BLACK PRIESTESS OF VARDA
By ERIK FENNEL
She was well-named—Sin, foul witch and raving
beauty, Beloved of Sasso, the Dark Power striving
to capture, with her help, a lovely little world.
Their only fear was a whispered legend—Elvedon,
the Savior.... But this crippled idiot blundering
through a shower of sparks into their time
and space—he could not be Elvedon!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1947.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The pen moved clumsily in Eldon Carmichael's right hand. He had been left-handed, and the note itself was not easy to write.
Dear Margaret, he scratched. I understand ...
When after a while the proper words still would not come he crossed the shadowed laboratory and took another long swig from the flat bottle in his topcoat pocket. He understood—he remembered his first one-eyed look in a mirror after the bandages were removed—but still he felt resentful and deeply sorry for himself.
He went back and tried to continue the letter but his thoughts veered erratically. The injury had been psychological as well as physical, involving loss of ability to face up to unpleasant facts, but still he could not force aside those memories.