The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (black female authors txt) 📗

the secret that backs volition? It has been will—will-power from the beginning. I must thank my ancestors. Without the strength and character built up through generations, I would have succumbed utterly.

Even as it is I sometimes think I am wrong in following the dictates of Watson. If I were only sure. I have pledged my word and my honour. What did he know? I need all the reserve of character to hold up against the Nervina. From the beginning she has been my opponent. What is her interest in the Blind Spot and myself? Who is she? I cannot think of her as evil. She is too beautiful, too tender; her concern is so real. Sometimes I think of her as my protector, that it is she, and she alone who holds back the power which would engulf me. Once she made a personal appeal.

Jerome had gone. I was alone. I had dragged myself to the desk and my notes and data. It was along toward spring and in the first shadows of the early evening. I had turned on the lights. It was the first labour I had done for several days. I had a great deal of work before me. I had begun sometime before to take down my temperature. I was careful of everything now, as much as I could be under the depression. So far I had discerned nothing that could be classed as pathological.

There is something subtle about the Nervina. She is much like the Rhamda. Perhaps they are the same. I hear no sound, I have no notion of a door or entrance. Watson had said of the Rhamda, “Sometimes you see him, sometimes you don't.” It is so with the Nervina. I remember only my working at the data and the sudden movement of a hand upon my desk—a girl's hand. It was bewildering. I looked up.

I had not seen her since that night. It was now eight months—did I not know, I would have recorded them as years. Her expression was a bit more sad—and beautiful. The same wonderful glow of her eyes, night-black and tender; the softness that comes from passion, and love, and virtue. The same wistful droop of the perfect mouth. What a wondrous mass of hair she had! I dropped my pen. She took my hand. I could sense the thrill of contact; cool and magnetic.

“Harry!”

She said no more; I did not answer; I was too taken by surprise and wonder. I could feel her concern as I would a mother's. What was her interest in myself? The contact of her hand sent a strange pulse through my vitals; she was so beautiful. Could it be? Watson said he loved her. Could I blame him?

“Harry,” she asked, “how long is it to continue?”

So that was it. Merely an envoy to accept surrender. I was worn utterly, weary of the world, lonely. But I hadn't given up. I had strength still, and will enough to hold out to the end. Perhaps I was wrong. If I gave her the ring? what then?

“I am afraid,” I answered, “that I must go on. I have given my word. It has been much harder than I expected. This jewel? What has it to do with the Blind Spot?”

“It controls it.”

“Does the Rhamda desire it?”

“He does.”

“Why doesn't he call for it personally? Why doesn't he make a clean breast of it? It would be much easier. He knows and you know that I am after Dr. Holcomb and Watson. I might even forego the secret. Would he release the doctor?”

“No, Harry, he would not.”

“I see. If I gave up the ring it would be merely for my personal safety. I am a coward—”

“Oh,” she said, “don't say that. You must give the ring to me—not to the Rhamda. He must not control the Blind Spot.”

“What is the Blind Spot? Tell me.”

“Harry,” she spoke, “I cannot. It is not for you or any other mortal. It is a secret that should never have been uncovered. It might be the end. In the hands of the Rhamda it would certainly be the end of mankind.”

“Who is the Rhamda? Who are you? You are too beautiful to be merely woman. Are you a spirit?”

She pressed my hand ever so slightly. “Do I feel like a spirit? I am material as much as you are. We live, see—everything.”

“But you are not of this world?”

Her eyes grew sadder; a soft longing.

“Not exactly, Harry, not exactly. It is a long story and a very strange one. I may not tell you. It is for your own good. I am your friend”—her eyes were moist—“I—don't you see? Oh, I would save you!”

I did not doubt it. Somehow she was like a girl of dreams, pure as an angel; her wistfulness only deepened her beauty. It came like a shock at the moment. I could love this woman. She was—what was I thinking? My guilty mind ran back to Charlotte. I had loved her since boyhood. I would be a coward—then a wild fear. Perhaps of jealousy.

“The Rhamda? Is he your husband? You are the same—”

“Oh,” she answered, “why do you say it?” Her eyes snapped and she grew rigid. “The Rhamda! My husband! If you only knew. I hate him! We are enemies. It was he who opened the Blind Spot. I am here because he is evil. To watch him. I love your world, I love it all. I would save it. I love—”

She dropped her head. Whatever she was, she was not above sobbing.

I touched her hair; it was of the softest texture I have ever seen; the lustre was like all the beauty of night woven into silk. She loved, loved; I could love—I was on the point of surrender.

“Tell me,” I asked, “just one thing more. If I gave you this ring would you save the doctor and Chick Watson?”

She raised her head; her eyes glistened; but she did not answer.

“Would you?”

She shook her head. “I cannot,” she answered. “That cannot be. I can only save you for—for—Charlotte.”

Was it vanity in myself? I don't know. It seemed to me that it was hard for her to say it. Frankly, I loved her. I knew it. I loved Charlotte. I loved them both. But I held to my purpose.

“Are the professor and Watson living?”

“They are.”

“Are they conscious?”

She nodded. “Harry,” she said, “I can tell you that. They are living and conscious. You have seen them. They have only one enemy—the Rhamda. But they must never come out of the Blind Spot. I am their friend and yours.”

A sudden courage came upon me. I remembered my word to Watson. I had loved the old professor. I would save them. If necessary