THE WOLF WOMAN, by H. Bedford-Jones-4
1042 Words
She stared at him. With a rush, memory returned; yet she was held spellbound by finding herself here and thus. She tried to speak, and could not. He smiled, leaned forward, and touched her forehead with the cloth again; his fingers were deft and very gentle.
“Apparently you had a bad dream,” he said casually. “You’ve been talking about wolves ever since my guards found you wandering among the trees.”
Her eyes dilated upon him. “Wolves?” she whispered. “Wandering? You devil! What jest is this? You know well—”
“Be quiet,” broke in the king. “Be quiet and let me speak, for a little space. Here; if this will make you feel better, play with it,” and he thrust a long dagger into her hand, then came to his feet and went to the window-opening.
She gripped the dagger and watched him, a flame in her eyes.
“Whatever you may think,” said the king calmly, “you were picked up among the trees and brought here, by my guards. How you came there, how you left your castle, does not matter. If you’re tempted to remember anything else, dear lady, it was all an evil dream. Let it be forgotten. I’m glad you’re here, for I’ve something to say to you.”
She lay like a trapped beast, wary and tense.
“Say it,” she said in a low, hard voice.
He came toward her, smiling. “Indra, these people of mine are a crude, savage lot of barbarians; I’m one myself. But I have sense enough to know that all the civilization, all the fine things, of your Aryan race are perishing in the hands of my people; this whole glorious land of yours is going back to the jungle. I want to save it. You can save it. You esteem it an insult if I speak of loving you, of wedding you because you’re the only woman I know who is fit to be a queen, and my wife. But there’s another reason. Our people, and your son—Prince Shiva.”
The name drove into her, quieted her, held her intent upon him.
“Marry me,” he went on in that calm voice. “Let your people mingle with my people, let them keep all they have and more, let them teach my people your Vedic Hymns, your gods, your ways of life and art and work. The remnant of your people can grow great again, among mine; they may be a sect, a caste, apart. A superior caste, not slaves!
“I have no sons to follow me, Indra,” he went on. “But with you for wife, I’d have a son, and one whom my people would worship and revere. Your boy; let me adopt him, as the future king of this people. It was not I who slew his father, but one of my captains whom your wolf killed.”
“My wolf!” Her eyes widened upon him, her voice came with a catch. “Ah! Then your sorry jest is ended!”
“By the gods, I’m not jesting!” Suddenly impetuous, he came swiftly to the bed and looked down at her, and he was all ablaze. “You’re no liar, Indra; you swore oaths for your people, but there was no mention of yourself in them. That gave me the clue. And what was it you said—that you would marry me only upon the couch of death? Well, you’re lying upon it now; death for you and your son and your whole people, if you make that choice.”
* * * *
He dropped on the edge of the bed beside her, and threw out his hands.
“You have the knife; use it!” he said, hoarsely earnest. “The choice is yours. Here is my throat; kill me, if you like, if that will satisfy you! For I worship you, Indra; I worship you with my whole heart. I offer you myself, to kill or to take.…
“And with myself, your son’s life,” he went on swiftly, seeing her hand move and the knife flash. “Instead of death and ignominy, he shall have honor and a crown. Your people shall have life instead of death; this nation shall rise again—if you so choose! I offer a glorious future, worthy of you, and the name of Prince Shiva shall be enshrined among our gods. But kill me if you so desire. There is no one to interfere.”
With one hand, he drew the edge of his robe over his face, and waited.
The silence of the room was stirred only by the rustle of the wintry branches outside. He could hear her quick, hard breathing, but no word came from her. Suddenly she moved and caught her breath, as though to plunge the knife into him; but he did not stir.
The knife clattered on the floor. Her hand touched his.
* * * *
The scene blurred and vanished. The stone wall came back into sight, the yellow light died away, the room-lights flickered on. Norman Fletcher turned to us, awe and amazement in his eyes.
“I’ll be hanged!” he broke out. “This isn’t what I expected to show you at all. It’s not the same thing. This apparatus is playing tricks! But, my word! Did you get the meaning of what we just saw—the allusions to historic and ethnologic fact?”
“Rather!” Miss Stephens nodded, a tinge of excitement in her cheeks. “A scene from the dispersal of the great Aryan race, somewhere on the uplands of Asia, back before history began! And the legend of the werewolf, which curiously enough seems to be a purely Aryan legend, a sort of race-myth!”
Fletcher stared at her.
“Well, it might have been worse,” he said slowly. “I see now why Hartmetz said the language was a form of Sanscrit. And damned bloody it was, too. I’m sorry you saw it.”
Miss Stephens tossed her head slightly. “Why?” she rejoined coolly. “If you ask me, I thought it was fascinating, positively fascinating! All of it.”
When we were driving home, I asked what she had honestly thought about it.
“Oh!” she said in her demure way, which I now realized was not really demure at all, but rather blasé, “he didn’t fool me for a minute. I think he was just trying to shock me.”
“Really!” I said, not without sarcasm. “And did he?”
“I’m afraid,” she drawled, “that poor Mr. Fletcher is behind the times.”
I let it go at that.
- Writer
