Cross of Fire
By LESTER DEL REY
A strange tale of the Undead
THAT rain! Will it never stop? My clothes are soaked, my body frozen. But at least the lightning is gone. Strange; I haven’t seen it since I awoke. There was lightning, I think. I can’t seem to remember anything clearly, yet I am sure there was a fork of light in the sky; no, not a fork; it was like a cross.
That’s silly, of course. Lightning can’t form a cross. It must have been a dream while I was lying there in the mud. I don’t recall how I came there, either. Perhaps I was ambushed and robbed, then left lying there until the rain brought me to. But my head doesn’t hurt; the pain is in my shoulder, a sharp, jabbing ache. No, I couldn’t have been robbed; I still have my ring, and there is money in my pocket.
I wish I could remember what happened. When I try to think, my brain refuses. There is some part of it that doesn’t want to remember. Now why should that be? There.. . . No, it’s gone again. It must have been another dream; it had to be. Horrible!
Now I must find shelter from the rain. I’ll make a fire when I get home and stop trying to think until my mind is rested. Ah, I know where home is. This can’t be so terrible if I know that.. . .
There, I have made a fire and my clothes are drying before it. I was right; this is my home. And I’m Karl Hahrhöffer. Tomorrow I’ll ask in the village how I came here. The people in Altdorf are my friends. Altdorf! When I am not trying to think, things come back a little. Yes, I’ll go to the village tomorrow. I’ll need food, anyway, and there are no provisions in the house.
But that is not strange. When I arrived here, it was boarded and nailed shut, and I spent nearly an hour trying to get in. Then my feet guided me to the cellar, and it was not locked. My muscles sometimes know better than my brain. And sometimes they trick me. They would have led me deeper into the cellar instead of up the steps to this room.
Dust and dirt are everywhere, and the furniture seems about to fall apart. One might think no one had lived here for a century. Perhaps I have been away from Altdorf a long time, but surely I can’t have lived away while all this happened. I find a mirror. There should be one over there, but it’s gone; no matter, a tin pan of water will serve.
Not a mirror in the house. I used to like my reflection, and found my face fine and aristocratic. I’ve changed. My face is but little older, but the eyes are hard, the lips thin and red, and there is something unpleasant about my expression. When I smile, the muscles twist crookedly before they attempt my old cockiness. Sister Flämchen used to love my smile.
There is a bright red wound on my shoulder, like a burn. It must have been the lightning, after all. Perhaps it was that cross of fire in the sky I seem to remember. It shocked my brain badly, then left me on the soggy earth until the cold revived me.
But that does not explain the condition of the house, nor where old Fritz has gone.
