Hark

  Weird Tales, March, 1923

  Hark! The Rattle!

  By Joel Townsley Rogers

  I

  drumming droned away.

  “I thought you might have known her, Dirk.”

  E SAT in the Purple Lily-Tain

  “I?” His wide, thin lips twitched.

  Dirk, that far too handsome young

  “Why, Ynecita was common to half New W man, with me.

  York!”

  I drank coffee; Tain Dirk drank

  “But once,” I said, “once, it may be liquor—secretly and alone. The night was assumed, she was true to one man only, Tain drenched with sweating summer heat, but I Dirk.”

  felt cold as ice. Presently we went up to the

  “I’m not interested in women,” said

  Palm Grove Roof, where Bimi Tal was to Dirk.

  dance.

  That was like him. He drank liquor

  “Who is this Bimi Tal, Hammer?” only—secretly and alone.

  Dirk asked me, drumming his fingers.

  “I was interested in Ynecita, Dirk. We

  “A

  woman.”

  used to talk together—”

  “You’re a queer one, Jerry Hammer!”

  “She talked to you?” repeated Dirk.

  said Dirk, narrowing his cold yellow eyes.

  “Strange how she died! No trace, no

  Still he drummed his blunt fingers. one arrested. Yet she’d had her lovers.

  Sharp— tat! tat! tat! Something deep inside Sometimes I think, Dirk, we’ll find the beast me—my liver, perhaps—shivered and grew who killed Ynecita.”

  white at hearing that klirring sound.

  Tain Dirk touched my wrist. His blunt I didn’t answer him right away. Slowly fingers were cold and clammy.

  I sent up smoke rings to circle the huge stars.

  Incomprehensible that women had loved his We sat in a cave of potted palms close by the hands! Yet they were artist’s hands, and could dancing floor. Over us lay blue-black night, mold and chisel. Wet clay, his hands!

  strange and deep. Yellow as roses were the

  “What makes you say that, Hammer?”

  splotches of stars swimming down the sky.

  I looked up at the stars. “It was a beast

  “It shows you’ve been away from New

  who killed Ynorita, Dirk. Some vile snake York, Dirk, if you don’t know Bimi Tal. She’s with blood as cold as this lemon ice. Those made herself more famous as a dancer that marks of teeth on her upper arm! Deep in, ever was Ynecita, Some mystery is supposed bringing blood! What madman killed that girl?

  to hang about her; and those simple children Mad, I say!”

  of New York love mysteries”

  Dirk twisted. He wiped his brown

  “I’ve been away three years,” said forehead, on which sweat glistened in little Dirk sulkily, his eyes contracting.

  beads like scales. “Too hot a night to talk

  “That long? It was three years ago that about such things, Hammer. Let’s talk of Ynecita was killed.”

  something else. Tell me about this Bimi Tal.”

  “Well?” asked Dirk. His finger-

  “You’ll see her soon enough,” I said,

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  2

  watching him. “A girl of about your own age; those gigantic stars the orchestra began to you’re not more than twenty-four, are you?”

  play. A brass and cymbal tune. The air was

  “Born first of January, ’99.”

  hot. From far in the pit of streets rose up the

  “And famous already!”

  noises of the city. Loud! Discord shot with

  “Yes,” said Tain Dirk. I guess you’ve flames. I trembled.

  heard of me.”

  Tain Dirk’s fingers drummed. His

  “Oh. I’ve heard lots of you,” I said; head commenced to sway.

  and saw he didn’t like it.

  “You’ve heard I’m fast with women,

  BIMI TAL danced barefooted on the glazed eh?” asked Dirk, after a pause.

  umber tiles of the Roof.

  “But

  Ynecita—”

  Her dark red hair was free on her

  “Why do you talk of her? ” asked Dirk, naked shoulders. Stamp! stamp! stamp! her irritably. “I never knew her.”

  feet struck flatly on the tiles. Her head was

  “Those marks of teeth on Ynecita’s

  bent back almost to the level of her waist.

  arm—two sharp canines, sharp and hooked; Bracelets jangled on her wrists and ankles.

  barely scratching the skin—like fangs of a snake. Dirk—”

  “I am the daughter of the morning!

  Tain Dirk’s hand crept to his lips,

  I shout, I dance, I laugh away....”

  which were thin, red, and dry. The light in his eyes darkened from yellow to purple. Softly Shaking her clump of red hair; her

  his blunt fingers began to drum his lips. Tat!

  strong muscled limbs weaving; laughing at me tat! tat! But silent as a snake in grass.

  with all her eyes. How like she looked to a

  “A curious thing about teeth, Dirk—

  man dead long years before! How like her you’re a sculptor; maybe you’ve observed it—

  glances to the glances of Red Roane! On her a curious thing that no two are quite alike. We breasts two glittering shields of spangles.

  took prints, Dirk, of those marks in the arm of About her waist a kirtle seemingly woven of Ynecita—”

  long strands of marsh grass, rustling, shivering Dirk’s thin lips opened. His coarsely-with whispers. The sinews of her trunk and formed, but marvelously sensitive, fingers felt limbs rippled beneath her clear brown skin.

  the hardness of his teeth. That gesture was sly.

  The head of Tain Dirk swayed

  At once he knew I’d seen him. He crouched sideways, slowly. The drumming of his back in his chair, his strong, broad head drawn fingers on the table was a reiterative rattle. His in between his shoulders.

  eyes—liquid, subtle—dulled with a look near

  “Who are you?” he hissed.

  to stupidity, then blazed to golden fire. Thin Again the klirring of his fingertips—a and wide were his unsmiling lips. His tongue dusty drumming.

  flicked them. Tat! Tat! Tat!

  “Why, I am only Jerry Hammer— a

  “She’s a beauty!” whispered Dirk.

  wanderer, and a soldier of bad fortune.”

  His terrible eyes seemed to call Bimi

  “Who are you! ”

  Tal as they had called other women.

  “Brother of Stella Hammer, who was

  Mesmerism—what was it? Singing, she

  known as Ynecita, the dancer.”

  pranced toward the den of potted palms where we were sitting. Her skirt rustled like the II

  marshes. Wind of summer.

  Little searchlights, playing colored Upon the Palm Grove Roof, beneath

  lights on Bimi Tal, grew darker. Red and

  Hark! The Rattle!

  3

  violet deepened to brown and green. Still the Bimi Tal; in your deep bosom promise of hot stars above us. In that artificial paper Palm everlasting fecundity. Passion and power of Grove, with the silky puffy women and the the earth! Life is immortal. Your laughing beefsteak-guzzling men looking stupidly, was eyes, Bimi Tal, will never dull. Yet I saw Red born the mystery of the great savannahs.

  Roane die....

  Dirk’s head nodding. Dirk’s thin lips Beneath the shifting lights, Bimi Tal slowly opening. Dirk’s golden eyes leaped and spun, scarcely treading the floor.

  glimmering. Tat! tat! tat! Dirk’s steady Her eyes
sparkled at me. She did not see Tain fingers.

  Dirk. Stamp! Stamp! Stamp! Her bare feet The great savannahs and the tropic struck the tiles, tightening the muscles of her marshes. Bimi Tal dancing. Stealthily, the calves. Her bangles rang.

  music softened from that brass and cymbal I could not keep my eyes from Dirk.

  tune. It rustled. It crawled. It reared fanged His broad brown-and-golden head swayed heads.

  continually. His thin lips worked, and I caught For a little while I did not see Bimi Tal the flash of his teeth. His eyes drowsed, then nor Dirk, but the steamy Everglades. Winter flashed open with sudden flame. Tat! tat! tat!

  noon. Grass leaves silvered by sea-wind; The rattling of his fingers was never still.

  puddles stirring at the roots of the grasses.

  That swaying head! It was loaded with Silence booming like the loud silence of the wisdom of the serpent that harkens to the death.

  wind, swaying with the marsh grass, winding Bimi Tal was dancing her snake dance.

  its golden coils, curving in neck to the sun—

  Dirk’s lips quivered.

  Hark! The rattle!

  The marsh wind makes a little stir (it is

  ... Red is the sun. Two men plow

  the whispering flute.) The marsh waters make through the marshes. O endless pain (the harsh a little moan (it is the violin).

  viol quivers), a life struggles in the womb.

  Who will die, and what will die, that this new III

  life may be born? Whimpering agony. And an old crone singing a song....

  WHERE was the soul of Bimi Tal dwelling All people who sat within the Palm

  that tropic winter so many years ago? On her Grove were hushed, watching Bimi Tal. Fat mother’s breast, a little bud of love, crooned hands fanning powdered breasts; silk over with the song of sleep? Or meshed in handkerchiefs wiping ox necks; sweat beneath bleeding poinaettia or rose? Or a soul yet armpits. Still heat. Far away thunder. The stars unborn?

  going by.

  I close my eyes. The vision does not Music swelled. Beneath its discord

  fade. Florida; the marshlands; winter noon.

  sounded a steady drumming rhythm. The arms January’s first day, 1899. Where was lovely of Bimi Tal waved about her head. She Bimi Tal on that stifling day we saw the shouted for joy of life.

  fanged thing coil, and death struck us there by The pale eyes of Dirk, basking in

  Okechobee?

  mystery, gleamed into fire, blazed up in fury Your eyes, Bimi Tal, or the laughing and hate undying! His dry lips opened. I saw eyes of Red Roane!...

  his teeth.

  Now the snake dance. The piccolo

  ... Through the breast-high grasses

  screams.

  surge on the two marching men. Their boots Life immortal in your glistening lips, sough in the muck. (Softly strums the bass

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  4

  viol.) Something waiting in the marshes! We pitched our tents by black waters. We beat Something with golden eyes and swaying brave trails through the fens.

  head. Hark! The rattle! Beware, for death is in

  “I’d like to stay here forever,” said the path! ...

  Red Roane.

  Bimi Tal was close to Dirk, not seeing By what way I go, with what drinks I him. She laughed and waved her jangling drink, in what bed I lie down, I remember you arms at me. Dirk’s eyes sparkled with who got your prayer, Red Roane—you who madness, his lips were tightened terribly. Bimi are in the swamp grass and swamp water Tal was almost over him. His fingers forever.

  drummed. Louder played the music.

  Beating our way slow and heavily, at

  ... Hark! The rattle! Gaily the two men.

  high noon, of the new year’s first day in 1899, plow through the bladed grasses. The coiled near Okechobee in the marshes, came we two thing waits, hate within its eyes. They are on a hidden hut It was fashioned of the raff of nearer—nearer! (Drums begin to beat)....

  the slough—dead fronds, rotting branches, In an avalanche of sound, crashed viol withered marsh grasses. Its sad gray-green and violin, and stammering drum. Dirk’s were in the living wilderness like a monument drawn head lunged upward with his shoulders, to death. Better the naked swamp. Better the his lips opened and lifted.

  clean quickmire for bed.

  Venomous his look. Deathly his

  An old crone, mooning within that

  intensity.

  dreary hut, drowned out the sharp, short gasps of another woman. Red Roane came up

  IV.

  singing, slapping his deep chest, swinging his muscular arms. Sunlight on his brown face, STRONG and young, fresh from the Cuban and sunlight in his red hair. At the hut’s door, wars, Red Roane and I went north from the facing us, lounged a man with yellow eyes.

  keys through the Everglades of Florida.

  Poor white trash. A gun was in his arm’s Through the fens as in God’s first day.

  crook. He spat tobacco juice at the earth.

  Through the reptile age, alive yet and There was loathing, murder venom in his face!

  crawling. Through strangling vegetation, Red Roane faltered back from that

  which steams and rots beneath eternal suns.

  stare. He stopped short, and laughter left him.

  Through the everlasting Everglades, with their His brave eyes were troubled by that fern and frond and sorrowful, hoary cvpress, madman’s hate. Yellow eyes staring—eyes of Red Roane and I went north. Onward with a rattlesnake!

  laughter. What joy lay in our hearts! We sang An old Indian crone peered out

  many songs.

  beneath the crooked elbow of the ruffian in Fern and flower embracing in the doorway, she who had been dolorously fecundity. Grasses thick with sap. Blossoms singing. With a scream, she thrust out her wilting at a touch. Mire teeming with creeping skinny old arm, pointing it at Red Rotne.

  life. Above all, the gay sun. Beneath all, the

  “He dies!” she screamed. “We want

  coiling serpent eyes and the opened fangs.

  his soul!”

  Hart! The rattle!

  Another woman, hidden, moaning

  We sailed lagoona in crazy craft; within the hut; a woman in her travail. New dreamt on shady shores through sultry noons; life from the womb—a life must die! I grasped shouted to the dead logs on river banks till the arm of Red Roane.

  they took fear, and dived and splashed away.

  “Come away!” I said. “Come away

  Hark! The Rattle!

  5

  from these mad witches!”

  “Don’t touch it, Red! Wait till the sun In three steps that gray-green hovel goes down.”

  was hidden in the cypresses. A dream it Hark? The rattle! Those opaque eyes seemed. But we could yet hear the old witch shuttered back. Those yellow glances, though woman singing. Something dragged at our in mortal pain, were still furious and heels, and it was not suction of the muck.

  glistening. Those horny tail-bells clattered.

  Toe to heel, Red Roane paced me, and Fangs in that shattered, insensate head we sang a song together. A crimson flower, yawned, closing in Red Roane’s arm above short-stemmed, yellow-hearted, was almost the wrist.

  beneath my boot. I stooped—who will not I see him. Sweat upon his broad brown stoop to pick a crimson wild flower? A forehead; his laughing eyes astounded: his rattling, like the shaking of peas. A klirring thick strong body shivering; wind stirring up like the drumming of a man’s fingertips. his dart red hair. Behind him the brown-green Hark! The rattle!

  marshes, grasses rippling, a stir going through A yawning head flashed beneath my

  their depths. His cheeks had never been so hand, striking too low. Heavy as a hard-flung red.

  stone, the snake’s head struck my ankle; Before I could move, he unlocked

  yawning gullet, white-hooked fangs of the those jaws and hollow fangs, gripped hard in deathly rattlesnake.
Out of the crimson flower his arm with mortal rigor. He shivered now that beast of gold and brown. Its yellow eyes from the knees. His face went white.

  flickered. Its thin lips were dry. How near I

  “Cut!”

  he

  whispered. “I’ll sit down.”

  had touched to death!

  With hunting knife I slashed his arm,

  “Thank God for those heavy boots,

  deep driving four crossed cuts. He laughed, Jerry!”

  and tried to shout. Howling would have been With blazing eyes the snake writhed, more pleasant. I sucked those wounds, out of coiling for another strike. Its sharp tail, which slow blood was spouting from an pointed upward, vibrated continuously with artery. We panted now, both of us. He leaned dusty laughter. Its golden rippling body was heavily on my shoulder—he, the strong. I thick as my arm.

  bound his arm, my own fingers so numb I Red Roane swung down his heavy fumbled at the work. Sweat on Red Roane’s marching stock. Crash! Its leaden end struck face was cold, and cold his wrists.

  that lunging mottled head. Halted in mid-My arms clung about him. He swayed,

  strike, that evil wisdom splattered like an egg, almost toppling, clutching at grass stems with brain pan ripped wide.

  fading laughter. I picked up his marching The rattler lashed in its last agony, its stock and beat that golden, gory thing within tremendously muscular tail beating the ground the mire.

  with thumping blows, its yellow eyes still Beat it till clay-white flesh, and bone blaring with hate, but closing fast in doom.