The Lost World Classics - Ultimate Collection. Жюль Верн

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Chapter XXIII.

       The Treachery of Yuruk

       Table of Contents

      Was it true that Time is within ourselves — that like Space, its twin, it is only a self-created illusion of the human mind? There are hours that flash by on hummingbird wings; there are seconds that shuffle on shod in leaden shoes.

      Was it true that when death faces us the consciousness finds power through its will to live to conquer the illusion — to prolong Time? That, recoiling from oblivion, we can recreate in a fractional moment whole years gone past, years yet to come — striving to lengthen our existence, stretching out our apperception beyond the phantom boundaries, overdrawing upon a Barmecide deposit of minutes, staking fresh claims upon a mirage?

      How else explain the seeming slowness with which we were falling — the seeming leisureness with which the wall drifted up past us?

      And was this punishment — a sentence meted out for profaning with our eyes a forbidden place; a penalty for touching with our gaze the ark of the Metal Tribes — their holy of holies — the budding place of the Metal Babes?

      The valley was swinging — swinging in slow broad curves; was oscillating dizzily.

      Slowly the colossal wall slipped upward.

      Realization swept me; left me amazed; only half believing. This was no illusion. After that first swift plunge our fall had been checked. We were swinging — not the valley.

      Deliberately, in wide arcs like pendulums, we were swinging across the City’s scarp; three feet out from it, and as we swung, slowly sinking.

      And now I saw the countless eyes of the watching wall again were twinkling, regarding us with impish mockery.

      It was the grip of the living wall that held us; that rocked us from side to side as though giving greater breadths of it chance to behold us; that was dropping us gently, carefully, to the valley floor now a scant two thousand feet below.

      A storm of rage, of intensest resentment swept me; as once before any gratitude I should have felt for escape was submerged in the utter humiliation with which it was charged.

      I shook my fists at the twinkling wall, strove to kick and smite it like an angry child, cursed it — not childishly. Dared it to hurl me down to death.

      I felt Drake’s hand touch mine.

      “Steady,” he said. “Steady, old boy. It’s no use. Steady. Look down.”

      Hot with shame for my outburst, weak from its violence, I obeyed. The valley floor was not more than a thousand feet away. Thronging about where we must at last touch, clustered and seething, was a multitude of the Metal Things. They seemed to be looking up at us, watching, waiting for us.

      “Reception committee,” grinned Drake.

      I glanced away; over the valley. It was luminously clear; yet the sky was overcast, no stars showing. The light was no stronger than that of the moon at full, but it held a quality unfamiliar to me. It cast no shadows; though soft, it was piercing, revealing all it bathed with the distinctness of bright sunshine. The illumination came, I thought, from the encircling veils falling from the band of amethyst.

      And, as I peered, out of the veils and far away sped a violet spark. With meteor speed it flew toward us. Close to the base of the vast facade it landed with a flashing of blue incandescence. I knew it for one of the Flying Things, the Mark Makers — one of the incredible messengers.

      Close upon its fall came increase in the turmoil of the crowding throng awaiting us. Came, too, an abrupt change in our own motion. The long arcs lessened. We were dropped more swiftly.

      Far away in the direction from which the Flying Thing had flown I sensed another movement; something coming that carried with it subtle suggestion of unlikeness to all the other incessant, linked movement over the pit. Closer it drew.

      “Norhala!” gasped Drake.

      Robed in her silken amber swathings, red-copper hair streaming, woven with elfin sparklings, she was racing toward the City like some lovely witch, riding upon the back of a steed of huge cubes.

      Nearer she raced. More direct became our fall. Now we were dropping as though at the end of an unreeling plummet cord; the floor of the valley was no more than two hundred feet below.

      “Norhala!” we shouted; and again and again — again “Norhala!”

      Before our cries could have reached her the cubes swerved; came to a halt beneath us. Through the hundred feet of space between I caught the brilliancy of the weird constellations in Norhala’s great eyes — saw with a vague but no less dire foreboding that on her face dwelt a terrifying, a blasting wrath.

      As softly as though by the hand of a giant of cloud we were lifted out from the wall, and were set with no perceptible shock beside her on the back of the cubes.

      “Norhala —” I stopped. For this was no Norhala whom we had known. Gone was all calm, vanished every trace of unearthly tranquillity. It was a Norhala awakened at last — all human.

      Yet in the still rage that filled her I sensed a force, an intensity, more than human. Over the blazing eyes the brows were knit in a rigid, golden bar; the delicate nostrils were pinched; the sweet red mouth was white and merciless. It was as though in its long sleep her human self had gathered more than human strength, and that now, awakened and unleashed, the violence of its rage touched the vibrant zenith of that sphere of which her quiet had been the nadir.

      She was like an urn filled and flaming with the fires of the Gods of wrath.

      What was it that had awakened her — what in awakening had changed the inpouring human consciousness into this flood of fury? Foreboding gripped me.

      “Norhala!” My voice was shaking. “Those we left —”

      “They are gone!” The golden voice was octaves deeper, vibrant, throbbing with that muffled, menacing note that must have pulsed from the golden tambours that summoned to battle Timur’s fierce hordes. “They were — taken.”

      “Taken!” I gasped. “Taken by what — these?” I swept my hands out toward the Metal Things milling around us.

      “No! THESE are mine. These are they who obey me.” The golden voice now shrilled with her passion. “Taken by — men!”

      Drake had read my face although he could not understand our words.

      “Ruth —”

      “Taken,” I said. “Both Ruth and Ventnor. Taken by the armored men — the men of Cherkis!”

      “Cherkis!” She had caught the word. “Yes — Cherkis! And now he and all his men — and all his women — and every living thing he rules shall pay. And fear not — you СКАЧАТЬ