The Sword of Welleran and Other StoriesDunsany, Lord
Science
The Sword of Welleran and Other Stories
Dunsany, Lord
Fantasy fiction, English
Well—I had seen ghosts, and was neither frightened nor convinced that
ghosts existed. I was about to get up out of my chair and go to bed,
when there came a sound of pattering in the hall, a sound of bare feet
coming over the polished floor, and every now and then a foot would
slip and I heard claws scratching along the wood as some four-footed
thing lost and regained its balance. I was not frightened, but uneasy.
The pattering came straight towards the room that I was in, then I
heard the sniffing of expectant nostrils; perhaps ‘uneasy’ was not the
most suitable word to describe my feelings then. Suddenly a herd of
black creatures larger than bloodhounds came galloping in; they had
large pendulous ears, their noses were to the ground sniffing, they
went up to the lords and ladies of long ago and fawned about them
disgustingly. Their eyes were horribly bright, and ran down to great
depths. When I looked into them I knew suddenly what these creatures
were, and I was afraid. They were the sins, the filthy, immortal sins
of those courtly men and women.
How demure she was, the lady that sat near me on an old-world chair—how
demure she was, and how fair, to have beside her with its jowl upon
her lap a sin with such cavernous red eyes, a clear case of murder.
And you, yonder lady with the golden hair, surely not you—and yet that
fearful beast with the yellow eyes slinks from you to yonder courtier
there, and whenever one drives it away it slinks back to the other.
Over there a lady tries to smile as she strokes the loathsome furry
head of another’s sin, but one of her own is jealous and intrudes
itself under her hand. Here sits an old nobleman with his grandson on
his knee, and one of the great black sins of the grandfather is licking
the child’s face and has made the child its own. Sometimes a ghost
would move and seek another chair, but always his pack of sins would
move behind him. Poor ghosts, poor ghosts! how many flights they must
have attempted for two hundred years from their hated sins, how many
excuses they must have given for their presence, and the sins were with
them still—and still unexplained. Suddenly one of them seemed to scent
my living blood, and bayed horribly, and all the others left their
ghosts at once and dashed up to the sin that had given tongue. The
brute had picked up my scent near the door by which I had entered, and
they moved slowly nearer to me sniffing along the floor, and uttering
every now and then their fearful cry. I saw that the whole thing had
gone too far. But now they had seen me, now they were all about me,
they sprang up trying to reach my throat; and whenever their claws
touched me, horrible thoughts came into my mind and unutterable desires
dominated my heart. I planned bestial things as these creatures leaped
around me, and planned them with a masterly cunning. A great red-eyed
murder was among the foremost of those furry things from whom I feebly
strove to defend my throat.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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