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. Thuvia, Maid of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs (the snowy day read aloud txt) 📖
- Author: Edgar Rice Burroughs
Book online «Thuvia, Maid of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs (the snowy day read aloud txt) 📖». Author Edgar Rice Burroughs
“Who should know better than the Prince of Helium?” she asked in return. “Did he not come hither of his own free will?”
“From Aaanthor I came voluntarily upon the trail of the green man who had stolen you, Thuvia,” he replied; “but from the time I left Helium until I awoke above Aaanthor I thought myself bound for Ptarth.
“It had been intimated that I had guilty knowledge of your abduction,” he explained simply, “and I was hastening to the jeddak, your father, to convince him of the falsity of the charge, and to give my service to your recovery. Before I left Helium some one tampered with my compass, so that it bore me to Aaanthor instead of to Ptarth. That is all. You believe me?”
“But the warriors who stole me from the garden!” she exclaimed. “After we arrived at Aaanthor they wore the metal of the Prince of Helium. When they took me they were trapped in Dusarian harness. There seemed but a single explanation. Whoever dared the outrage wished to put the onus upon another, should he be detected in the act; but once safely away from Ptarth he felt safe in having his minions return to their own harness.”
“You believe that I did this thing, Thuvia?” he asked.
“Ah, Carthoris,” she replied sadly, “I did not wish to believe it; but when everything pointed to you—even then I would not believe it.”
“I did not do it, Thuvia,” he said. “But let me be entirely honest with you. As much as I love your father, as much as I respect Kulan Tith, to whom you are betrothed, as well as I know the frightful consequences that must have followed such an act of mine, hurling into war, as it would, three of the greatest nations of Barsoom—yet, notwithstanding all this, I should not have hesitated to take you thus, Thuvia of Ptarth, had you even hinted that it would not have displeased you.
“But you did nothing of the kind, and so I am here, not in my own service, but in yours, and in the service of the man to whom you are promised, to save you for him, if it lies within the power of man to do so,” he concluded, almost bitterly.
Thuvia of Ptarth looked into his face for several moments. Her breast was rising and falling as though to some resistless emotion. She half took a step toward him. Her lips parted as though to speak—swiftly and impetuously.
And then she conquered whatever had moved her.
“The future acts of the Prince of Helium,” she said coldly, “must constitute the proof of his past honesty of purpose.”
Carthoris was hurt by the girl’s tone, as much as by the doubt as to his integrity which her words implied.
He had half hoped that she might hint that his love would be acceptable—certainly there was due him at least a little gratitude for his recent acts in her behalf; but the best he received was cold skepticism.
The Prince of Helium shrugged his broad shoulders. The girl noted it, and the little smile that touched his lips, so that it became her turn to be hurt.
Of course she had not meant to hurt him. He might have known that after what he had said she could not do anything to encourage him! But he need not have made his indifference quite so palpable. The men of Helium were noted for their gallantry—not for boorishness. Possibly it was the Earth blood that flowed in his veins.
How could she know that the shrug was but Carthoris’ way of attempting, by physical effort, to cast blighting sorrow from his heart, or that the smile upon his lips was the fighting smile of his father with which the son gave outward evidence of the determination he had reached to submerge his own great love in his efforts to save Thuvia of Ptarth for another, because he believed that she loved this other!
He reverted to his original question.
“Where are we?” he asked. “I do not know.”
“Nor I,” replied the girl. “Those who stole me from Ptarth spoke among themselves of Aaanthor, so that I thought it possible that the ancient city to which they took me was that famous ruin; but where we may be now I have no idea.”
“When the bowmen return we shall doubtless learn all that there is to know,” said Carthoris. “Let us hope that they prove friendly. What race may they be? Only in the most ancient of our legends and in the mural paintings of the deserted cities of the dead sea-bottoms are depicted such a race of auburn-haired, fair-skinned people. Can it be that we have stumbled upon a surviving city of the past which all Barsoom believes buried beneath the ages?”
Thuvia was looking toward the forest into which the green men and the pursuing bowmen had disappeared. From a great distance came the hideous cries of banths, and an occasional shot.
“It is strange that they do not return,” said the girl.
“One would expect to see the wounded limping or being carried back to the city,” replied Carthoris, with a puzzled frown. “But how about the wounded nearer the city? Have they carried them within?”
Both turned their eyes toward the field between them and the walled city, where the fighting had been most furious.
There were the banths, still growling about their hideous feast.
Carthoris looked at Thuvia in astonishment. Then he pointed toward the field.
“Where are they?” he whispered. “What has become of their dead and wounded?”
THE JEDDAK OF LOTHAR
The girl looked her incredulity.
“They lay in piles,” she murmured. “There were thousands of them but a minute ago.”
“And now,” continued Carthoris, “there remain but the banths and the carcasses of the green men.”
“They must have sent forth and carried the dead bowmen away while we were talking,” said the girl.
“It is impossible!” replied Carthoris. “Thousands of dead lay there upon the field but a moment since. It would have required many hours to have removed them. The thing is uncanny.”
“I had hoped,” said Thuvia, “that we might find an asylum with these fair-skinned people. Notwithstanding their valour upon the field of battle, they did not strike me as a ferocious or warlike people. I had been about to suggest that we seek entrance to the city, but now I scarce know if I care to venture among people whose dead vanish into thin air.”
“Let us chance it,” replied Carthoris. “We can be no worse off within their walls than without. Here we may fall prey to the banths or the no less fierce Torquasians. There, at least, we shall find beings moulded after our own images.
“All that causes me to hesitate,” he added, “is the danger of taking you past so many banths. A single sword would scarce prevail were even a couple of them to charge simultaneously.”
“Do not fear on that score,” replied the girl, smiling. “The banths will not harm us.”
As she spoke she descended from the platform, and with Carthoris at her side stepped fearlessly out upon the bloody field in the direction of the walled city of mystery.
They had advanced but a short distance when a banth, looking up from its gory feast, descried them. With an angry roar the beast walked quickly in their direction, and at the sound of its voice a score of others followed its example.
Carthoris drew his long-sword. The girl stole a quick glance at his face. She saw the smile upon his lips, and it was as wine to sick nerves; for even upon warlike Barsoom where all men are brave, woman reacts quickly to quiet indifference to danger—to dare-deviltry that is without bombast.
“You may return your sword,” she said. “I told you that the banths would not harm us. Look!” and as she spoke she stepped quickly toward the nearest animal.
Carthoris would have leaped after her to protect her, but with a gesture she motioned him back. He heard her calling to the banths in a low, singsong voice that was half purr.
Instantly the great heads went up and all the wicked eyes were riveted upon the figure of the girl. Then, stealthily, they commenced moving toward her. She had stopped now and was standing waiting them.
One, closer to her than the others, hesitated. She spoke to him imperiously, as a master might speak to a refractory hound.
The great carnivore let its head droop, and with tail between its legs came slinking to the girl’s feet, and after it came the others until she was entirely surrounded by the savage man-eaters.
Turning she led them to where Carthoris stood. They growled a little as they neared the man, but a few sharp words of command put them in their places.
“How do you do it?” exclaimed Carthoris.
“Your father once asked me that same question in the galleries of the Golden Cliffs within the Otz Mountains, beneath the temples of the therns. I could not answer him, nor can I answer you. I do not know whence comes my power over them, but ever since the day that Sator Throg threw me among them in the banth pit of the Holy Therns, and the great creatures fawned upon instead of devouring me, I ever have had the same strange power over them. They come at my call and do my bidding, even as the faithful Woola does the bidding of your mighty sire.”
With a word the girl dispersed the fierce pack. Roaring, they returned to their interrupted feast, while Carthoris and Thuvia passed among them toward the walled city.
As they advanced the man looked with wonder upon the dead bodies of those of the green men that had not been devoured or mauled by the banths.
He called the girl’s attention to them. No arrows protruded from the great carcasses. Nowhere upon any of them was the sign of mortal wound, nor even slightest scratch or abrasion.
Before the bowmen’s dead had disappeared the corpses of the Torquasians had bristled with the deadly arrows of their foes. Where had the slender messengers of death departed? What unseen hand had plucked them from the bodies of the slain?
Despite himself Carthoris could scarce repress a shudder of apprehension as he glanced toward the silent city before them. No longer was sign of life visible upon wall or roof top. All was quiet—brooding, ominous quiet.
Yet he was sure that eyes watched them from somewhere behind that blank wall.
He glanced at Thuvia. She was advancing with wide eyes fixed upon the city gate. He looked in the direction of her gaze, but saw nothing.
His gaze upon her seemed to arouse her as from a lethargy. She glanced up at him, a quick, brave smile touching her lips, and then, as though the act was involuntary, she came close to his side and placed one of her hands in his.
He guessed that something within her that was beyond her conscious control was appealing to him for protection. He threw an arm about her, and thus they crossed the field. She did not draw away from him. It is doubtful that she realized that his arm was there, so engrossed was she in the mystery of the strange city before them.
They stopped before the gate. It was a mighty thing. From its construction Carthoris could but dimly speculate upon its unthinkable antiquity.
It was circular, closing a circular aperture, and the Heliumite knew from his study of ancient Barsoomian architecture that it rolled to one side, like a huge wheel, into an aperture in the wall.
Even such world-old cities as ancient Aaanthor were as yet undreamed of when the races lived that built such gates as these.
As he stood speculating upon the identity of this forgotten city, a voice spoke to them from above. Both looked up. There, leaning over the edge of the high wall, was a man.
His hair was auburn, his skin fair—fairer even than that of John Carter, the Virginian. His forehead was high, his eyes large and intelligent.
The language that he used was intelligible to the two below, yet there was a marked difference between it and their Barsoomian tongue.
“Who are you?” he asked. “And what do you here before the gate of Lothar?”
“We are friends,” replied Carthoris. “This be the princess, Thuvia of Ptarth, who was captured by the Torquasian horde. I am Carthoris of Helium, Prince of the house of Tardos Mors, Jeddak of Helium, and son of John Carter, Warlord of Mars, and of his wife, Dejah Thoris.”
“‘Ptarth’?” repeated the man. “‘Helium’?” He shook his head. “I never have heard of these places, nor did I know that there dwelt upon Barsoom a race of thy strange colour. Where may these cities lie, of which you speak? From our loftiest tower we have never
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