. 'For the rest, the tide of my barbarian ancestorsrolled over them and wiped them out. They--my ancestors--had sufferedmuch from the kings of Acheron.'A grim and terriblesmile curled the Pythonian's lips.'Aye! Many a barbarian, both man and woman, died screaming on the altarunder this hand. I have seen their heads piled to make a pyramid in thegreat square in Python when the kingsreturned from the west with theirspoils and naked captives.''Aye. And when the day of reckoning came, the sword was not spared. SoAcheron ceased to be, and purple-towered Python became a memory offorgottendays. But the younger kingdoms rose on the imperial ruins andwaxed great. And now we have brought you back to aid us to rule thesekingdoms, which, if less strange and wonderful than Acheron of old, areyet rich andpowerful, well worth fighting for. Look!' Orastes unrolledbefore the stranger a map drawn cunningly on vellum.Xaltotun regarded it, and then shook his head, baffled.'The very outlines of the land are changed. It is likesome familiarthing seen in a dream, fantastically distorted.''Howbeit,' answered Orastes, tracing with his forefinger, 'here isBelverus, the capital of Nemedia, in which we now are. Here run theboundaries of the land ofNemedia. To the south and southeast are Ophirand Corinthia, to the east Brythunia, to the west Aquilonia.''It is the map of a world I do not know,' said Xaltotun softly, butOrastes did not miss the lurid fire of hate thatflickered in his darkeyes.'It is a map you shall help us change,' answered Orastes. 'It is ourdesire first to set Tarascus on the throne of Nemedia. We wish toaccomplish this without strife, and in such a way that nosuspicion willrest on Tarascus. We do not wish the land to be torn by civil wars, butto reserve all our power for the conquest of Aquilonia.'Should King Nimed and his sons die naturally, in a plague for instance,Tarascuswould mount the throne as the next heir, peacefully andunopposed.'Xaltotun nodded, without replying, and Orastes continued.'The other task will be more difficult. We cannot set Valerius on theAquilonian thronewithout a war, and that kingdom is a formidable foe.Its people are a hardy, war-like race, toughened by continual wars withthe Picts, Zingarians and Cimmerians. For five hundred years Aquiloniaand Nemedia haveintermittently waged war, and the ultimate advantagehas always lain with the Aquilonians.'Their present king is the most renowned warrior among the westernnations. He is an outlander, an adventurer who seized thecrown by forceduring a time of civil strife, strangling King Namedides with his ownhands, upon the very throne. His name is Conan, and no man can standbefore him in battle.'Valerius is now the rightful heir of thethrone. He had been driveninto exile by his royal kinsman, Namedides, and has been away from hisnative realm for years, but he is of the blood of the old dynasty, andmany of the barons would secretly hail theoverthrow of Conan, who is anobody without royal or even noble blood. But the common people areloyal to him, and the nobility of the outlying provinces. Yet if hisforces were overthrown in the battle that must firsttake place, andConan himself slain, I think it would not be difficult to put Valeriuson the throne. Indeed, with Conan slain, the only center of thegovernment would be gone. He is not part of a dynasty, but only aloneadventurer.''I wish that I might see this king,' mused Xaltotun, glancing toward asilvery mirror which formed one of the panels of the wall. This mirrorcast no reflection, but Xaltotun's expression showed that heunderstoodits purpose, and Orastes nodded with the pride a good craftsman takes inthe recognition of his accomplishments by a master of his craft.'I will try to show him to you,' he said. And seating himself beforethemirror, he gazed hypnotically into its depths, where presently a dimshadow began to take shape.It was uncanny, but those watching knew it was no more than thereflected image of Orastes' thought, embodied inthat mirror as awizard's thoughts are embodied in a magic crystal. It floated hazily,then leaped into startling clarity--a tall man, mightily shouldered anddeep of chest, with a massive corded neck and heavily muscledlimbs. Hewas clad in silk and velvet, with the royal lions of Aquilonia workedin gold upon his rich jupon, and the crown of Aquilonia shone on hissquare-cut black mane; but the great sword at his side seemedmorenatural to him than the regal accouterments. His brow was low and broad,his eyes a volcanic blue that smoldered as if with some inner fire. Hisdark, scarred, almost sinister face was that of a fighting-man, andhisvelvet garments could not conceal the hard, dangerous lines of hislimbs.'That man is no Hyborian!' exclaimed Xaltotun.'No; he is a Cimmerian, one of those wild tribesmen who dwell in thegray hills of the north.''Ifought his ancestors of old,' muttered Xaltotun. 'Not even the kingsof Acheron could conquer them.''They still remain a terror to the nations of the south,' answeredOrastes. 'He is a true son of that savage race, and hasproved himself,thus far, unconquerable.'Xaltotun did not reply; he sat staring down at the pool of living firethat shimmered in his hand. Outside, the hound howled again, long andshudderingly.2A Black Wind BlowsTheyear of the dragon had birth in war and pestilence and unrest. Theblack plague stalked through the streets of Belverus, striking down themerchant in his stall, the serf in his kennel, the knight at his banquetboard.Before it the arts of the leeches were helpless. Men said it hadbeen sent from hell as punishment for the sins of pride and lust. It wasswift and deadly as the stroke of an adder. The victim's body turnedpurple and thenblack, and within a few minutes he sank down dying, andthe stench of his own putrefaction was in his nostrils even before deathwrenched his soul from his rotting body. A hot, roaring wind blewincessantly from thesouth, and the crops withered in the fields, thecattle sank and died in their tracks.Men cried out on Mitra, and muttered against the king; for somehow,throughout the kingdom, the word was whispered that the kingwassecretly addicted to loathsome practises and foul debauches in theseclusion of his nighted palace. And then in that palace death stalkedgrinning on feet about which swirled the monstrous vapors of the plague.Inone night the king died with his three sons, and the drums thatthundered their dirge drowned the grim and ominous bells that rang fromthe carts that lumbered through the streets gathering up the rottingdead.Thatnight, just before dawn, the hot wind that had blown for weeksceased to rustle evilly through the silken window curtains. Out of thenorth rose a great wind that roared among the towers, and there wascataclysmicthunder, and blinding sheets of lightning, and driving rain.But the dawn shone clean and green and clear; the scorched ground veileditself in grass, the thirsty crops sprang up anew, and the plague wasgone--itsmiasma swept clean out of the land by the mighty wind.Men said the gods were satisfied because the evil king and his spawnwere slain, and when his young brother Tarascus was crowned in the greatcoronation hall,the populace cheered until the towers rocked,acclaiming the monarch on whom the gods smiled.Such a wave of enthusiasm and rejoicing as swept the land is frequentlythe signal for a war of conquest. So no one was


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Adventure of the Dying Detective, by Arthur Conan DoyleThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it,give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: The Adventure of the Dying DetectiveAuthor: Arthur Conan DoylePosting Date:October 23, 2008 [EBook #2347]Release Date: October, 2000[Last updated: May 3, 2011]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADVENTURE OF DYING DETECTIVE ***Produced by DavidBrannan.  HTML version by Al Haines.The Adventure of the Dying DetectiveBySir Arthur Conan DoyleMrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long-sufferingwoman.  Not only was her first-floor flat invadedat all hours bythrongs of singular and often undesirable characters but her remarkablelodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life which musthave sorely tried her patience. His incredible untidiness,hisaddiction to music at strange hours, his occasional revolver practicewithin doors, his weird and often malodorous scientific experiments,and the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung around him madehimthe very worst tenant in London.  On the other hand, his paymentswere princely. I have no doubt that the house might have been purchasedat the price which Holmes paid for his rooms during the years that Iwas withhim.The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared tointerfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem.  Shewas fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesyinhis dealings with women.  He disliked and distrusted the sex, but hewas always a chivalrous opponent. Knowing how genuine was her regardfor him, I listened earnestly to her story when she came to my rooms inthesecond year of my married life and told me of the sad condition towhich my poor friend was reduced."He's dying, Dr. Watson," said she.  "For three days he has beensinking, and I doubt if he will last the day.  He wouldnot let me geta doctor.  This morning when I saw his bones sticking out of his faceand his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no more of it.'With your leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for adoctorthis very hour,' said I.  'Let it be Watson, then,' said he.  Iwouldn't waste an hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not see himalive."I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness.  I need not saythat Irushed for my coat and my hat.  As we drove back I asked for thedetails."There is little I can tell you, sir.  He has been working at a casedown at Rotherhithe, in an alley near the river, and he has broughtthis illnessback with him.  He took to his bed on Wednesday afternoonand has never moved since.  For these three days neither food nor drinkhas passed his lips.""Good God!  Why did you not call in a doctor?""He wouldn't haveit, sir.  You know how masterful he is.  I didn'tdare to disobey him.  But he's not long for this world, as you'll seefor yourself the moment that you set eyes on him."He was indeed a deplorable spectacle.  In the dim lightof a foggyNovember day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt,wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a chill to my heart.His eyes had the brightness of fever, there was a hectic flushuponeither cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips; the thin hands uponthe coverlet twitched incessantly, his voice was croaking andspasmodic.  He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but the sight ofme brought agleam of recognition to his eyes."Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days," said he in afeeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner."My dear fellow!" I cried, approaching him."Standback!  Stand right back!" said he with the sharp imperiousnesswhich I had associated only with moments of crisis. "If you approachme, Watson, I shall order you out of the house.""But why?""Because it is my desire.  Isthat not enough?"Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right.  He was more masterful than ever.  It waspitiful, however, to see his exhaustion."I only wished to help," I explained."Exactly!  You will help best by doing what you aretold.""Certainly, Holmes."He relaxed the austerity of his manner."You are not angry?" he asked, gasping for breath.Poor devil, how could I be angry when I saw him lying in such a plightbefore me?"It's for your ownsake, Watson," he croaked."For MY sake?""I know what is the matter with me.  It is a coolie disease fromSumatra--a thing that the Dutch know more about than we, though theyhave made little of it up to date.  Onething only is certain.  It isinfallibly deadly, and it is horribly contagious."He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitching andjerking as he motioned me away."Contagious by touch, Watson--that's it, bytouch.  Keep your distanceand all is well.""Good heavens, Holmes!  Do you suppose that such a consideration weighswith me of an instant?  It would not affect me in the case of astranger.  Do you imagine it wouldprevent me from doing my duty to soold a friend?"Again I advanced, but he repulsed me with a look of furious anger."If you will stand there I will talk.  If you do not you must leave theroom."I have so deep a respectfor the extraordinary qualities of Holmes thatI have always deferred to his wishes, even when I least understoodthem.  But now all my professional instincts were aroused.  Let him bemy master elsewhere, I at leastwas his in a sick room."Holmes," said I, "you are not yourself.  A sick man is but a child,and so I will treat you.  Whether you like it or not, I will examineyour symptoms and treat you for them."He looked at me withvenomous eyes."If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least havesomeone in whom I have confidence," said he."Then you have none in me?""In your friendship, certainly.  But facts are facts, Watson,and,after all, you are only a general practitioner with very limitedexperience and mediocre qualifications.  It is painful to have to saythese things, but you leave me no choice."I was bitterly hurt."Such a remark isunworthy of you, Holmes.  It shows me very clearlythe state of your own nerves.  But if you have no confidence in me Iwould not intrude my services.  Let me bring Sir Jasper Meek or PenroseFisher, or any of the bestmen in London.  But someone you MUST have,and that is final.  If you think that I am going to stand here and seeyou die without either helping you myself or bringing anyone else tohelp you, then you have mistakenyour man.""You mean well, Watson," said the sick man with something between a soband a groan.  "Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance? What do youknow, pray, of Tapanuli fever?  What do you know of the blackFormosacorruption?""I have never heard of either.""There are many problems of disease, many strange pathologicalpossibilities, in the East, Watson."  He paused after each sentence tocollect his failing strength.  "Ihave learned so much during somerecent researches which have a medico-criminal aspect.  It was in thecourse of them that I contracted this complaint.  You can do nothing.""Possibly not.  But I happen to know thatDr. Ainstree, the greatestliving authority upon tropical disease, is now in London.  Allremonstrance is useless, Holmes, I am going this instant to fetch him."I turned resolutely to the door.Never have I had such ashock!  In an instant, with a tiger-spring, thedying man had intercepted me.  I heard the sharp snap of a twisted key.The next moment he had staggered back to his bed, exhausted and pantingafter his one tremendousoutflame of energy."You won't take the key from me by force, Watson, I've got you, myfriend.  Here you are, and here you will stay until I will otherwise.But I'll humour you."  (All this in little gasps, withterriblestruggles for breath between.)  "You've only my own good at heart.  Ofcourse I know that very well.  You shall have your way, but give metime to get my strength.  Not now, Watson, not now.  It's four o'clock.Atsix you can go.""This is insanity, Holmes.""Only two hours, Watson.  I promise you will go at six.  Are youcontent to wait?""I seem to have no choice.""None in the world, Watson.  Thank you, I need no help in arrangingtheclothes.  You will please keep your distance.  Now, Watson, there isone other condition that I would make.  You will seek help, not fromthe man you mention, but from the one that I choose.""By all means.""The firstthree sensible words that you have uttered since you enteredthis room, Watson.  You will find some books over there. I am somewhatexhausted; I wonder how a battery feels when it pours electricity intoanon-conductor?  At six, Watson, we resume our conversation."But it was destined to be resumed long before that hour, and incircumstances which gave me a shock hardly second to that caused by hisspring to thedoor.  I had stood for some minutes looking at the silentfigure in the bed.  His face was almost covered by the clothes and heappeared to be asleep.  Then, unable to settle down to reading, Iwalked slowly round theroom, examining the pictures of celebratedcriminals with which every wall was adorned.  Finally, in my aimlessperambulation, I came to the mantelpiece.  A litter of pipes,tobacco-pouches, syringes, penknives,revolver-cartridges, and otherdebris was scattered over it.  In the midst of these was a small blackand white ivory box with a sliding lid.  It was a neat little thing,and I had stretched out my hand to examine it moreclosely, when----It was a dreadful cry that he gave--a yell which might have been hearddown the street.  My skin went cold and my hair bristled at thathorrible scream.  As I turned I caught a glimpse of a convulsedfaceand frantic eyes.  I stood paralyzed, with the little box in my hand."Put it down!  Down, this instant, Watson--this instant, I say!" Hishead sank back upon the pillow and he gave a deep sigh of relief as Ireplaced thebox upon the mantelpiece.  "I hate to have my thingstouched, Watson.  You know that I hate it.  You fidget me beyondendurance. You, a doctor--you are enough to drive a patient into anasylum.  Sit down, man, and letme have my rest!"The incident left a most unpleasant impression upon my mind.  Theviolent and causeless excitement, followed by this brutality of speech,so far removed from his usual suavity, showed me how deepwas thedisorganization of his mind.  Of all ruins, that of a noble mind is themost deplorable.  I sat in silent dejection until the stipulated timehad passed.  He seemed to have been watching the clock as well as I,for itwas hardly six before he began to talk with the same feverishanimation as before."Now, Watson," said he.  "Have you any change in your pocket?""Yes.""Any silver?""A good deal.""How many half-crowns?""I havefive.""Ah, too few!  Too few!  How very unfortunate, Watson!  However, suchas they are you can put them in your watchpocket.  And all the rest ofyour money in your left trouser pocket.  Thank you. It will balanceyouso much better like that."This was raving insanity.  He shuddered, and again made a sound betweena cough and a sob."You will now light the gas, Watson, but you will be very careful thatnot for one instant shall itbe more than half on.  I implore you to becareful, Watson.  Thank you, that is excellent. No, you need not drawthe blind.  Now you will have the kindness to place some letters andpapers upon this table within myreach. Thank you.  Now some of thatlitter from the mantelpiece. Excellent, Watson!  There is a sugar-tongsthere.  Kindly raise that small ivory box with its assistance.  Placeit here among the papers.  Good!  You cannow go and fetch Mr.Culverton Smith, of 13 Lower Burke Street."To tell the truth, my desire to fetch a doctor had somewhat weakened,for poor Holmes was so obviously delirious that it seemed dangerous toleavehim.  However, he was as eager now to consult the person named ashe had been obstinate in refusing."I never heard the name," said I."Possibly not, my good Watson.  It may surprise you to know that theman uponearth who is best versed in this disease is not a medical man,but a planter.  Mr. Culverton Smith is a well-known resident ofSumatra, now visiting London.  An outbreak of the disease upon hisplantation, which wasdistant from medical aid, caused him to study ithimself, with some rather far-reaching consequences.  He is a verymethodical person, and I did not desire you to start before six,because I was well aware that you wouldnot find him in his study.  Ifyou could persuade him to come here and give us the benefit of hisunique experience of this disease, the investigation of which has beenhis dearest hobby, I cannot doubt that he could helpme."I gave Holmes's remarks as a consecutive whole and will not attempt toindicate how they were interrupted by gaspings for breath and thoseclutchings of his hands which indicated the pain from which hewassuffering.  His appearance had changed for the worse during the fewhours that I had been with him.  Those hectic spots were morepronounced, the eyes shone more brightly out of darker hollows, and acold sweatglimmered upon his brow. He still retained, however, thejaunty gallantry of his speech. To the last gasp he would always be themaster."You will tell him exactly how you have left me," said he.  "You willconvey the veryimpression which is in your own mind--a dying man--adying and delirious man.  Indeed, I cannot think why the whole bed ofthe ocean is not one solid mass of oysters, so prolific the creaturesseem.  Ah, I amwandering!  Strange how the brain controls the brain!What was I saying, Watson?""My directions for Mr. Culverton Smith.""Ah, yes, I remember.  My life depends upon it.  Plead with him,Watson.  There is no goodfeeling between us.  His nephew, Watson--Ihad suspicions of foul play and I allowed him to see it.  The boy diedhorribly.  He has a grudge against me.  You will soften him, Watson.Beg him, pray him, get him here byany means.  He can save me--only he!""I will bring him in a cab, if I have to carry him down to it.""You will do nothing of the sort.  You will persuade him to come. Andthen you will return in front of him.  Make anyexcuse so as not tocome with him.  Don't forget, Watson.  You won't fail me. You never didfail me.  No doubt there are natural enemies which limit the increaseof the creatures.  You and I, Watson, we have done ourpart.  Shall theworld, then, be overrun by oysters? No, no; horrible!  You'll conveyall that is in your mind."I left him full of the image of this magnificent intellect babblinglike a foolish child.  He had handed me the key,and with a happythought I took it with me lest he should lock himself in.  Mrs. Hudsonwas waiting, trembling and weeping, in the passage.  Behind me as Ipassed from the flat I heard Holmes's high, thin voice insomedelirious chant.  Below, as I stood whistling for a cab, a man came onme through the fog."How is Mr. Holmes, sir?" he asked.It was an old acquaintance, Inspector Morton, of Scotland Yard, dressedin unofficialtweeds."He is very ill," I answered.He looked at me in a most singular fashion.  Had it not been toofiendish, I could have imagined that the gleam of the fanlight showedexultation in his face."I heard some rumour of it,"said he.The cab had driven up, and I left him.Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine houses lying in thevague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington.  The particularone at which my cabman pulled uphad an air of smug and demurerespectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, its massivefolding-door, and its shining brasswork.  All was in keeping with asolemn butler who appeared framed in the pink radiance of atintedelectrical light behind him."Yes, Mr. Culverton Smith is in.  Dr. Watson!  Very good, sir, I willtake up your card."My humble name and title did not appear to impress Mr. Culverton Smith.Through the half-open doorI heard a high, petulant, penetrating voice."Who is this person?  What does he want?  Dear me, Staples, how oftenhave I said that I am not to be disturbed in my hours of study?"There came a gentle flow of soothingexplanation from the butler."Well, I won't see him, Staples.  I can't have my work interrupted likethis.  I am not at home.  Say so.  Tell him to come in the morning ifhe really must see me."Again the gentlemurmur."Well, well, give him that message.  He can come in the morning, or hecan stay away.  My work must not be hindered."I thought of Holmes tossing upon his bed of sickness and counting theminutes, perhaps,until I could bring help to him.  It was not a timeto stand upon ceremony.  His life depended upon my promptness.  Beforethe apologetic butler had delivered his message I had pushed past himand was in theroom.With a shrill cry of anger a man rose from a reclining chair beside thefire.  I saw a great yellow face, coarse-grained and greasy, withheavy, double-chin, and two sullen, menacing gray eyes which glared atmefrom under tufted and sandy brows.  A high bald head had a smallvelvet smoking-cap poised coquettishly upon one side of its pink curve.The skull was of enormous capacity, and yet as I looked down I saw tomyamazement that the figure of the man was small and frail, twisted inthe shoulders and back like one who has suffered from rickets in hischildhood."What's this?" he cried in a high, screaming voice.  "What is themeaningof this intrusion?  Didn't I send you word that I would see youto-morrow morning?""I am sorry," said I, "but the matter cannot be delayed.  Mr. SherlockHolmes--"The mention of my friend's name had an extraordinaryeffect upon thelittle man.  The look of anger passed in an instant from his face.  Hisfeatures became tense and alert."Have you come from Holmes?" he asked."I have just left him.""What about Holmes?  How is he?""Heis desperately ill.  That is why I have come."The man motioned me to a chair, and turned to resume his own.  As hedid so I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror over themantelpiece.  I could have sworn that it wasset in a malicious andabominable smile.  Yet I persuaded myself that it must have been somenervous contraction which I had surprised, for he turned to me aninstant later with genuine concern upon his features."I amsorry to hear this," said he.  "I only know Mr. Holmes throughsome business dealings which we have had, but I have every respect forhis talents and his character.  He is an amateur of crime, as I am ofdisease.  For himthe villain, for me the microbe. There are myprisons," he continued, pointing to a row of bottles and jars whichstood upon a side table. "Among those gelatine cultivations some of thevery worst offenders in the worldare now doing time.""It was on account of your special knowledge that Mr. Holmes desired tosee you.  He has a high opinion of you and thought that you were theone man in London who could help him."The little manstarted, and the jaunty smoking-cap slid to the floor."Why?" he asked.  "Why should Mr. Homes think that I could help him inhis trouble?""Because of your knowledge of Eastern diseases.""But why should he think thatthis disease which he has contracted isEastern?""Because, in some professional inquiry, he has been working amongChinese sailors down in the docks."Mr. Culverton Smith smiled pleasantly and picked up hissmoking-cap."Oh, that's it--is it?" said he.  "I trust the matter is not so graveas you suppose.  How long has he been ill?""About three days.""Is he delirious?""Occasionally.""Tut, tut!  This sounds serious.  It would beinhuman not to answer hiscall.  I very much resent any interruption to my work, Dr. Watson, butthis case is certainly exceptional.  I will come with you at once."I remembered Holmes's injunction."I have anotherappointment," said I."Very good.  I will go alone.  I have a note of Mr. Holmes's address.You can rely upon my being there within half an hour at most."It was with a sinking heart that I reentered Holmes's bedroom. Forallthat I knew the worst might have happened in my absence. To my enormousrelief,  he had improved greatly in the interval. His appearance was asghastly as ever, but all trace of delirium had left him and he spokeina feeble voice, it is true, but with even more than his usual crispnessand lucidity."Well, did you see him, Watson?""Yes; he is coming.""Admirable, Watson!  Admirable!  You are the best of messengers.""He wished toreturn with me.""That would never do, Watson.  That would be obviously impossible.  Didhe ask what ailed me?""I told him about the Chinese in the East End.""Exactly!  Well, Watson, you have done all that a goodfriend could.You can now disappear from the scene.""I must wait and hear his opinion, Holmes.""Of course you must.  But I have reasons to suppose that this opinionwould be very much more frank and valuable if heimagines that we arealone.  There is just room behind the head of my bed, Watson.""My dear Holmes!""I fear there is no alternative, Watson.  The room does not lend itselfto concealment, which is as well, as it is the