Frederick Bartlett - The Web of the Golden Spider

“Let the image speak through you,” ran on the stranger. “Tell me what you see or hear.”

“The lake–it is very blue.”

“Look again.”

“I see mountains about the lake–very high mountains.”

“Yes.”

“One is very much higher than the others.”

“Yes! Yes!”

“The trees reach from the lake halfway up its sides.”

“Go on!” he cried excitedly.

“There they stop and the mountain rises to a point.”

“Go on!”

“To the right there is a large crevice.”

The stranger moistened his lips. He gave a swift glance at Wilson and then turned his gaze to the girl.

“See, we will take a raft and go upon the lake. Now look–look hard below the waters.”

The girl appeared troubled at this. Her feet twitched and she threw back her head as though for more air. Once more Wilson calculated the distance between himself and that which stood for death. He found it still levelled steadily. To jump would be only to fall halfway, and yet his throat was beginning to ache with the strain. He felt within him some new-born instinct impelling him to her side. She stood somehow for something more than merely a fellow-creature in danger. He took a quicker interest in her–an interest expressing itself now in a sense of infinite tenderness. He resented the fact that she was being led away from him into paths he could not follow–that she was at the beck of this lean, cold-eyed stranger and his heathenish idol.

“Below the waters. Look! Look!”

“No! No!” she cried.

“The shrine is there. Seek it! Seek it!”

He forced the words through his teeth in his concentrated effort to drive them into the girl’s brain in the form of a command. But for some reason she rebelled at doing this. It was as though to go below the waters even in this condition choked her until she must gasp for breath. It was evidently some secret which lay there–the location of some shrine or hiding place which he most desired to locate through her while in this psychic state, for he insisted upon this while she struggled against it. Her head was lifted now as though, before finally driven to take the plunge, she sought aid–not from anyone here in the room, but from someone upon the borders of the lake where, in her trance, she now stood. And it came. Her face brightened–her whole body throbbed with renewed life. She threw out her hand with a cry which startled both men.

“Father! Father!”

The wounded man, puzzled, drew back leaving for a moment the other unguarded. Wilson sprang, and in three bounds was across the room. He struck up the arm just as a finger pressed the trigger. The wounded man fell back in a heap–far too exhausted to struggle further. Wilson turned to the girl and swept the image out of her lap to the floor where it lay blinking at the ceiling. The girl, blind and deaf to this struggle, remained sitting upright with the happy smile of recognition still about her mouth. She repeated over and over again the glad cry of “Father! Father!”

Wilson stooped and repeated her name, but received no response. He rubbed her forehead and her listless hands. Still she sat there scarcely more than a clay image. Wilson turned upon the stranger with his fists doubled up.

“Rouse her!” he cried. “Rouse her, or I’ll throttle you!”

The man made his feet and staggered to the girl’s side.

“Awake!” he commanded intensely.

The eyes instantly responded. It was as though a mist slowly faded from before them, layer after layer, as fog rises from a lake in the morning. Her mouth relaxed and expression returned to each feature. When at length she became aware of her surroundings, she looked like an awakened child. Pressing her fingers to her heavy eyes, she glanced wonderingly about her. She could not understand the tragical attitude of the two men who studied her so fixedly. She struggled to her feet and regarded both men with fear. With her fingers on her chin, she cowered back from them gazing to right and left as though looking for someone she had expected.

“Father!” she exclaimed timidly. “Are you here, father?”

Wilson took her arm gently but firmly.

“Your father is not here, comrade. He has not been here. You–you drowsed a bit, I guess.”

She caught sight of the image on the floor and instantly understood. She passed her hands over her eyes in an effort to recall what she had seen.

“I remember–I remember,” she faltered. “I was in some foreign land–some strange place–and I saw–I saw my father.”

She looked puzzled.

“That is odd, because it was here that I saw him yesterday.”

Her lips were dry and she asked Wilson for a glass of water. A pitcher stood upon the table, which he had brought up with the other things. When she had moistened her lips, she sat down again still a bit stupid. The wounded man spoke.

“My dear,” he said, “what you have just seen through the medium of that image interests me more than I can tell you. It may be that I can be of some help to you. My name is Sorez–and I know well that country which you have just seen. It is many thousand miles from here.”

“As far as the land of dreams,” interrupted Wilson. “I think the girl has been worried enough by such nonsense.”

“You spoke of your father,” continued Sorez, ignoring the outburst. “Has he ever visited South America?”

“Many times. He was a sea captain, but he has not been home for years now.”

“Ah, Dios!” exclaimed Sorez, “I understand now why you saw so clearly.”

“You know my father–you have seen him?”

He waived her question aside impatiently. His strength was failing him again and he seemed anxious to say what he had to say before he was unable.

“Listen!” he began, fighting hard to preserve his consciousness. “You have a power that will lead you to much. This image here has spoken through you. He has a secret worth millions and–”

“But my father,” pleaded the girl, with a tremor in her voice. “Can it help me to him?”

“Yes! Yes! But do not leave me. Be patient. The priest–the priest is close by. He–he did this,” placing his hand over the wound, “and I fear he–he may come again.”

He staggered back a pace and stared in terror about him.

“I am not afraid of most things,” he apologized, “but that devil he is everywhere. He might be–”

There was a sound in the hall below. Sorez placed his hand to his heart again and staggered back with a piteous appeal to Wilson.

“The image! The image!” he gasped. “For the love of God, do not let him get it.”

Then he sank in a faint to the floor.

Wilson looked at the girl. He saw her stoop for the revolver. She thrust it in his hand.

Wilson made his way into the hall and peered down the dark stairs. He listened; all was silent. A dozen perfectly simple accidents might have caused the sound the three had heard; and yet, although he had not made up his mind that the stranger’s whole story was not the fabric of delirium, he had an uncomfortable feeling that someone really was below. Neither seeing nor hearing, he knew by some sixth sense that another human being stood within a few yards of him waiting. Who that human being was, what he wished, what he was willing to venture was a mystery. Sorez had spoken of the priest–the man who had stabbed him–but it seemed scarcely probable that after such an act as that a man would break into his victim’s house, where the chances were that he was guarded, and make a second attempt. Then he recalled that Sorez was apparently living alone here and that doubtless this was known to the mysterious priest. If the golden image were the object of his attack, truly it must have some extraordinary value outside its own intrinsic worth. If of solid gold it could be worth but a few hundred dollars. It must, then, be of value because of such power as it had exercised over the girl.