Clay (16 page)

My homecoming fell far short of that of which I had so often dreamed. I had thought one day to return, triumphant; I had planned again and again the restoration of the State of Zengerstein. And now, at last, I would return; but the dreams were shattered. I rode to the Castle in the coach of a reluctant driver who feared the lonely road that wound through the hamlet to the gates of Zengerstein. I returned the blind relic of a genius who spoke to none save the companion he called Victor, to pass the lingering years alone and embittered. But, at least, I thought, I would find peace in oblivion.

*

I WAS wrong. For nine years I pursued the mocking shadow of contentment; nine years tortured by fantasies of what heights my career might have attained but for the weakness of Victor Rupert, nine years of festering blind ambition, during which one idea came to obsess me: I must see again! Together with Victor, I made an exhaustive study of blindness; night after night he read aloud from countless ancient volumes; his voice cracked; his eyes ached; I gave him no rest. Every bypath of science and sorcery, every chance of recovery, by miracle or surgery, we explored. And, slowly, in my mind, there began to formulate a rather terrifying theory; bit by bit, fragments of medical knowledge fell into place to weave the weird pattern. It was only a theory; I told myself to be detached, weigh every possibility. There was perhaps one chance in a million that the theory would succeed in practice. Failure might mean death. But, I knew I would take that chance, if only I had the materials with which to work—the forbidden human materials. That problem was solved the night Simon Conrad came to Zengerstein.

It is not strange that Conrad lost his way. That evening a bulwark of clouds swept southward along the River Murg; fog crawled through the deserted village- lanes, and settled like a caul over the tarn outside the gates of Zengerstein. The storm unleashed furiously in the dusk. Winds keened in the catacombs beneath the Castle. Rain lashed at the casements of the library until, with a nervous gesture, Victor closed the velvet portieres. In that storm, Simon Conrad did not have a chance. At best, the roads of the district are few and obscured by the lichen-fingers of the encroaching forest. A single footpath circles Zengerstein and winds on into the flatlands that stretch toward Donaueschingen; but at a certain point in that lane, the traveler may easily go astray, and find himself lost in the byways of Zengerstein with none of whom to ask the way, no path to take but the rutted passage that climbs the hill to the gates of the Castle itself.

All day, Victor and I had been, restless; never ideal companions, penned in too long by the storm, we could scarcely bear each other’s presence. Victor haunted the wine-cabinet; I lost count of the times the decanter clinked against his glass. I ignored him; my mind busied itself with one thought; the possibilities of the success of my experiment. The library had been long silent, save for the whimpering of the storm.

Then, suddenly, after dark, the wolfhounds that guard the grounds of Zengerstein broke into the howl of attack. Breath hissed between Victor’s lips; his light tread crossed the floor to the casement; the portieres were drawn aside. The howling grew louder.

“What is it?” I snapped. "Victor, what's the matter with those infernal beasts!”

“I can’t see clearly...” Rupert’s voice was strained. "There seems to be a light... out by the tarn... A man, carrying a lantern...”

“A man...?” I strode to his side, caught his shoulder.

“Yes... My shoulder... you’re hurting me... Please, there’s no need to be frightened... The hounds will rout him...”

“Call them off,” I cut in sharply.

“What?” Victor whined. "But, the man may be a thief... a killer...”

“You heard me! I want that man unharmed! Call off the dogs!”

He obeyed.

I heard his cry to the animals; the angry baying died away. Victor was still uneasy but he did not question my next command; he ran through the downfall toward the steaming tarn. He was gone some time; he must have had difficulty helping the trespasser to shelter, for, though unharmed, the man who sank into the hearth-chair was badly shaken and terrified. His breath came in sobs; in his grip, the glass of brandy Victor had given him rattled against his teeth. A full five minutes passed before he had grown calm enough to speak, or understand what was said to him.

*

I FLATTER myself that I handled my first interview with Simon Conrad with consummate art; the circumstances were far from favorable, but, in the minutes, that had lapsed since the first baying of the hounds a cunning assurance had lain hold on my mind. Winning Conrad over was ridiculously easy. Victor told me the man’s right hand had been scratched by the fangs of Prinz; under my most solicitous directions, Simon Conrad’s wound was cared for; he was supplied with dry clothes, steaming coffee, and an invitation to spend the night at Zengerstein. I apologized for the necessary precaution of the dogs; with what craft I played upon his sympathies for the idiosyncracies of a blind recluse! As he sighed and sank back in his chair Simon Conrad brimmed with good-will and our best wine.

"Jawohl, Herr Doktor, this is quite an adventure I have had! Traveling alone in the Schwarzwald country is not the pastime for a timorous man, I fear...”

He laughed with inane good humor; I fancy my response was a trifle false. I was not in a mood for laughter. Alone! I thought. Then, he is alone! Excitement dried my throat. Every thread of the pattern fell so neatly into place! I wearied of his chatter. I writhed under his gauche solicitude for my affliction.

“It must be a lonely world for you. Jar Me, I do not know what I would do without my eyes. I am a jeweler by trade, you see; the firm of Krondorf in Munich; I have been fortunate, Gott sei dank! My sight has always, been perfect...”

The mask of polite interest my guest saw gave no hint of the impatience that seethed in my brain. I thought the prattling fool would never be quiet; I thought he would never retire to the bedchamber Victor had prepared for him. But, he did...

“Schlafen Sie wohl, Herr Conrad,” I called after him.

"Danke...”

Two sets of footsteps receded up the stone stairway. I poured myself a drink. Agitation destroyed my usually keen sense of direction; some of the wine spilled. I rose and paced before the hearth until Victor returned. I clutched his arm.

“His eyes!” I hissed. "What were they like, Victor?”

The fragile body drew away from me.

“I do not understand, Herr Doktor. What does all this solicitude for Conrad mean?” The old whine crept into his tone. “You’ve acted most peculiarly, ever since he appeared... I...”

“The eyes!” I snapped. "The eyes, you idiot!”

"How should I know?" Petulantly, Victor freed his arm. “His eyes are like any others... a young man's eyes... keen and very blue. I don’t see...”

I nodded. “Then, we need wait no longer....”

“Wait? I don’t under...” The nasal voice withered; Victor swallowed audibly. “The experiment? You don’t mean... No, you can’t...”

“But, we can —we shall!”

“No!” It was a weak cry of cowardice. “I won’t do it.... It’s insane.... Anyway, it might only fail...”

“It can’t fail,” I said thickly. “I must see again!”

"I won’t be involved in this hideous...”

“You will!” My fingers caught his lapel, crept upward, and closed on his throat. “You’ll do as I say or spend the rest of your days rotting in prison. The authorities would still be interested to know who caused the accident at Freiburg, my dear Victor. I thrust him from me. “Think it over,” I said levelly. “Think, quickly.”

I heard the raw sound of his breathing. His tread approached the wine-cabinet; there was the cold clink of bottle and glass. I smiled. After a long minute, Victor said in a soft, beaten voice:

“When?”

It was not easy. I had never done this sort of thing' before. I had no grievance against Conrad; but it was his life or mine. If the experiment succeeded, the world would lose an insignificant jeweler, but regain a brilliant surgeon. Yes. It was difficult; But, anyone must admit, there was no other way. We waited until Conrad slept. I do not know how long. Victor crouched by my side in the tower alcove scant feet from Conrad’s chamber-door. Nocturnal rats skittered and squealed in the shadows; in a lower corridor, the Swiss clock moaned the quarter hour. No sound issued from Conrad's room. With the stealth of a night animal, my hand reached for the latch.

“Quietly!” Victor whimpered. "He may still be awake...”

The latch, clicked faintly; the door inched inward on a crack. A hinge whined;

Victor’s breath clogged in his throat. We stood quite still. With the sudden changefulness of a regional storm, the rain had abated shortly before midnight; now, the moon shimmered in a liquescent sky. Victor touched my arm.

“He’s asleep...”

“Are you certain...?”

“The moonlight falling across the bed. I can see his face...”

I listened more closely; the groan of a snore reached me. I nodded.

“All right,” I said. “Now...”

It was done very quickly. We were beside the bed and Victor had pinned Conrad’s arms to his sides. A gasp ripped from the sleeper’s throat. He slept no longer. I felt his neck-muscles go taut beneath my searching grasp; I sensed his bulging eyes burning into my face. He managed one desperate, “Nein!” and then, deftly, the scalpel in my delicate fingers found the carotid artery. Conrad jolted; his throat gurgled; warm blood bathed my hand. I heard Victor moan at the sight of it. Briefly, Conrad struggled. Then, he stopped breathing. The body went rigid, then limp. My hands quivered. It took him longer to die than I had thought it would.

The worst was over. Simon Conrad was no longer a man; only a collection of bones and flesh and dying organisms; a guinea-pig, ripe for experimentation. The laboratory that let off the library had been long in preparation for this moment; even when I had despaired of ever testing my theory, some inner sense of urgency had led me to have every instrument in readiness. The only thing I had to fear was the weakness of Victor Rupert; and, in this final instant, that fear was dispelled. For, like an actor, nervous until the rise of curtain, but exquisitely self-assured once on stage, Victor had grown suddenly calm and detached; he was not a weakling, now. With the power of my will, the brilliance of my brain to direct his every move, he had become a precise surgical machine; his hands worked over Conrad’s head as if they had been my own, responding to each order almost before it was spoken. The operation was a success; in less than an hour, two eliptical blue orbs floated in a jar of physiological saline beside the operating table.

*

BY DAWN, we had disposed of the body. The, foetid vaults beneath the Castle were perfectly fitted to our needs. Simon Conrad lay in final rest amid the dust of the Barons von Zengerstein. As I climbed the dank stairway to my bed-chamber, a thrill of well-being mixed with expectation shot through my weary body. My deliverance was at hand. That day, I slept, a more contented sleep than I had known in many years.

Not so with Victor. The tension of that moment of strange scientific achievement past, the weakling lapsed back into the tortured realm of doubt and cowardice. He could not have slept at all; in the evening, when I rose, I found him already in the library. His voice was discordant with strained nerves. He was pouring himself a drink. I went to his side.

“How many have you had?”

“I don’t see what business that is of yours!” he snapped. "If I want to drink...” He got no further; I smashed the glass from his fingers. It splintered on the floor. “I told you to stay sober!”

“But, I need it! These trembing hands —I tell you I can’t go through with this...”

“You must! We’ve been over the details a thousand times...”

“No”

“You will, my dear Victor. Remember the authorities in Freiburg. And one other thing; you are now an accomplice in a premeditated murder...” Breath snagged in

his throat; I seized his wrist. “I tell you, you can do it. Stop being a coward! Your hands are perfect; you worked wonderfully on Conrad last night...”

“But, you were there to, back me up. If I made a mistake....”

“There will be no mistakes! Understand, Victor? You dare not make a mistake. You are the one who robbed me of my sight, and you are the one who will restore it!”

Despite my insistence, I was not at all certain it was wise to keep Victor from the liquor. Perhaps it would steady his nerves, work his mind to a pitch as coldly surgical as it had been when he worked on Conrad. That night, as I prepared myself for the final step in the experiment, misgiving seized my mind. Perhaps Victor was right; without my will to guide him, once I was under anaesthesia, he might falter; he might make a mistake...

He stood washing his hands in disinfectant; when he spoke, his tone seemed calm enough. And yet... I sighed and shrugged. It was a chance, but it had to be risked. I lay back on the operating table; silent, sure, Victor was; at my head. The mask brushed my cheek; the stench of ether swirled in my dark world. I breathed deeply. It did not take long. But, as I relinquished the last shred of consciousness, a needle of fear stabbed my brain. Victor’s fingers touched my forehead, and, it seemed to me, they trembled...

The return to consciousness was slow and painful. There was no sound; only the smell of antiseptic, and the tautness of bandages that swathed my head; the skin of my eyesockets ached and stung. My tongue felt thick in the arid hole of my mouth. Something rustled to the right of me.

“Victor...?”

There was no answer; instruments rattled in a sterilizing basin. I pawed the air impatiently.

“Victor, where are you?”

“Here, Herr Doktor...” His voice was dry and tight. My groping fingers caught the edge of his tunic.

“Tell me,” I croaked. “Quickly, you fool! It was a success? It went well...?”

Victor cleared his throat; his tone turned evasive. “You should be quiet, now, Herr Doktor....”

I tightened my grip on his tunic; I drew his face down to mine. His whimpering breath was audible.