Абрахам Меррит - Creep, Shadow!

His face was whiter than before. De Keradel was looking sharply at him. I said:

"I mean – shadows. Didn't I sing to you that she was Queen of Shadows? She was a witch – and could make shadows do her bidding. All sorts of shadows – shadows of the lovers she'd killed, demon shadows, Incubi and Succubae nightmares – a specialist in shadows was the White Dahut, according to the legend.

"At last the Gods determined to take a hand. Don't ask me what Gods. Pagan, if all this was before the introduction of Christianity – Christian if after. Whichever they were, they must have believed that who lives by the sword must die by the sword and all of that, because they sent to Ys a youthful hero with whom Dahut fell instantly, completely, and madly in love.

"He was the first man she had ever loved, despite her former affairs. But he was coy – aloof. He could forgive her previous philandering, but before he would accept her favors he must be convinced she truly loved him. How could she convince him? Quite easily. Ys, it appears was below sea-level and protected by walls which kept out the tides. There was one gate which would let in the sea. Why was there such a gate? I don't know. Probably for use in case of invasion, revolution, or something of the sort. At any rate, the legend says, there was such a gate. The key to it hung always about the neck of the King of Ys, Dahut's father.

"'Bring me that key – and I'll know you love me,' said the hero. Dahut stole down to her sleeping father, and stole the key from his neck. She gave it to her lover. He opened the sea-gates. The sea poured in. Finish – for wicked Ys. Finish – for wicked Dahut the White."

"She was drowned?" asked Helen.

"That's the curious detail of the legend. The story is that Dahut had a rush of filial devotion to the heart, rushed away, awakened the father she had betrayed, took her big black stallion, mounted it, drew the King up behind her and tried to beat the waves to higher ground. There must have been something good in her after all. But – another extraordinary detail – her shadows rebelled, got behind the waves and pushed them on higher and faster. So the waves overtook the stallion and Dahut and her papa – and that was indeed their finish. But still they ride along the shores of Quiberon 'on her stallion black, at her heels her shadow pack-'" I stopped, abruptly.

My left arm had been raised, the glass of wine within it. By a freak of the light, the candles threw its shadow sharply upon the white tablecloth, directly in front of the Demoiselle.

And the Demoiselle's white hands were busy with the shadow of my wrist, as though measuring it, as though passing something under and around it.

I dropped my hand and caught hers. Swiftly she slipped them under the edge of the table. As swiftly I dropped my right hand and took from her fingers what they held. It was a long hair, and as I raised it, I saw that it was one of her own.

I thrust it into the candle flame and held it there while it writhed and shriveled.

The Demoiselle laughed – sweet, mocking laughter. I heard de Keradel's chuckle echo hers. The disconcerting thing was that his amusement seemed not only frank but friendly. The Demoiselle said:

"First he compares me to the sea – the treacherous sea. Then darkly, by inference, to wicked Dahut, the Shadow Queen. And then he thinks me a witch – and burns my hair. And yet – he says he is not credulous – that he does not believe!"

Again she laughed – and again De Keradel echoed her.

I felt foolish, damned foolish. It was touchй for the Demoiselle, beyond any doubt. I glared at Bill. Why the devil had he led me into such a trap. But Bill was not laughing. He was looking at the Demoiselle with a face peculiarly stony. Nor was Helen smiling. She was looking at the Demoiselle too. With that expression which women wear when they desire to call another by one of those beautifully descriptive Old English words which the Oxford Dictionary says are "not now in decent use."

I grinned, and said to her: "It appears that another lady has put me on a hornet's nest."

Helen gave me a long comforting look. It said: "I can do that, but God help any other woman who tries it."

There was a short and awkward silence. De Keradel broke it.

"I do not quite know why, but I am reminded of a question I wished to ask you, Dr. Bennett. I was much interested in the account of the suicide of Mr. Ralston, who, I gathered from your interview in the newspapers, was not only a patient of yours but a close friend."

I saw Bill blink in the old way when he had come to some unshakeable conviction. He answered, smoothly, in his best professional manner.

"Yes, indeed, Dr. de Keradel, as friend and patient I probably knew him as well as anyone."

De Keradel said: "It is not so much his death that interests me. It is that in the account of it three other men were mentioned. His death linked to theirs, in fact, as though the same cause were behind all."

Bill said: "Quite so."

I had the idea that the Demoiselle was watching Bill intently from the corners of her lovely eyes. De Keradel took up his glass, twirled it slowly, and said:

"I am really much interested, Dr. Bennett. We are all of us physicians, here. Your sister… my daughter… are of course in our confidence. They will not talk. Do you think that these four deaths had anything in common?"

"Without doubt," answered Bill.

"What?" asked de Keradel.

"Shadows!" said Bill.

I stared at Bill, incredulously. I remembered his anxiety over my mention of shadows to the reporters, and his tenseness when I had told of the Shadows of Dahut the White. And here we were, back to shadows again. There must be some link, but what was it?

De Keradel exclaimed: "Shadows! Do you mean all suffered from identical hallucinations?"

"Shadows – yes," said Bill. "Hallucinations – I'm not sure."

De Keradel repeated, thoughtfully: "You are not sure." Then asked: "Were these shadows – what your friend and patient desired you to regard as objective rather than subjective? I read the newspaper reports with great interest, Dr. Bennett."

"I'm sure you did, Dr. de Keradel," said Bill, and there was an edge of irony to his voice. "Yes – it was the shadow which he desired me to regard as real, not imaginary. The shadow – not shadows. There was only one – " He paused, then added with a faint but plainly deliberate emphasis – "only one shadow for each… you know."

I thought I understood Bill's plan of battle. He was playing a hunch; bluffing; pretending to have knowledge of this shadowy decoy of death, whatever the thing might be, exactly as he had pretended to have knowledge of a common cause for the four suicides. He had used that bait to lure his fish within range of the hook. Now that he thought he had them there, he was using the same bait to make them take it. I didn't believe he knew any more than when he had talked to me at the Club. And I thought he was dangerously underestimating the de Keradels. That last thrust had been a bit obvious.

De Keradel was saying, placidly: "One shadow or many, what difference, Dr. Bennett? Hallucinatory shapes may appear singly – as tradition says the shade of Julius Caesar appeared to the remorseful Brutus. Or be multiplied by the thousands which the dying brain of Tiberius pictured thronging about his death bed, menacing him who had slain them. There are organic disturbances which create such hallucinations. Ocular irregularities produce them. Drugs and alcohol spawn them. They are born of abnormalities of brain and nerves. They are children of auto-intoxication. Progeny of fever, and of high blood pressure. They are also born of conscience. Am I to understand that you reject all these rational explanations?"