The Jade God by Alan Sullivan (snow like ashes series txt) 📕

“I don’t know; I never thought of that. Are they, Perkins?”

“No.” She spoke with a sort of satisfaction, not unmingled with surprise. “And,” she added meaningly, “no one else has asked that question for two years.”

“Why do you ask, Blunt?”

The peddler seemed untroubled. “In a way, I was told to,” he broke off, and regarded Perkins with absolute composure. “What change is there now?”

“The desk was in the other corner,” she said faintly, “and facing the window, and this screen was on the other side of the fireplace opposite the sofa.” She got this out with a quick look at Martin in which she seemed to expect his approval and almost thanks.

“Then anyone sitting at the desk would naturally see out of the window but would not notice the door without turning?” put in Derrick sharply.

“Yes, sir, it was like that.”

“Well, Blunt, does all this take you anywhere?”

The peddler came a shade nearer the desk. His eyes were now half closed, and his dark features had smoothed out till they were strangely inexpressive. He might have been under the influence of a dream. The silence began to throb, and over Beech Lodge crept the touch of the mysterious East. None moved, for in that moment the jade god asserted his domination. The air seemed to palpitate, tremulous with unseen vibrations, and a whisper of wind drifted from the puttering fire. Then Blunt began to speak in a sort of half-chant without color or inflection, his voice sounding thin and clear and distant and carrying with it a nameless note of authority.

“I see far away a picture of a place, large and poorly lighted. Strange people are there, moving without sound, and strange smells are in the air. Around it there are many trees, and when one comes that way a whisper runs ahead through the forest, telling of his coming. I see a man not unlike this one”⁠—here the peddler made a gesture at the portrait⁠—“but dressed otherwise and with his skin dark like that of the quiet people. He has journeyed from across the sea, drawn there he knows not why, and saying nothing of the purpose of his journey, because he himself did not know it. Traveling slowly, and taking at times many false trails, he comes at last to this place, and, staying not long, goes away by night, but not empty-handed. Behind him he leaves sorrow and a great anger and fear.”

The voice trailed out uncertainly, and a shudder ran through the peddler’s body. His whole figure was now swaying, and his head moved with a slow rhythmic motion.

“Go on,” said Derrick tensely.

“Not far from this place there is another man, and to him many call as with one voice, and a burden is laid upon him, and after a little while he is not seen there any more. Meantime the first man has returned to his own land and the faces he knew best, and tried to shake off the memories of what he had done and that distant place. But he could not do this. Time went on, and always in his dreams he returned there and could not forget. The thing he had taken was his master. At first when he wanted it, he thought he loved it, and then learned it was not love but fear. It was a thing of power, and stronger than himself. Mystery was in it, and thereby it was able to give tongues to that which could not otherwise speak. It was a tongue for the dumb.”

Derrick nodded without knowing it. The world was full of clearing mists through which he began to perceive that which heretofore was hidden. His eyes wandered to Perkins. She stood rigid, as under a spell, her soul carried away by some invisible stream. Martin’s furtive gaze had changed, and his face was graven with despair, behind which moved desperate possibilities. Derrick saw these and thankfully remembered the man crouching against the wall outside.

“Go on,” he repeated.

“Others had heard that voice, thousands and thousands of them, and they too loved and hated and desired and feared this thing. It was always like this from the very first, because its hate had conquered love, and the fear in it was at war with desire. It had sucked in all that the hearts of men can feel, and because of its wisdom, and because it was at war with the spirit of Buddha, it had been kept close till that day. But only those on whom the spirit of Buddha rested might know the greatness and danger of this thing. And it was written that should it go from that place death would follow wherever it went.”

Something in the unbroken monotone captured the brain of Derrick, and the room swam. A mesmeric influence was at work. Everything around him began to slide, smoothly, imperceptibly. Was Millicent’s death so important after all? Soon it would be forgotten⁠—with all else. What did he owe Millicent in any case? Why trouble to waste his time on another man’s affairs? Perkins, Martin, and even Blunt himself became blurred in this general indistinction, merging peacefully with other unrealities.

“So death came into this room, brother to fear, following the steps of the doomed. It was in no hurry but waited till fear had established itself firmly. There was not any escape, and there could be none, and the man who was to die walked between them for years, seeing their faces whichever way he turned.” The peddler waited an instant and leaned slightly toward Martin. “So it will be with the next appointed to die.”

Perkins was as though turned to stone, and Derrick’s breath came faster. There fell a stinging silence, while the atmosphere seemed to hum and quiver. Then from Martin proceeded a strange choking sound, and in that second Blunt leaped forward. With the swiftness of light he traversed the ten feet between him and the desk and