A Voyage to Arcturus by David Lindsay (the false prince series .TXT) 📕

He got up, with the intention of resuming his journey. He had no toilet to make, and no meal to prepare. The forest was tremendous. The nearest tree appeared to him to have a circumference of at least a hundred feet. Other dim boles looked equally large. But what gave the scene its aspect of immensity was the vast spaces separating tree from tree. It was like some gigantic, supernatural hall in a life after death. The lowest branches were fifty yards or more from the ground. There was no underbrush; the soil was carpeted only by the dead, wet leaves. He looked all around him, to find his direction, but the cliffs of Sant, which he had descended, were invisible⁠—every way was like every other way, he had no idea which quarter to attack. He grew frightened, and muttered to himself. Craning his neck back, he stared upward and tried to discover the points of the compass from the direction of the sunlight, but it was impossible.

While he was standing there, anxious and hesitating, he heard the drum taps. The rhythmical beats proceeded from some distance off. The unseen drummer seemed to be marching through the forest, away from him.

“Surtur!” he said, under his breath. The next moment he marvelled at himself for uttering the name. That mysterious being had not been in his thoughts, nor was there any ostensible connection between him and the drumming.

He began to reflect⁠—but in the meantime the sounds were travelling away. Automatically he started walking in the same direction. The drum beats had this peculiarity⁠—though odd and mystical, there was nothing awe-inspiring in them, but on the contrary they reminded him of some place and some life with which he was perfectly familiar. Once again they caused all his other sense impressions to appear false.

The sounds were intermittent. They would go on for a minute, or for five minutes, and then cease for perhaps a quarter of an hour. Maskull followed them as well as he could. He walked hard among the huge, indistinct trees, in the attempt to come up with the origin of the noise, but the same distance always seemed to separate them. The forest from now onward descended. The gradient was mostly gentle⁠—about one foot in ten⁠—but in some places it was much steeper, and in other parts again it was practically level ground for quite long stretches. There were great swampy marshes, through which Maskull was obliged to splash. It was a matter of indifference to him how wet he became⁠—if only he could catch sight of that individual with the drum. Mile after mile was covered, and still he was no nearer to doing so.

The gloom of the forest settled down upon his spirits. He felt despondent, tired, and savage. He had not heard the drum beats for some while, and was half inclined to discontinue the pursuit.

Passing around a great, columnar tree trunk, he almost stumbled against a man who was standing on the farther side. He was leaning against the trunk with one hand, in an attitude of repose. His other hand was resting on a staff. Maskull stopped short and started at him.

He was nearly naked, and of gigantic build. He overtopped Maskull by a head. His face and body were faintly phosphorescent. His eyes⁠—three in number⁠—were pale green and luminous, shining like lamps. His skin was hairless, but the hair of his head was piled up in thick, black coils, and fastened like a woman’s. His features were absolutely tranquil, but a terrible, quiet energy seemed to lie just underneath the surface.

Maskull addressed him. “Did the drumming come from you?”

The man shook his head.

“What is your name?”

He replied in a strange, strained, twisted voice. Maskull gathered that the name he gave was “Dreamsinter.”

“What is that drumming?”

“Surtur,” said Dreamsinter.

“Is it advisable for me to follow it?”

“Why?”

“Perhaps he intends me to. He brought me here from Earth.”

Dreamsinter caught hold of him, bent down, and peered into his face. “Not you, but Nightspore.”

This was the first time that Maskull had heard Nightspore’s name since his arrival on the planet. He was so astonished that he could frame no more questions.

“Eat this,” said Dreamsinter. “Then we will chase the sound together.” He picked something up from the ground and handed it to Maskull. He could not see distinctly, but it felt like a hard, round nut, of the size of a fist.

“I can’t crack it.”

Dreamsinter took it between his hands, and broke it into pieces. Maskull then ate some of the pulpy interior, which was intensely disagreeable.

“What am I doing in Tormance, then?” he asked.

“You came to steal Muspel-fire, to give a deeper life to men⁠—never doubting if your soul could endure that burning.”

Maskull could hardly decipher the strangled words.

“Muspel.⁠ ⁠… That’s the name I’ve been trying to remember ever since I awoke.”

Dreamsinter suddenly turned his head sideways, and appeared to listen for something. He motioned with his hand to Maskull to keep quiet.

“Is it the drumming?”

“Hush! They come.”

He was looking toward the upper forest. The now familiar drum rhythm was heard⁠—this time accompanied by the tramp of marching feet.

Maskull saw, marching through the trees and heading toward them, three men in single file separated from one another by only a yard or so. They were travelling down hill at a swift pace, and looked neither to left nor right. They were naked. Their figures were shining against the black background of the forest with a pale, supernatural light⁠—green and ghostly. When they were abreast of him, about twenty feet off, he perceived who they were. The first man was himself⁠—Maskull. The second was Krag. The third man was Nightspore. Their faces were grim and set.

The source of the drumming was out of sight. The sound appeared to come from some point in front of them. Maskull and Dreamsinter put themselves in motion, to keep up with the swiftly moving marchers. At the same time a low, faint music began.

Its rhythm stepped with