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. Bat Wing by Sax Rohmer (ebook reader for surface pro txt) 📖
- Author: Sax Rohmer
Book online «Bat Wing by Sax Rohmer (ebook reader for surface pro txt) 📖». Author Sax Rohmer
Paul Harley nodded and exchanged a swift glance with me. I formed a rapid mental picture of native life under the governorship of Colonel Juan Menendez and I began to consider his story from a new viewpoint. Seemingly rendered restless by his reflections, he stood up and began to pace the floor, a tall but curiously graceful figure. I noticed the bulldog tenacity of his chin, the intense pride in his bearing, and I wondered what kind of menace had induced him to seek the aid of Paul Harley; for whatever his failings might be, and I could guess at the nature of several of them, that this thin-lipped Spanish soldier knew the meaning of fear I was not prepared to believe.
“Before you proceed further, Colonel Menendez,” said Harley, “might I ask when you left Cuba?”
“Some three years ago,” was his reply. “Because—” he hesitated curiously—“of health motives, I leased a property in England, believing that here I should find peace.”
“In other words, you were afraid of something or someone in Cuba?”
Colonel Menendez turned in a flash, glaring down at the speaker.
“I never feared any man in my life, Mr. Harley,” he said, coldly.
“Then why are you here?”
The Colonel placed the stump of his first cigarette in an ash tray and lighted that which he had newly made.
“It is true,” he admitted. “Forgive me. Yet what I said was that I never feared any man.”
He stood squarely in front of the Burmese cabinet, resting one hand upon his hip. Then he added a remark which surprised me.
“Do you know anything of Voodoo?” he asked.
Paul Harley took his pipe from between his teeth and stared at the speaker silently for a moment. “Voodoo?” he echoed. “You mean negro magic?”
“Exactly.”
“My studies have certainly not embraced it,” replied Harley, quietly, “nor has it hitherto come within my experience. But since I have lived much in the East, I am prepared to learn that Voodoo may not be a negligible quantity. There are forces at work in India which we in England improperly understand. The same may be true of Cuba.”
“The same is true of Cuba.”
Colonel Menendez glared almost fiercely across the room at Paul Harley.
“And do I understand,” asked the latter, “that the danger which you believe to threaten you is associated with Cuba?”
“That, Mr. Harley, is for you to decide when all the facts shall be in your possession. Do you wish that I proceed?”
“By all means. I must confess that I am intensely interested.”
“Very well, Mr. Harley. I have something to show you.”
From an inside breast pocket Colonel Menendez drew out a gold-mounted case, and from the case took some flat, irregularly shaped object wrapped in a piece of tissue paper. Unfolding the paper, he strode across and laid the object which it had contained upon the blotting pad in front of my friend.
Impelled by curiosity I stood up and advanced to inspect it. It was of a dirty brown colour, some five or six inches long, and appeared to consist of a kind of membrane. Harley, his elbow on the table, was staring down at it questioningly.
“What is it?” I said; “some kind of leaf?”
“No,” replied Harley, looking up into the dark face of the Spanish colonel; “I think I know what it is.”
“I, also, know what it is.” declared Colonel Menendez, grimly. “But tell me what to you it seems like, Mr. Harley?”
Paul Harley’s expression was compounded of incredulity, wonder, and something else, as, continuing to stare at the speaker, he replied:
“It is the wing of a bat.”
CHAPTER II. THE VOODOO SWAMP
Often enough my memory has recaptured that moment in Paul Harley’s office, when Harley, myself, and the tall Spaniard stood looking down at the bat wing lying upon the blotting pad.
My brilliant friend at times displayed a sort of prescience, of which I may have occasion to speak later, but I, together with the rest of pur-blind humanity, am commonly immune from the prophetic instinct. Therefore I chronicle the fact for what it may be worth, that as I gazed with a sort of disgust at the exhibit lying upon the table I became possessed of a conviction, which had no logical basis, that a door had been opened through which I should step into a new avenue of being; I felt myself to stand upon the threshold of things strange and terrible, but withal alluring. Perhaps it is true that in the great crises of life the inner eye becomes momentarily opened.
With intense curiosity I awaited the Colonel’s next words, but, a cigarette held nervously between his fingers, he stood staring at Harley, and it was the latter who broke that peculiar silence which had fallen upon us.
“The wing of a bat,” he murmured, then touched it gingerly. “Of what kind of bat, Colonel Menendez? Surely not a British species?”
“But emphatically not a British species,” replied the Spaniard. “Yet even so the matter would be strange.”
“I am all anxiety to learn the remainder of your story, Colonel Menendez.”
“Good. Your interest comforts me very greatly, Mr. Harley. But when first I came, you led me to suppose that you were departing from London?”
“Such, at the time, was my intention, sir.” Paul Harley smiled slightly. “Accompanied by my friend, Mr. Knox, I had proposed to indulge in a fortnight’s fishing upon the Norfolk Broads.”
“Fishing?”
“Yes.”
“A peaceful occupation, Mr. Harley, and a great rest-cure for one who like yourself moves much amid the fiercer passions of life. You were about to make holiday?”
Paul Harley nodded.
“It is cruel of me to intrude upon such plans,” continued Colonel Menendez, dexterously rolling his cigarette around between his fingers. “Yet because of my urgent need I dare to do so. Would yourself and your friend honour me with your company at Cray’s Folly for a few days? I can promise you good entertainment, although I regret that
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