The Slayer of Souls

The Slayer of Souls
Robert W. Chambers
1920
To My Friend George Armsby
I
Mirror of Fashion,
Admiral of Finance,
Don't, in a passion,
Denounce this poor Romance;
For, while I dare not hope it might
Enthuse you,
Perhaps it will, some rainy night,
Amuse you.
II
So, your attention,
In poetry polite,
To my invention
I bashfully invite.
Don't hurl the book at Eddie's head

Deep laden,
Or Messmore's; you might hit instead
Will Braden.
III
Kahn among Canners,
And Grand Vizier of style,
Emir of Manners,
Accept--and place on file--
This tribute, which I proffer while
I grovel,
And honor with thy matchless Smile
My novel.
R. W. C.

CHAPTER I.
THE YEZIDEE
Only when the Nan-yang Maru sailed from Yuen-San did her terrible
sense of foreboding begin to subside.
For four years, waking and sleeping, the awful subconsciousness of
supreme evil had never left her.
But now, as the Korean shore, receding into darkness, grew dimmer

and dimmer, fear subsided and grew vague as the half-forgotten
memory of horror in a dream.
She stood near the steamer's stern apart from other passengers, a
slender, lonely figure in her silver-fox furs, her ulster and smart little
hat, watching the lights of Yuen-San grow paler and smaller along the
horizon until they looked like a level row of stars.
Under her haunted eyes Asia was slowly dissolving to a streak of
vapour in the misty lustre of the moon.
Suddenly the ancient continent disappeared, washed out by a wave
against the sky; and with it vanished the last shreds of that accursed
nightmare which had possessed her for four endless years. But whether
during those unreal years her soul had only been held in bondage, or
whether, as she had been taught, it had been irrevocably destroyed, she
still remained uncertain, knowing nothing about the death of souls or
how it was accomplished.
As she stood there, her sad eyes fixed on the misty East, a passenger
passing--an Englishwoman--paused to say something kind to the young
American; and added, "if there is anything my husband and I can do it
would give us much pleasure." The girl had turned her head as though
not comprehending. The other woman hesitated.
"This is Doctor Norne's daughter, is it not?" she inquired in a pleasant
voice.
"Yes, I am Tressa Norne...I ask your pardon...Thank you, madam:--I
am--I seem to be--a trifle dazed--"
"What wonder, you poor child! Come to us if you feel need of
companionship."
"You are very kind...I seem to wish to be alone, somehow."
"I understand... Good-night, my dear."

Late the next morning Tressa Norne awoke, conscious for the first time
in four years that it was at last her own familiar self stretched out there
on the pillows where sunshine streamed through the porthole.
All that day she lay in her bamboo steamer chair on deck. Sun and
wind conspired to dry every tear that wet her closed lashes. Her dark,
glossy hair blew about her face; scarlet tinted her full lips again; the
tense hands relaxed. Peace came at sundown.
That evening she took her Yu-kin from her cabin and found a chair on
the deserted hurricane deck.
And here, in the brilliant moonlight of the China Sea, she curled up
cross-legged on the deck, all alone, and sounded the four futile strings
of her moon-lute, and hummed to herself, in a still voice, old songs she
had sung in Yian before the tragedy. She sang the tent-song called
Tchinguiz. She sang Camel Bells and The Blue Bazaar,--children's
songs of the Yiort. She sang the ancient Khiounnou song called "The
Saghalien":
_
I
In the month of Saffar
Among the river-reeds
I saw two horsemen
Sitting on their steeds.
Tulugum!
Heitulum!
By the river-reeds
II

In the month of Saffar
A demon guards the ford.
Tokhta, my Lover!
Draw your shining sword!
Tulugum!
Heitulum!
Slay him with your sword!
III
In the month of Saffar
Among the water-weeds
I saw two horsemen
Fighting on their steeds.
Tulugum!
Heitulum!
How my lover bleeds!
IV
In the month of Saffar
The Year I should have wed--
The Year of The Panther--
My lover lay dead,--

Tulugum!
Heitulum!
Dead without a head. _
And songs like these--the one called "Keuke Mongol," and an ancient
air of the Tchortchas called "The Thirty Thousand Calamities," and
some Chinese boatmen's songs which she had heard in Yian before the
tragedy; these she hummed to herself there in the moonlight playing on
her round-faced, short-necked lute of four strings.
Terror indeed seemed ended for her, and in her heart a great
overwhelming joy was welling up which seemed to overflow across the
entire moonlit world.
She had no longer any fear; no premonition of further evil. Among the
few Americans and English aboard, something of her story was