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

It was hard for Chick to remember all the details of that great day. Throughout all the morning and afternoon he remained in his apartments. Breakfast over, the Rhamdas told him his part in certain ceremonies, such as need not be detailed here. They were very solicitous as to his food and comfort, and as to his feelings and anticipations. His nonchalance pleased them greatly. Afterward he had a bath and rub-down.

A combat to the death, was it to be? Suits me, thought Watson. He was never in finer form.

The Jan Lucar was particularly interested. He pinched and stroked Chick's muscles with the caressing pride of a connoisseur. Watson stepped out of the fountain bath in all the vigour of health. He playfully reached out for the Lucar and tripped him up. He sought to learn just what the Thomahlians knew in the art of self-defence.

The brief struggle that ensued taught him that he need expect no easy conquest. The Jan was quick, active and the possessor of a science peculiarly effective. The Thomahlians did not box in the manner of the Anglo-Saxons; their mode was peculiar. Chick foresaw that he would be compelled to combine the methods of three kinds of combat: boxing, ju-jitsu, and the good old catch-as-catch-can wrestling. If the Senestro were superior to the Jan, he would have a time indeed. Though Watson conquered, he could not but concede that the Jan was not only clever but scientific to an oily, bewildering degree. The Lucar paused.

“Enough, my lord! You are a man indeed. Do not overdo; save yourself for the Senestro.”

Clothes were brought, and Chick taken back to his apartment. The time passed with Rhamdas constantly at his side.

The Geos was not present, nor the little queen. Chick sought permission to sit by the window—permission that was granted after the guards had placed screens that would withhold any view from outside, yet permit Chick to look out.

As far as he could see, the avenues were packed with people. Only, this time the centres of the streets were clear; on the curbs he could see the opposing lines of the blue and crimson, holding back the waiting thousands. In the distance he could hear chimes, faint but distinct, like silver bells tinkling over water.

At intervals rose strange choruses of weird, holy music. The full sweep of the city's domes and minarets was spread out before him. From eaves to basements the rolling luxuriance of orchidian beauty; banners, music, parade; a day of pageant, pomp, and fulfilment.

He could catch the excitement in the air, the strange, laden undercurrent of spiritual salvation-something esoteric, undefinable, the ecstasy of a million souls pulsing to the throb of a supreme moment. He drew back, someone had touched him.

“What is it?”

It was one of the Rhamdas. He had in his hand a small metal clover, of the design of the Jarados.

“What do I do?” asked Watson.

“This,” said the Rhamda, “was sent to you by one of the Bars.”

“By a Bar! What does it mean?”

The other shook his head. “It was sent to you by one who wished it to be known by us that he is your friend, even though a Bar.”

Just then Watson noted something sticking out of the edge of one of the clover leaves. He pulled it out. It was a piece of paper. On it were scrawled words IN ENGLISH.

The writing was pencil script, done in a poor hand and ill-spelled, but still English. Chick read:

“Be of good cheer; there ain't a one in this world that can top a lad from Frisco. And it's Pat MacPherson that says it. Yer the finest laddie that ever got beyond the old Witch of Endor. You and me, if we hold on, is just about goin' to play hell with the haythen. Hold on and fight like the divil! Remember that Pat is with ye!

“We're both spooks.

Said Watson: “Who gave you this? Did you see the man?”

“It was sent up my lord. The man was a high Bar in the Senestro's guard.”

Watson could not understand this. Was it possible that there were others in this mysterious region besides himself? At any rate, he wasn't wholly alone. He felt that he could count upon the Irishman—or was this fellow Scotch? Anyhow, such a man would find the quick means of wit at a crucial moment.

Suddenly Watson noted a queer feeling of emptiness. He looked out of the window. The music had ceased, and the incessant hum of the throngs had deadened to silence. It was suspended, awesome, threatening. At the same time, the Jan Lucar came to attention, at the opposite door stood the Rhamda Geos, black clad, surrounded by a group of his fellows.

“Come, my lord,” he said.

The crimson guard fell in behind Watson, the black-gowned took their places ahead, and the Jan Lucar and the Geos walked on either side. They stepped out into the corridor. By the indicator of a vertical clock, Chick noted that it was nine. He did not know the day of the year other than from the Thomahlian calendar; but he knew that it was close to sunset. He did not ask where they were going; there was no need. The very solemnity of his companions told him more than their answers would have. In a moment they were in the streets.

Watson had thought that they would be taken by aircraft, or that they would pass through the building. He did not know that it was a concession to the Bar Senestro; that the Senestro was but playing a bit of psychology that is often practised by lesser champions. If Watson's nerve was not broken it was simply because of the iron indifference of confident health. Chick had never been defeated. He had no fear. He was far more curious as to the scenes and events about him than he was of the outcome. He was hoping for some incident that would link itself up into explanation.

At the door a curious car of graceful lines was waiting, an odd affair that might be classed as a cross between a bird and a gondola, streaming with colours and of magnificent workmanship