The Lost World Classics - Ultimate Collection. Жюль Верн

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      And Lakla and Larry and I were, I saw, like shadow shapes upon a smooth breast of stone twenty feet or more above the surface of this place — a surface spangled with tiny white blossoms gleaming wanly through creeping veils of phosphorescence like smoke of moon fire. We were shadows — and yet we had substance; we were incorporated with, a part of, the rock — and yet we were living flesh and blood; we stretched — nor will I qualify this — we STRETCHED through mile upon mile of space that weirdly enough gave at one and the same time an absolute certainty of immense horizontal lengths and a vertical concentration that contained nothing of length, nothing of space whatever; we stood THERE upon the face of the stone — and still we were HERE within the faceted oval before the screen of radiance!

      “Steady!” It was Lakla’s voice — and not beside me THERE, but at my ear close before the screen. “Steady, Goodwin! And — see!”

      The sparkling haze cleared. Enormous reaches stretched before me. Shimmering up through them, and as though growing in some medium thicker than air, was mass upon mass of verdure — fruiting trees and trees laden with pale blossoms, arbours and bowers of pallid blooms, like that sea fruit of oblivion — grapes of Lethe — that cling to the tide-swept walls of the caverns of the Hebrides.

      Through them, beyond them, around and about them, drifted and eddied a horde — great as that with which Tamerlane swept down upon Rome, vast as the myriads which Genghis Khan rolled upon the califs — men and women and children — clothed in tatters, half nude and wholly naked; slant-eyed Chinese, sloe-eyed Malays, islanders black and brown and yellow, fierce-faced warriors of the Solomons with grizzled locks fantastically bedizened; Papuans, feline Javans, Dyaks of hill and shore; hook-nosed Phoenicians, Romans, straight-browed Greeks, and Vikings centuries BEYOND their lives: scores of the black-haired Murians; white faces of our own Westerners — men and women and children — drifting, eddying — each stamped with that mingled horror and rapture, eyes filled with ecstasy and terror entwined, marked by God and devil in embrace — the seal of the Shining One — the dead-alive; the lost ones!

      The loot of the Dweller!

      Soul-sick, I gazed. They lifted to us visages of dread; they swept down toward us, glaring upward — a bank against which other and still other waves of faces rolled, were checked, paused; until as far as I could see, like billows piled upon an ever-growing barrier, they stretched beneath us — staring — staring!

      Now there was a movement — far, far away; a concentrating of the lambency; the dead-alive swayed, oscillated, separated — forming a long lane against whose outskirts they crowded with avid, hungry insistence.

      First only a luminous cloud, then a whirling pillar of splendours through the lane came — the Shining One. As it passed, the dead-alive swirled in its wake like leaves behind a whirlwind, eddying, twisting; and as the Dweller raced by them, brushing them with its spirallings and tentacles, they shone forth with unearthly, awesome gleamings — like vessels of alabaster in which wicks flare suddenly. And when it had passed they closed behind it, staring up at us once more.

      The Dweller paused beneath us.

      Out of the drifting ruck swam the body of Throckmartin! Throckmartin, my friend, to find whom I had gone to the pallid moon door; my friend whose call I had so laggardly followed. On his face was the Dweller’s dreadful stamp; the lips were bloodless; the eyes were wide, lucent, something like pale, phosphorescence gleaming within them — and soulless.

      He stared straight up at me, unwinking, unrecognizing. Pressing against his side was a woman, young and gentle, and lovely — lovely even through the mask that lay upon her face. And her wide eyes, like Throckmartin’s, glowed with the lurking, unholy fires. She pressed against him closely; though the hordes kept up the faint churning, these two kept ever together, as though bound by unseen fetters.

      And I knew the girl for Edith, his wife, who in vain effort to save him had cast herself into the Dweller’s embrace!

      “Throckmartin!” I cried. “Throckmartin! I’m here!”

      Did he hear? I know now, of course, he could not.

      But then I waited — hope striving to break through the nightmare hands that gripped my heart.

      Their wide eyes never left me. There was another movement about them, others pushed past them; they drifted back, swaying, eddying — and still staring were lost in the awful throng.

      Vainly I strained my gaze to find them again, to force some sign of recognition, some awakening of the clean life we know. But they were gone. Try as I would I could not see them — nor Stanton and the northern woman named Thora who had been the first of that tragic party to be taken by the Dweller.

      “Throckmartin!” I cried again, despairingly. My tears blinded me.

      I felt Lakla’s light touch.

      “Steady,” she commanded, pitifully. “Steady, Goodwin. You cannot help them — now! Steady and — watch!”

      Below us the Shining One had paused — spiralling, swirling, vibrant with all its transcendent, devilish beauty; had paused and was contemplating us. Now I could see clearly that nucleus, that core shot through with flashing veins of radiance, that ever-shifting shape of glory through the shroudings of shimmering, misty plumes, throbbing lacy opalescences, vaporous spirallings of prismatic phantom fires. Steady over it hung the seven little moons of amethyst, of saffron, of emerald and azure and silver, of rose of life and moon white. They poised themselves like a diadem — calm, serene, immobile — and down from them into the Dweller, piercing plumes and swirls and spirals, ran countless tiny strands, radiations, finer than the finest spun thread of spider’s web, gleaming filaments through which seemed to run — POWER— from the seven globes; like — yes, that was it — miniatures of the seven torrents of moon flame that poured through the septichromatic, high crystals in the Moon Pool’s chamber roof.

      Swam out of the coruscating haze the — face!

      Both of man and of woman it was — like some ancient, androgynous deity of Etruscan fanes long dust, and yet neither woman nor man; human and unhuman, seraphic and sinister, benign and malefic — and still no more of these four than is flame, which is beautiful whether it warms or devours, or wind whether it feathers the trees or shatters them, or the wave which is wondrous whether it caresses or kills.

      Subtly, undefinably it was of our world and of one not ours. Its lineaments flowed from another sphere, took fleeting familiar form — and as swiftly withdrew whence they had come; something amorphous, unearthly — as of unknown unheeding, unseen gods rushing through the depths of star-hung space; and still of our own earth, with the very soul of earth peering out from it, caught within it — and in some — unholy — way debased.

      It had eyes — eyes that were now only shadows darkening within its luminosity like veils falling, and falling, OPENING windows into the unknowable; deepening into softly glowing blue pools, blue as the Moon Pool itself; then flashing out, and this only when the — face — bore its most human resemblance, into twin stars large almost as the crown of little moons; and with that same baffling suggestion of peep-holes into a world untrodden, alien, perilous to man!

      “Steady!” came Lakla’s voice, her body leaned against mine.

      I gripped myself, my brain steadied, I looked again. And I saw that of body, at least body as we know it, the Shining One had none — nothing but the throbbing, pulsing core streaked with lightning veins of rainbows; and around this, never still, sheathing it, the swirling, glorious veilings of its hell and heaven born radiance.

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