“Maybe he
would,” said Gene. “But on the other hand, maybe he wouldn’t. What’s a mute
diplomat going to do to keep himself in business? Maybe it was easier to stay
at the house and have Lorie’s mother look after him. Maybe he still loves her.
I think the best thing I can do is go find him and ask him for myself.”
“Gene,” said
Maggie “worriedly, “do you have a gun there?”
“Sure. I have a
30-30 big-game rifle.”
“Well, please
take care. I mean it. Call me if you need help, and I’ll get round there right
away.”
“I think I can
manage. Can you try to stay by the phone?”
“Surely. Let me
know when you’ve talked to Mathieu.”
“I will. And,
well, thanks) Maggie. That’s all I can say.”
“Don’t say
anything, Gene. Just stay alive.”
He lifted the
rifle out from under the bed and made sure it was loaded. It was a quarter
after one now, and the house was very quiet and dark. Yesterday’s wind had
blown itself out, and the night seemed suspended in stillness and silence. Only
the haunted cry of owls in the woods disturbed the sleep of the Semple estate
and its shadowy house; and only Gene’s tautened breathing disturbed the
absolute tension of his bedroom.
He dressed in a
roll-neck sweater and dark gray slacks. Then he took the rifle in his right
hand and went softly to the door. He opened it, and it creaked. The landing
outside was deserted and dark.
He knew that
Mathieu slept downstairs someplace, but he didn’t know exactly where. Treading
as lightly as he could, he tiptoed along the landing until he reached the head
of the stairs. Behind him, the stained glass window washed pale colored light
into the gloom of the house. He waited, and listened, but there was no sound at
all.
Keeping his
hand on the banister rail, he stepped slowly downstairs. The hallway was so
dark that he had to wait at the foot of the stairs so that his eyes could
gradually grow accustomed to the shadows. When he was ready, he walked across
to the kitchen door and pushed it open. He was pretty sure that. Mathieu had a
room that came off the scullery someplace.
The kitchen
door squeaked, and he held his breath for thirty seconds waiting to hear if he
had awakened anyone. Lorie he didn’t mind about. He knew she was asleep and
locked in. But it was Mrs. Semple who was. the unknown factor. If the legends
that Maggie had read to him were grounded anywhere in fact, Mrs. Semple was a
powerful and dominant figure in this household, and she was dedicated to the
preservation of her species. That didn’t make for a friendly opponent, or any
tolerance about snooping around the house in the dark.
The house was
still quiet, so he walked softly across the kitchen to the scullery door. It
was a few inches ajar, and he pushed it a little further open with the muzzle
of his rifle. Beyond the door, it was totally dark, and he would have to make
his way by feel.
With one hand
raised to protect himself from colliding with unseen furniture, and the rifle
held upright in the other hand, Gene shuffled gently toward the left side of
the scullery, where he guessed that Mathieu’s room was. He paused every now and
then to listen, but it seemed that everything was still quiet.
He was just
about to put his hand on the doorknob of Mathieu’s room when he thought he
heard a slight scuffling noise. He froze, and tensed. Silence. H& reached
out again for the doorknob, and then something hit him a bruising blow across
the neck, something as hard and violent as a bar of iron. He fell against the
wall, lost his balance, and crashed to the floor. His rifle was twisted out of
his hand and skated across the scullery.
A heavy body
dropped on top of him, and a callused hand was clamped over his mouth. He
twisted around and tried to get away, but his assailant was far too powerful
for him.
“Don’t move,”
croaked a deep, aspirate voice. “Don’t move once, I break your neck.”
Gene lay still.
The back of his head had hit the tiled floor of the scullery, and it was almost
blinding him with pain.
He mumbled,
“Monsieur Semple?” There was a long silence. Then the heavy body was eased off
him, and the hand taken away from his face.
“You know me?”
said the wheezing, hollow voice. “You know me?”
Gene lifted
himself up on one elbow and gently touched the bruise at the back of his head.
“I guessed,” he
said quietly. “Based on anthropological evidence.”
“You know about
Ubasti?”
“Not until
tonight. My secretary’s been doing some research for me in the specialist
anthropological library. She dug up all the stuff about breeding by alternate
generations.”
“Smith’s
gazelle,” croaked M. Semple. “That’s right,” said Gene. “Smith’s gazelle.
Tonight worked out who the gazelle was and what I was here for.”
M. Semple
reached out a hand and helped Gene to his feet “You must come into my room,” he
said hoarsely. “We must not wake the ladies.”
He pushed open
the door next to the scullery, and ushered Gene into a small bed-sitting room.
There was a
single, untidy bed with a red bedspread, a long, makeshift shelf of books, and
two threadbare armchairs. The room was heated by a tiny electric fire with a
tarnished reflector, and the only other comfort was a hotplate where M. Semple
could apparently brew coffee and tea. The walls were hung with dozens of framed
photographs of French officers in Tunis and Algeria, photographs of Mrs.
Semple, and pictures of Lorie when she was a baby.
“Sit down,”
invited M. Semple. “I am sorry I hit you. I have to protect myself.”
Gene sat down.
“Do you have any cigarettes?”
“If you don’t
mind Gauloises. I’m allowed one hundred a week.”
Gene took a
French cigarette out of the blue pack that M. Semple offered him, and soon the
room was clouded with the pungent smell of tobacco. M. Semple sat down opposite
and crossed his legs. He was still as impassive and hard-faced as usual, but
for the first time Gene noticed that his impassiveness seemed to reflect his
internal thoughtfulness and self-secrecy, rather than an aggressive attitude
toward the world around him.
“You speak
well,” said Gene. “Did you teach yourself?”
M. Semple
nodded. “After the she-lion bit out my tongue, I could not speak at all for
months.
But I read in
Time magazine about men who had their larynx removed, and how they learned to
speak again, and I taught myself. It is hard effort, of course, and I do not
let those she-lions know that I can do it very much. One day, I will need to
speak by surprise.”
“You surprised
me.”
“The feeling is
mutual, Mr. Keiller. I thought you were going to go to your fate like an obedient
gazelle.”
“You knew what
they had in mind?”
“Of course.”
“Then why
didn’t you tell me before?”
“I tried to
give you clues. But they are always watching, those she-ions. If they knew that
we have spoken, they will tear me to pieces.”
“What about the
police?”
“Mr. Keiller, I
wish to survive. I am afraid that my feelings about you were that if you were
foolish enough to walk into this lair with your eyes open, and wait for your
sacrificial death without a murmur, then that was your own affair.”
It took M. Semple
a long time to say this, and he lad to pause for rest in between sentences, but
Gene was amazed at the clarity of his curious organ-pipe voice. He must have
spent hours and hours every night, training his voice by do-it-yourself speech
therapy. There were several books on diction and voice training on his shelf.
“M. Semple,” he
said, “can you try and tell me that’s going on here? Can you try and tell me
what Lorie and Mrs. Semple are actually doing?”
M. Semple lit a
cigarette for himself. “They are not doing anything they consider out of the
ordinary. They are simply carrying on the line of the Lion-God Bast.”
“But how can
they persuade a lion to... how can they get it to mate?”
M. Semple’s
face remained expressionless. “There is a ritual, which is always observed. It
dates back to the days of Tell Besta, which I presume you know about When
Rameses cast out the worshippers of the Lion-God Bast from the Upper Nile, and
cursed them forever in the name of Horus> the worshippers swore that they
would continue the line of lion-people for ever more.
The name of
Bast would never die. And, sure enough, after all these centuries, it has not.”
The Frenchman
paused for breath; and to puff at his cigarette. “When it is the generation of
the lion-mating, when it is time for a girl to have intercourse with a lion,
they go through the same procedure. The girl herself goes out and selects a
choice human tidbit for the lion’s sacrificial gift. It is important that this
gift is a virile and intelligent male, and that is why Lorie went to the
party–to choose someone. You, regrettably, chose yourself; and it was a pity
because Lorie actually liked you, and in a very short time, grew to love you.
She did not want the sacrifice to be you. But you, very stubbornly, seemed determined
to offer yourself up to Bast. Once my wife had seen you, she considered you
perfect, and that is why they have done so much to keep you here.”
“What about the
night that Lorie went out and killed that sheep? Surely that was a risk. That
almost put me off her once and for all.”
“It is
something that happens,” wheezed M. Semple. “They cannot help it. As the
lion-mating draws closer, the lioness within them grows irresistibly stronger,
and they prowl around at night like real lions. They cannot prowl by day
because they are cursed by the sun-god Horus, and if they did so they would
die. A few weeks before the lion-mating, the Ubasti girl goes out and anoints
herself, in preparation, with the blood of a first-born child. That is done to
prove to herself that she is enough of a lioness at heart, and that the strain
of the lion-people flows strongly enough in her veins.”
“You mean...”
“There was no
sheep. Your suspicions were quite right. She went out that night, mauled a
young boy to death, and devoured him.”
Gene dropped
his eyes. “Oh, Christ,” he said quietly. “And to think I believed her.”
M. Semple
shrugged. “It was not your fault. You had good faith and trust in your wife. I
am her father, remember, Mr. Keiller, and I knew that if only she were normal,
she would have an exemplary husband in you.”
Gene drew deep
at his cigarette. “Thank you, M. Semple. I only wish I could say that was a
consolation.”
M. Semple stood
up, and walked across to the photographs on the wall. “This is my wife on the
day we were married. Isn’t she beautiful? If only I had known what was to
come.”
“M. Semple, the
other night, I thought I saw a kind of... I don’t know, shape , . . leaving the
house in the dark. I couldn’t be sure. I checked up on Lorie, and she was still
in her room.”
M.. Semple
nodded. “That was my wife. As a lion-priestess, she is duty-bound to tempt the
lion to mate with her daughter. One temptation is you, of course, the main
sacrifice. You will be offered to the lion after mating, and the lion will
devour you. You and the lion will then be in what they call a state of
hakhim-al jarikka, ‘two loves in one.’ But of course the lion has to be tempted
to the mating place, too, and this is done by finding a boy-child and ripping
him open alive, so that his blood and entrails can be dragged as a trail along
the ground to the mating-place.”
Gene frowned.
“You mean, another boy has been killed?”
M. Semple
nodded. “Last night He was the son of the French Ambassador. My wife, of
course, knows the French Embassy well, and all who live and work there. It was
a simple matter for her to steal the boy at night.”
“I can’t
believe it. I simply can’t believe it. Are you telling me that the boy was
dragged out of his bed by Mrs. Semple and killed. Just to make a trail!”
“You don’t have
to believe it,” said M. Semple. “But I thought you would have seen enough by
now to convince you that it is true. These are the she-lions of Ubasti/Mr.
Keiller. They are the most terrible creatures on this earth, and always have
been, since the days of Rameses and all the pharaohs.”
Gene crushed
out his Gauloise. “But if you knew this, why didn’t you try to do something?
Anything?”
M. Semple sat
down on the end of his bed. He pulled at the fraying tassels of his bed-cover.
“Perhaps you
will think I am a coward. Yes, I am. I have learned to keep myself quiet and do
what I am told. It is the only way in which I can survive. I cannot escape this
place. If I tried to get away even once, the she-lions would find me, and they
would tear me to shreds.”
“You’d rather
let two young kids die than...”
M. Semple
raised his head. “You don’t have to remind me of how ashamed I feel, Mr.
Keiller.
There are times
when I could cut my throat for shame. But the Ubasti bring nothing but death
wherever they go. It was like in Canada, when another man died because of me. A
vagrant from Vancouver. My wife dressed him in my clothes, and then ripped him
apart so that he was unrecognizable. She later said the body was mine, and that
was how I ‘died.’ The Ubasti are cold-blooded, Mr. Keiller, and your choice is
either to die like a sheep or survive like a rat”
“You’ve got
guns, for Christ’s sake. Why the hell don’t you pick up that big-game rifle and
blow their heads off?”
M. Semple
grunted in amusement. “Guns, Mr. Keiller, but no live ammunition. They gave you
that 30-30 to make you feel secure. That’s all. The rounds are blank.”
Gene stood up,
and brushed ash from his clothes. “M. Sample,” he said, “I’m getting out of
here right now. I’m leaving. And the first thing I’m going to do When I get out
is call the police.”