The Secret Power by Marie Corelli (the reading strategies book txt) 📕

So she mused, while her “White Eagle” ship sailed serenely on with a leisurely, majestic motion through a seeming wilderness of stars. Courageous as she was, with a veritable lion-heart beating in her delicate little body, and firm as was her resolve to discover what no woman had ever discovered before, to-night she was conscious of actual fear. Something—she knew not what—crept with a compelling influence through her blood,—she felt that some mysterious force she had never reckoned with was insidiously surrounding her with an invisible ring. She called to Rivardi—

“Are we not flying too high? Have you altered the course?”

“No, Madama,” he replied at once—“We are on the same level.”

She turned towards him. Her face was very pale.

“Well—be careful! To my mind we seem to be in a new atmosphere— there is a sensation of greater tension in the air—or—it is my fancy. We must not be too adventurous,—we must avoid the Great Nebula in Orion for example!”

“Madama, you jest! We are trillions upon trillions of miles distant from any great constellation—”

“Do I not know it? You are too literal, Marchese! Of course I jest— you could not suppose me to be in earnest! But I am sure we are passing through the waves of a new ether—not altogether suited to the average human being. The average human being is not made to inhabit the higher spaces of the upper air—hark!—What was that?”

She held up a warning hand, and listened. There was a distinct and persistent chiming of bells. Bells loud and soft,—bells mellow and deep, clear and silvery—clanging in bass and treble shocks of rising and falling rhythm and tune! “Do you hear?”

Rivardi and Gaspard simultaneously rose to their feet, amazed. Undoubtedly they heard! It was impossible NOT to hear such a clamour of concordant sound! Startled beyond all expression, Morgana sprang to the window of her cabin, and looking out uttered a cry of mingled terror and rapture. . . for there below her, in the previously inky blackness of the Great Desert, lay a great City, stretching out for miles, and glittering from end to end with a peculiarly deep golden light which seemed to bathe it in the lustre of a setting sun. Towers, cupolas, bridges, streets, squares, parks and gardens could be plainly seen from the air-ship, which had suddenly stopped, and now hung immovably in mid-air; though for some moments Morgana was too excited to notice this. Again she called to her companions—

“Look! Look!” she exclaimed—“We have found it! The Brazen City!”

But she called in vain. Turning for response, she saw, to her amazement and alarm, both men stretched on the floor, senseless! She ran to them and made every effort to rouse them,—they were breathing evenly and quietly as in profound and comfortable sleep— but it was beyond her skill to renew their consciousness. Then it flashed upon her that the “White Eagle” was no longer moving,—that it was, in fact, quite stationary,—and a quick rush of energy filled her as she realised that now she was as she had wished to be, alone with her air-ship to do with it as she would. All fear had left her,—her nerves were steady, and her daring spirit was fired with resolution. Whatever the mischance which had so swiftly overwhelmed Rivardi and Gaspard, she could not stop now to question, or determine it,—she was satisfied that they were not dead, or dying. She went to the steering-gear to take it in hand—but though the mysterious mechanism of the air-ship was silently and rapidly throbbing, the ship did not move. She grasped the propeller—it resisted her touch with hard and absolute inflexibility. All at once a low deep voice spoke close to her ear—

“Do not try to steer. You cannot proceed.”

Her heart gave one wild bound,—then almost stood still from sheer terror. She felt herself swaying into unconsciousness, and made a violent effort to master the physical weakness that threatened her. That voice—what voice? Surely one evoked from her own imagination! It spoke again—this time with an intonation that was exquisitely soothing and tender.

“Why are you afraid? For you there is nothing to fear!”

She raised her eyes and looked about nervously. The soft luminance which lit the “White Eagle’s” interior from end to end showed nothing new or alarming,—her dainty, rose-lined cabin held no strange or supernatural visitant,—all was as usual. After a pause she rallied strength enough to question the audible but invisible intruder.

“Who is it that speaks to me?” she asked, faintly.

“One from the city below,”—was the instant reply given in full clear accents—“I am speaking on the Sound Ray.”

She held her breath in mute wonder, listening. The voice went on, equably—

“You know the use of wireless telephony—we have it as you have it, only your methods are imperfect. We speak on Sound Rays which are not yet discovered in your country. We need neither transmitter nor receiver. Wherever we send our messages, no matter how great the distance, they are always heard.”

Slowly Morgana began to regain courage. By degrees she realised that she was attaining the wish of her heart—namely, to know what no woman had ever known before. Again she questioned the voice—

“You tell me I cannot proceed,”—she said—“Why?”

“Because our city is guarded and fortified by the air,”—was the answer—“We are surrounded by a belt of etheric force through which nothing can pass. A million bombs could not break it,—everything driven against it would be dashed to pieces. We saw you coming—we were surprised, for no air-ship has ever ventured so far—we rang the bells of the city to warn you, and stopped your flight.”

The warm gentleness of the voice thrilled her with a sudden sympathy.

“That was kind!” she said, and smiled. Some one smiled in response— or she thought so. Presently she spoke again—

“Then you hold me here a prisoner?”

“No. You can return the way you came, quite freely.”

“May I not come down and see your city?” “No.”

“Why?”

“Because you are not one of us.” The Voice hesitated. “And because you are not alone.”

Morgana glanced at the prostrate and unconscious forms of Rivardi and Gaspard with a touch of pity.

“My companions are half dead!” she said.

“But not wholly!” was the prompt reply.

“Is it that force you speak of—the force which guards your city— that has struck them down?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then why was I not also struck down?”

“Because you are what you are!” Then—after a silence—“You are Morgana!”

At this every nerve in her body started quivering like harp strings pulled by testing fingers. The unseen speaker knew her name!—and uttered it with a soft delicacy that made it sound more than musical. She leaned forward, extending a hand as though to touch the invisible.

“How do you know me?” she asked.

“As we all know you,”—came the answer—“Even as YOU have known the inside of a sun-ray!”

She listened, amazed—utterly mystified. Whoever or whatever it was that spoke knew not only her name, but the trend of her earliest studies and theories. The “inside of a sun-ray”! This was what she had only the other day explained to Father Aloysius as being her first experience of real happiness! She tried to set her thoughts in order—to realise her position. Here she was, a fragile human thing, in a flying ship of her own design, held fast by atmospheric force above an unknown city situate somewhere in the Great Desert,—and some one in that city was conversing with her by a method of “wireless” as yet undiscovered by admitted science,—yet communication was perfect and words distinct. Following up the suggestion presented to her she said—

“You are speaking to me in English. Are you all English folk in your city?”

A faint quiver as of laughter vibrated through the “Sound Ray.”

“No, indeed! We have no nationality.”

“No nationality?”

“None. We are one people. But we speak every language that ever has been spoken in the past, or is spoken in the present. I speak English to you because it is your manner of talk, though not your manner of life.”

“How do you know it is not my manner of life?”

“Because you are not happy in it. Your manner of life is ours. It has nothing to do with nations or peoples. You are Morgana.”

“And you?” she cried with sudden eagerness—“Oh, who are you that speak to me?—man, woman, or angel? What are the dwellers in your city, if it is in truth a city, and not a dream!”

“Look again and see!” answered the Voice—“Convince yourself!—do not be deceived! You are not dreaming—Look and make yourself sure!”

Impelled to movement, she went to the window which she had left to take up the steering-gear,—and from there saw again the wonderful scene spread out below, the towers, spires, cupolas and bridges, all lit with that mysterious golden luminance like smouldering sunset fire.

“It is beautiful!” she said—“It seems true—it seems real—”

“It IS true-it IS real!”—the Voice replied—“It has been seen by many travellers,—but because they can never approach it they call it a desert ‘mirage.’ It is more real and more lasting than any other city in the world.”

“Can I never enter it?” she asked, appealingly—“Will you never let me in?”

There was a silence, which seemed to her very long. Still standing at the window of her cabin she looked down on the shining city, a broad stretch of splendid gold luminance under the canopy of the dark sky with its millions of stars. Then the Voice answered her—

“Yes—if you come alone!”

These words sounded so close to her ear that she felt sure the speaker must be standing beside her.

“I will come!” she said, impulsively—“Somehow—some way!—no matter how difficult or dangerous! I will come!”

As she spoke she was conscious of a curious vibration round her, as though some other thing than the ceaseless, silent throbbing of the air-ship’s mechanism had disturbed the atmosphere.

“Wait!” said the Voice—“You say this without thought. You do not realise the meaning of your words. For—if you come, you must stay!”

A thrill ran through her blood.

“I must stay!” she echoed—“Why?”

“Because you have learned the Life-Secret,”—answered the Voice— “And, as you have learned it, so must you live. I will tell you more if you care to hear—”

An inrush of energy came to her as she listened—she felt that the unseen speaker acknowledged the power which she herself knew she possessed.

“With all my soul I care to hear!” she said—“But where do you speak from? And who are you that speak?”

“I speak from the central Watch-Tower,”—the Voice replied—“The City is guarded from that point—and from there we can send messages all over the world in every known language. Sometimes they are understood—more often they are ignored,—but we, who have lived since before the coming of Christ, have no concern with such as do not or will not hear. Our business is to wait and watch while the ages go by,—wait and watch till we are called forth to the new world. Sometimes our messages cross the ‘wireless’ Marconi system— and some confusion happens—but generally the ‘Sound Ray’ carries straight to its mark. You must well understand all that is implied when you say you will come to us,—it means that you leave the human race as you have known it and unite yourself with another human race as yet unknown to the world!”

Here was an overwhelming mystery—but, nothing daunted, Morgana pursued her enquiry.

“You