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

“But it's a question, now, as to which is reality and which is not. There is not a branch of philosophy that looks upon the question in that light. Bishop Berkeley came near and he has been followed by others; but they all have been deceived by their own sophistry. However, except for the grossest materialists, all thinkers take cognizance of a hereafter.

“No one dreamed of a Blind Spot and what it may lead to, what it might contain. We are five-sensed; we interpret the universe by the measure of five yardsticks. Yet, the Blind Spot takes even those away; the more we know, it seems, the less certain we are of ourselves. As I said to Mme. Le Fabre, it is a difficult question to determine, after all, just who are the ghosts. At any rate, I KNOW”—and he paused for effect—“I know that there are uncounted millions who look upon us and our workings as entirely supernatural!

“Remember that what I have to tell you is just as real as your own lives have been since babyhood.

“It was slightly over a year ago that my last night on the earth arrived.

“I had gone out for the evening, in the forlorn hope of meeting a friend, of having some slight taste of pleasure before the end came.

“For several days I had been labouring under a sort of premonition, knowing that my life was slowly seeping away and that my vitality was slipping, bit by bit, to what I thought must be death. Had I then known what I know now, I could have saved myself. But if I had done it, if I had saved myself, we would never have found Dr. Holcomb.

“Perhaps it was the same fate that led me to Harry, that night. I don't know. Nevertheless, if there is any truth in what I have learned on the other side of the Blind Spot, it would seem that there is something higher than mere fate. I had never believed in luck; but when everything works out to a fraction of a breath, one ceases to be sceptical on the question of destiny and chance. I say, everything that happened that night was FORCED from the other side. In short, my giving that ring to Harry was simply a link in the chain of circumstances. It just had to be; the PROPHECY would not have had it otherwise.”

Without stopping to explain what he meant by the word “prophecy,” Watson went on:

“That's what makes it puzzling. I have never been able to understand how every bit has dovetailed with such exactness. We—you and I—are certainly not supernatural; and yet, on the other side of the Spot, the proof is overwhelmingly convincing.

“I was very weak that night. So weak that it is difficult for me to remember. The last I recollect was my going to the back of the house; to the kitchen, I think. I had a light in my hands. The boys were in the front room, waiting. One of them had opened a door some yards away from where I stood.

“Coming as it did, on the instant, it is difficult to describe. But I knew it instinctively for what it was: the dot of blue on the ceiling, and the string of light. Then, a sensation of falling, like dropping into space itself. It is hard to describe the horrifying terror of plunging head on from an immense height to a plain at a vastly lower level.

“And that's all that I remember—from this side.” [Footnote: NOTE.—In justice to Mr. Watson, the present writers have thought it best at this stage to transpose the story from the first to the third person. Any narrative, unless it is negative in its material, is hard to give in the first person; for where the narrator has played an active, positive part, he must either curb himself or fall under the slur of braggadocio. Yet, the world wants the details exactly as they happened; hence the transposition. EDITORS.]

Watson opened his eyes.

The first thing was light and a sense of great pain. There was a pressure at the back of the eyeballs, a poignant sensation not unlike a knife-thrust; that, and a sudden fear of madness, of drivelling helplessness.

The abrupt return of consciousness in such a condition is not easy to imagine. After all he had gone through, this strange sequel must have been terribly puzzling to him. He was a man of good education, well versed in psychology; in the first rush of consciousness he tried, as best he could, to weigh himself up in the balance of aberration. And it was this very fact that gave him his reassurance; for it told him that he could think, could reason, could count on a mind in full function.

But he could not see. The pain in his eyeballs was blinding. There was nothing he could distinguish; everything was woven together, a mere blaze of wonderful, iridescent, blazing coloration.

But if he could not see, he could feel. The pain was excruciating. He closed his eyes and fell to thinking, curiously enough, that the experience was similar to what he had gone through when upon learning to swim, he had first opened his eyes under the water. It had been under a blazing sun. The pain and the colour—it was much the same, only intensified.

Then he knew that he was very tired. The mere effort of that one thought had cost him vitality. He dropped back into unconsciousness, such as was more insensibility than slumber. He had strange dreams, of people walking, of women, and of many voices. It was blurred and indistinct, yet somehow not unreal. Then, after an unguessable length of time—he awoke.

He was much stronger. The lapse may have been very long; he could not know. But the pain in his eyes was gone; and he ventured to open the lids again in the face of the light that had been so baffling. This time he could see; not distinctly, but still enough to assure him of reality. By closing his eyes at intervals he was able to rest them and to accustom them gradually to the new degree of light. And after a bit he could see plainly.

He was on a cot, and in a room almost totally different from any that he had ever seen before. The colour of the walls, even, was dissimilar; likewise the ceiling. It was white, in a way, and yet unlike it; neither did it resemble any of the various tints; to give it a name that he afterward learned—alna—implies but little. It was utterly new to him.

Apparently he was alone. The room was not large; about the size of an ordinary bedroom. And after the first novelty of the unplaceable colour had worn off he began to take stock of his own person.

First, he was covered by the finest of bed clothing, thick but exceedingly light. There was no counterpane, but two blankets and two sheets; and none of them corresponded to any colour or material he had ever known. He only knew that their tints were light rather than dark.

Next, he moved his hands out from under the coverings, and held them up before his eyes. He was immensely puzzled. He naturally expected to see the worn, emaciated hands which had been his on that dramatic night; but the ones before him were plump, normal, of a healthy pink. The wrists likewise were in perfect condition, also his arms. He could not account