The Dark Star by Robert W. Chambers (ink ebook reader txt) 📕

“My darling Rue—my little Rue Carew––”

The Dark Star By ROBERT W. CHAMBERS Author of “The Girl Philippa,” “Who Goes There,”
“The Hidden Children,” Etc. emblem WITH FRONTISPIECE
By W. D. STEVENS A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York Published by Arrangement with D. Appleton & Company

Copyright, 1917, by
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

Copyright, 1916, 1917, by the International Magazine Company

Printed in the United States of America

TO MY FRIEND
EDGAR SISSON

Dans c’métier-là, faut
rien chercher à comprendre.      

René Benjamin

vii ALAK’S SONG

Where are you going,
          Naïa?
Through the still noon—
Where are you going?

To hear the thunder of the sea
And the wind blowing!—
To find a stormy moon to comfort me
  Across the dune!

Why are you weeping,
          Naïa?
Through the still noon—
Why are you weeping?

Because I found no wind, no sea,
No white surf leaping,
Nor any flying moon to comfort me
  Upon the dune.

What did you see there,
          Naïa?
In the still noon—
What did you see there?

Only the parched world drowsed in drought,
And a fat bee, there,
Prying and probing at a poppy’s mouth
  That drooped a-swoon.

viii

What did you hear there,
          Naïa?
In the still noon—
What did you hear there?

Only a kestrel’s lonely cry
From the wood near there—
A rustle in the wheat as I passed by—
  A cricket’s rune.

Who led you homeward,
          Naïa?
Through the still noon—
Who led you homeward?

My soul within me sought the sea,
Leading me foam-ward:
But the lost moon’s ghost returned with me
  Through the high noon.

Where is your soul then,
          Naïa?
Lost at high noon—
Where is your soul then?

It wanders East—or West—I think—
Or near the Pole, then—
Or died—perhaps there on the dune’s dry brink
  Seeking the moon.

THE DARK STAR

“The dying star grew dark; the last light faded from it; went out. Prince Erlik laughed.

“And suddenly the old order of things began to pass away more swiftly.

“Between earth and outer space—between Creator and created, confusing and confounding their identities,—a rushing darkness grew—the hurrying wrack of immemorial storms heralding whirlwinds through which Truth alone survives.

“Awaiting the inevitable reëstablishment of such temporary conventions as render the incident of human existence possible, the brooding Demon which men call Truth stares steadily at Tengri under the high stars which are passing too, and which at last shall pass away and leave the Demon watching all alone amid the ruins of eternity.”

The Prophet of the Kiot Bordjiguen

CONTENTS

Preface. Children of the Star

CHAPTER PAGE I. The Wonder-Box   1 II. Brookhollow   18 III. In Embryo   30 IV. The Trodden Way   38 V. Ex Machina   47 VI. The End of Solitude   60 VII. Obsession   71 VIII. A Change Impends   80 IX. Nonresistance   88 X. Driving Head-on   102 XI. The Breakers   112 XII. A Life Line   122 XIII. Letters from a Little Girl   137 XIV. A Journey Begins   157 XV. The Locked House   162 XVI. Scheherazade   180 XVII. A White Skirt   193 XVIII. By Radio   202 XIX. The Captain of the Volhynia   216 XX. The Drop of Irish   223 XXI. Method and Foresight   239 XXII. Two Thirteen   246 XXIII. On His Way   253 XXIV. The Road to Paris   261 XXV. Cup and Lip   280 XXVI. Rue Soleil d’Or   290 XXVII. From Four to Five   305 XXVIII. Together   312 XXIX. En Famille   325 XXX. Jardin Russe   337 XXXI. The Café des Bulgars   347 XXXII. The Cercle Extranationale   358 XXXIII. A Rat Hunt   377 XXXIV. Sunrise   395 XXXV. The First Day   410 THE DARK STAR xviii

THE DARK STAR

PREFACE

CHILDREN OF THE STAR

Not the dark companion of Sirius, brightest of all stars—not our own chill and spectral planet rushing toward Vega in the constellation of Lyra—presided at the birth of millions born to corroborate a bloody horoscope.

But a Dark Star, speeding unseen through space, known to the ancients, by them called Erlik, after the Prince of Darkness, ruled at the birth of those myriad souls destined to be engulfed in the earthquake of the ages, or flung by it out of the ordered pathway of their lives into strange byways, stranger highways—into deeps and deserts never dreamed of.

Also one of the dozen odd temporary stars on record blazed up on that day, flared for a month or two, dwindled to a cinder, and went out.

But the Dark Star Erlik, terribly immortal, sped on through space to complete a two-hundred-thousand-year circuit of the heavens, and begin anew an immemorial journey by the will of the Most High.

What spectroscope is to horoscope, destiny is to chance. The black star Erlik rushed through interstellar darkness unseen; those born under its violent augury squalled in their cradles, or, thumb in mouth, slumbered the dreamless slumber of the newly born. xix

One of these, a tiny girl baby, fussed and fidgeted in her mother’s arms, tortured by prickly heat when the hot winds blew through Trebizond.

Overhead vultures circled; a stein-adler, cleaving the blue, looked down where the surf made a thin white line along the coast, then set his lofty course for China.

Thousands of miles to the westward, a little boy of eight gazed out across the ruffled waters of the mill pond at Neeland’s Mills, and wondered whether the ocean might not look that way.

And, wondering, with the salt sea effervescence working in his inland-born body, he fitted a cork to his fishing line and flung the baited hook far out across the ripples. Then he seated himself on the parapet of the stone bridge and waited for monsters of the deep to come.

And again, off Seraglio Point, men were rowing in a boat; and a corded sack lay in the stern, horridly and limply heavy.

There was also a box lying in the boat, oddly bound and clamped with metal which glistened like silver under the Eastern stars when the waves of the Bosporus dashed high, and the flying scud rained down on box and sack and the red-capped rowers.

In Petrograd a little girl of twelve was learning to eat other things than sour milk and cheese; learning to ride otherwise than like a demon on a Cossack saddle; learning deportment, too, and languages, and social graces and the fine arts. And, most thoroughly of all, the little girl was learning how deathless should be her hatred for the Turkish Empire and all its works; and xx how only less perfect than our Lord in Paradise was the Czar on his throne amid that earthly paradise known as “All the Russias.”

Her little brother was learning these things, too, in the Corps of Officers. Also he was already proficient on the balalaika.

And again, in the mountains of a conquered province, the little daughter of a gamekeeper to nobility was preparing to emigrate with her father to a new home in the Western world, where she would learn to perform miracles with rifle and revolver, and where the beauty of the hermit thrush’s song would startle her into comparing it to the beauty of her own untried voice. But to her father, and to her, the most beautiful thing in all the world was love of Fatherland.

Over these, and millions of others, brooded the spell of the Dark Star. Even the world itself lay under it, vaguely uneasy, sometimes startled to momentary seismic panic. Then, ere mundane self-control restored terrestrial equilibrium, a few mountains exploded, an island or two lay shattered by earthquake, boiling mud and pumice blotted out one city; earth-shock and fire another; a tidal wave a third.

But the world settled down and balanced itself once more on the edge of the perpetual abyss into which it must fall some day; the invisible shadow of the Dark Star swept it at intervals when some far and nameless sun blazed out unseen; days dawned; the sun of the solar system rose furtively each day and hung around the heavens until that dusky huntress, Night, chased him once more beyond the earth’s horizon. xxi

The shadow of the Dark Star was always there, though none saw it in sunshine or in moonlight, or in the silvery lustre of the planets.

A boy, born under it, stood outside the fringe of willow and alder, through which moved two English setters followed and controlled by the boy’s father.

“Mark!” called the father.

Out of the willows like a feathered bomb burst a big grouse, and the green foliage that barred its flight seemed to explode as the strong bird sheered out into the sunshine.

The boy’s gun, slanting upward at thirty degrees, glittered in the sun an instant, then the left barrel spoke; and the grouse, as though struck by lightning in mid-air, stopped with a jerk, then slanted swiftly and struck the ground.

“Dead!” cried the boy, as a setter appeared, leading on straight to the heavy mass of feathers lying on the pasture grass.

“Clean work, Jim,” said his father, strolling out of the willows. “But wasn’t it a bit risky, considering the little girl yonder?”

“Father!” exclaimed the boy, very red. “I never even saw her. I’m ashamed.”

They stood looking across the pasture, where a little girl in a pink gingham dress lingered watching them, evidently lured by her curiosity from the old house at the crossroads just beyond.

Jim Neeland, still red with mortification, took the big cock-grouse from the dog which brought it—a tender-mouthed, beautifully trained Belton, who stood with his feathered offering in his jaws, very serious, very proud, awaiting praise from the Neelands, father and son. xxii

Neeland senior “drew” the