Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📖
- Author: Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall
Book online «The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📖». Author Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall
“I am sorry” she answered. “So sorry. I would have saved him. And the Rhamda; was he here, too?”
I nodded. Her eyes flashed wickedly.
“And—and you—tell me, did you fight with the Rhamda? You—”
“It was Watson,” I interrupted. “This Rhamda is behind it all. He is the villain. He can fight like a tiger; whoever he is he can fight.”
She frowned slightly; she shook her head.
“You young men,” she said. “You young men! You are all alike! Why must it be? I am so sorry. And you fought with the Rhamda? You could not overcome him, of course. But tell me, how could you resist him? What did you do?”
What did she mean? I had felt his flesh and muscle. He was a man. Why could he not be conquered—not be resisted?
“I don't understand,” I answered. “He is a man. I fought him. He was here. Let him account for Watson. We fought alone at first, until he tried to throw me into this Thing. Then Hobart stepped in. Once I thought we had him, but he was too slippery. He came near putting us both in. I don't know. Something happened—a bell.”
Her hand was on my arm, she clutched it tightly, she swallowed hard; in her eyes flashed the fire that I had noticed once before, the softness died out, and their glint was almost terrible.
“He! The bell saved you? He would dare to throw you into the Blind Spot!”
I lay back. I was terribly weak and uncertain. This beautiful woman! What was her interest in myself?
“Harry,” she spoke, “let me ask you. I am your friend. If you only knew! I would save you. It must not be. Will you give me the ring? If I could only tell you! You must not have it. It is death—yes, worse than death. No man may wear it.”
So that was it. Again and so soon I was to be tempted. Was her concern feigned or real? Why did she call me Harry? Why did I not resent it? She was wonderful; she was beautiful; she was pure. Was it merely a subtle act for the Rhamda? I could still hear Watson's voice ringing out of the Blind Spot; “Hold the ring! Hold the ring!” I could not be false to my friend.
“Tell me first,” I asked. “Who is this Rhamda? What is he? Is he a man?”
“No.”
Not a man! I remembered Watson's words: “A phantom!” How could it be? At least I would find out what I could.
“Then tell me, what is he?”
“She smiled faintly; again the elusive tenderness lingered about her lips, the wistful droop at the corners.
“That I may not tell you, Harry. You couldn't understand. If only I could.”
Certainly I couldn't understand her evasion. I studied and watched her—her wondrous hair, the perfection of her throat, the curve of her bosom.
“Then he is supernatural.”
“No, not that, Harry. That would explain everything. One cannot go above Nature. He is living just as you are.”
I studied a moment.
“Are you a woman?” I asked suddenly.
Perhaps I should not have asked it; she was so sad and beautiful, somehow I could not doubt her sincerity. There was a burden at the back of her sadness, some great yearning unsatisfied, unattainable. She dropped her head. The hand upon my arm quivered and clutched spasmodically; I caught the least sound of a sob. When I looked up her eyes were wet and sparkling.
“Oh,” she said. “Harry, why do you ask it? A woman! Harry, a woman! To live and love and to be loved. What must it be? There is so much of life that is sweet and pure. I love it—I love it! I can have everything but the most exalted thing of all. I can live, see, enjoy, think, but I cannot have love. You knew it from the first. How did you know it? You said—Ah, it is true! I am out of the moonbeams.” She controlled herself suddenly. “Excuse me,” she said simply. “But you can never understand. May I have the ring?”
It was like a dream—her beauty, her voice, everything. But I could still hear Watson. I was to be tempted, cajoled, flattered. What was this story out of the moonbeams? Certainly she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Why had I asked such a question?
“I shall keep the ring,” I answered.
She sighed. A strange weakness came over me; I was drowsy; I lapsed again into unconsciousness; just as I was fading away I heard her speaking: “I am so sorry!”
XI. — BAFFLED
Was it a dream? The next I knew somebody was dousing water down my neck. It was Hobart Fenton. “Lord,” he was saying, “I thought you were never coming to. What hit us? You are pretty well cut up. That was some fight. This Rhamda, who is he? Can you figure him out? Did you hear that bell? What was it?”
I sat up. “Where is the Nervina?” I asked. “The who?” He was bewildered. “Oh, down at the cafe, I suppose. Thought you had forgotten her. Wasn't her mate enough? It might be healthy to forget his Nervina.”
He was a fine sight; his clothes were in ribbons; his plump figure was breaking out at the seams. He regarded me critically.
“What d'you think of the Blind Spot?” he asked. “Who is the Rhamda? He put us out pretty easily.”
“But the girl?” I interrupted. “The girl? Confound it, the girl?”
It was sometime before I could make him understand; even then he refused to believe me.
“It was all a dream,” he said; “all a dream.”
But I was certain.
Fenton began prodding about the room. I do not believe any apartment was ever so thoroughly ransacked. We even tore up the carpet. When we were through he sat in the midst of the debris and wiped his forehead.
“It's no use, Harry—no use. We might have known better. It can't be done. Yet you say you saw a string of incandescence.”
“A single string; the form of Watson; a blur—then nothing,” I answered.
He thought. He quoted the professor:
“'Out of the occult I shall bring you the proof and the substance. It will be concrete—within the reach of your senses.' Isn't that what the doctor said?”
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