 The weird circle. In this cave, by the restless sea, we are met to call from out the past, stories, strange and weird. Bellkeeper, hold the bell, so all may know we are gathered again in the weird circle. In the past, phantoms of a world gone by speak again their immortal tale, the curse of the mantle. Bell has been tolling since the procession began, since sundown its dismal clang has beat upon the town, rung upon it like hammer upon anvil, tolling for the damned. They are bearing the mantle of Lady Eleanor to be publicly burned. And from where I stand, here in the dim cemetery above my own grave, I can see the procession moving slowly through the street. George Helwes is at the head. Behind him, upon a litter, gleams the magnificent mantle. How many eyes, sick with disease, watch this procession. How many dead like myself, listen to the tread of their feet. How many recall the events that led to this feverish evening in spring. It begins when these dead walked, and these diseased laughed. It begins in her uncle's, the governess mansion, in the room with a great mirror. The chandelier was ablaze with candles, and she stood there, the Lady Eleanor, gazing at herself in the mirror. Behind her sat George Helwes, her fiance. You've stared at your image in the glass a long time, Ellen. Yes, I have. The vanity of women. Are you dissatisfied at what you see, my love? Are you, George? Am I dissatisfied with the lovely summer's day? But come, come look at me. I'm by far the more eloquent mirror. That one is silent while I, I proclaim the beauty I see. Yet the real mirror is more honest. For it shows me as I really am. Then I am its voice. A man's voice. And a lover's. Yet I am not satisfied. I am but another weed in the garden. What is it, my lady? You stare so earnestly at yourself. Why? I've only been imagining how I shall look in my new mantle, George. Oh. The mantle again. It is beautiful. Nothing like it has ever been seen. It is woven and stitched as if it were the work of gods. Or the work of devils. Are you listening to foolish tales, George? I do not know whether they are foolish tales, Ellen. I do know, though, that there is something uncanny about your seamstress, Mrs. Willows. True, she has cause for being half mad. She has been bedridden all these years. But it's something else. There have been hints and outright accusations about it. Such as? That she is in league with the devil. Oh. Yes, laugh, my lady. Call it schoolboy fears are what you will. Nonetheless, I am a God-fearing man, and I do not trust her. What would you have me do, George? Do not take the mantle, Ellen. Do not wear it. Do not ever go to Mrs. Willows again. I am going for it this day. In fact, I am going now. Will you accompany me? No. All right, then. I will go with you. Now. She does not answer, Ellen. She might be sleeping. Open the door. We will wake her. It is dim. I cannot see anything. Oh, here. Here, my fine birds. In the bed, see? Mrs. Willows never gets up to leave her work. No. She's laid here and stitched a proper winding sheet all these years. It's I, Lady Eleanor, Mrs. Willows. I've come for a... A mantle. A special mantle. Yes. A covering fit for a queen. Isn't it pretty? Look at it. The devil never had one lovelier. Well, I cannot see well. It's so dim. Then open the shutters. Open them up, young man. Yes, yes, of course. Did you have your lady miss her treasure in the dark? Oh, beautiful. Beautiful. Yes. Look at it. It lies like a royal beast across Malap. Blood red with cunning gold, eh? I've stitched all a madman learns into it. I, all a sick bed teaches. Is it finished? You'll wear it then. Still hot for my fingers, eh? That's courage, my bird. Yes, yes, it's done. Every last stitch in proper place. Oh, it wants to go to you. I can feel it stirring beneath my fingers. Patience, patience. I've also waited a long time. Patience. Eleanor. Come. Put it on me, lady. Put it on. And gaze at yourself in my mirror. Over there. Let me look upon you both. I'm the soul of an artist. Ellen, don't. I've never seen such a beautiful thing. Never. Take it. That's it, my beauty. That's in the clasp now. Quickly. And look. Oh. Oh. You've never seen a beauty now, have you? It turns a pretty girl into an imperious queen, doesn't it? Yes. Yes, my mantle has a royal gift to offer. Empires are sacked for beauty such as yours now. You have power and regal pride. The clock is running down. Is it time, master? Tick. Talk. Ellen, take it off. It's cursed. Cursed. I beg of you. Flee it off. Quiet. Give it back before it's too late, Ellen. Don't be a fool. So it is time. Yes. I've passed it on. Weave an air, master. An air. Tick. She's dead. Dead. The mantle is beautiful. Beautiful. Her beauty was an incredible thing now. Haughty and commanding as a goddesses. But when she wrapped herself in the mantle, she wrapped herself in a cold and terrible pride. For all at once, she changed. Scorn for ordinary mortals reared itself beside her majesty, and people cursed her and her mantle. All love was frozen in her. Now she looked upon George Helwes with contemptuous eyes. One day he came to the governor's mansion. He arrived when the Lady Eleanor was in the garden surrounded by Dr. Clark, Captain Langlin, and Mr. Roberts's school teacher. No doubt you do find it strange, Mr. Roberts. I had only thought it curious, my lady. I meant nothing. No, I do, Ellen. I haven't seen a young man about for some time. An old sentimentalist knows such things. I am not flattered by your interest, doctor. Who is this young man you speak of? An epitaph, Captain Langlin. I'm afraid you never met its subject. Shall we speak of other things? My lady? Yes? Begin your pardon, my lady, but there's a gentleman in the hall. Master George, ma'am. The devil. Tell him I'm away. Well, doctor, how are your sentiments faring now? Are you still here? Excuse me, ma'am, but he knows you're here. He's seen you through the window. You fool! Did you let him? Ah, well. You must excuse me, gentlemen. I have a ghost to be laid away. I surely will, my lady. Ellen. Yes? It wasn't easy for me to come here. I'm not one to bear the role of a turned-out dog gracefully. Is that how you picture yourself? Yes, that, and sometimes more. Ah, have you no pity left? Throw off the mantle, Ellen. Burn it. It's turned you into a marble statue, a soulless being. Burn it, Ellen. The door, Mr. Helwese, is behind you. There's still time yet. Let our love consume it. Burn the mantle. Listen to me, and listen well. We are as far apart as the mountaintops are from the bottom of the sea, as the sky from the earth, as the living from the dead. All that you stand for, goodness and pious love and humility is hateful to me. I will have none of this kind of human groveling. Ellen. Your kind would believe a garden-patch a paradise. I demand empire. You would creep along with pious caution while I will leap the world. I will have grapes in the dead of winter. I will command the trees greenery to stand firm against the winter. I will hear nightingales and locks in the desert. Power, power, I shall be cloaked in it. All nature will perform for me while you grovel in the dust. Get away from me. What is the mantle made of you, Ellen? Your enemy, Mr. Helwese. Your deadly enemy. The desire for power grows like a malignant cancer in the body. And as the days went by, the name of Lady Eleanor became a hateful one amongst the people. More and more she withdrew from them, keeping regally aloof, like some cold and isolated tower. Even upon the night of her uncle's the governor's reception, she stood apart from the throne, imperious, a mantle ruby red and gleaming upon her shoulders. You are looking extraordinarily beautiful tonight, Milady. What were you saying, Captain? That you are beautiful tonight, Milady. Don't you think so, Doctor? Is it time yet? Time? The devil, I mean, what time is it? Oh, it's nine o'clock, Milady. Are you expecting someone? I don't know. The evening is unbearably long. What time did you say, Captain? Nine, nine o'clock, Milady. He drives a rusty chariot. Well, who is here tonight? Why, everyone, Milady. Without much trouble, I can see the King's Commission, Lord and Lady Rothcliff, John and many others. And George Halberst. Well, behind you, Milady. What are you doing here? Listen to me, Ellen, it's not too late. Drink this wine, drink from this goblet and pass it amongst the guests. Good Lord, it's a communion vessel. Holy. You must believe me. Drink and let others sip from the same cup. Let them see that you are not withdrawn from all human love. Drink and we will burn the mantle. Go amongst the cowards for your converts, Mr. Helwees. Win over the inclorious meek. I repeat, I shall wear an empire for a diadem in my hair. You must drink, Ellen. You must. The wine may be poisoned. Seize him, but don't be ridiculous. You clumsy ox, you've splattered my mantle. I'll have you beaten to a pulp. What's the matter, Ellen? A chair. Quickly, a chair. Cast the mantle from you, Ellen. I'm dizzy. Doctor. Doctor, I must not die. I must not. You must help me. She's fainted. Let me help lift. The mantle. Look. It glows like a thing alive. Like a thing alive. The plague began on that night, and its first victim was Captain Langland. Then inexorably it moved through the town, leaving like an invading army a path of ruin. Each house had its tears, and each house rang with a cursors for Lady Eleanor. She and she alone had provoked God's anger, they said. But was it his anger? Was it? Miraculously, Doctor Clark remained untouched by the disease that seized the town, and all day long he moved in and out of sick rooms a gray-haired, weary man. He would not rest in spite of the urgent pleas of his housekeeper. But you cannot go on like this, Doctor. Only the dead have the privilege of resting, Mrs. Burns. Well, at least eat the food I cook for you. You'll be in the churchyard yourself in no time. If you can find room for me there. A half dozen funerals passed me in the street today, and no one was weeping. No one has tears left anymore, and still the bell goes on tolling. It's her mantle. Yes, she and her cursed mantle. Has the plague struck her? Her skin's still lily-white, our warrant. Lady Eleanor, the devil's lady. Nonsense, Mrs. Burns. I know, I know, you and your books of science. Begging your pardon, Doctor. But there's a lot that's not in your books. Mrs. Burns, I... Who is it? I'll go see. Doctor's eyes, Sarah. Mr. Roberts, a schoolteacher. He's fainted and the fever's burning him. When did this happen? But this afternoon, sir. Mrs. Burns, get me my bag. But you're meal, Doctor. You've had no lunch this day, I'm sure. True, but James Roberts might not have breakfast tomorrow. He has much less time than I. Much less, Mrs. Burns. Much less. Is that you, Doctor? Hi, James. It's I. Oh, good. There's a great deal to say. It's hot. Open a window, Sarah. Open one. Don't twist, old James. You can open a window, Sarah. A lot to say, Doctor. A lot. He's claiming his bill now, Doctor. A goodly sum. Who is? The horned gentleman. The Lady Eleanor's banker. You know, credit, unearthly beauty. Cost, lives. Has this nonsense gotten you, too, James? Doctor. Yes? Doctor, is there a bell tolling? Hi, James. There's nothing you can do to stop it, is there? Oh, it makes such a dismal clang. No, nothing. Doctor. Doctor, listen to me. I've been speaking with George Helwes. Burn the mantle. Go to her room and seize it, for the contagion is there. James, be still. No, you must listen. You can go there. You're a doctor. I am also a man of science. That is inadequate now. You must burn it. Doctor. Yes? James. James. Sarah. The window. You can shut it now. He's dead. Dead. He came downstairs to the street again. An old man with exhausted eyes. There was a funeral passing. A half dozen mourners bearing a small casket. He turned and began walking away. Suddenly he heard a voice calling. Doctor! Doctor Clark! He stopped and turned back. There was a man running toward him. Another one thought the doctor. Another one. Well, who is it now? The lady Eleanor. She seemed well enough this morning, doctor. If you will permit me, sir, I'll go up. Yes, yes, do. Oh, here, wait, I'll walk with you. Doctor. Yes, Your Excellency. I'm not an ignorant nor a credulous sort of a man. And I have the utmost contempt for superstition, but the mantle. I don't carry foolish tales about either, doctor. But I've heard some well-ender that the mantle is cursed, Your Excellency. That's it in a nutshell. Nonsense of that kind. I don't like it. What's that? George Helvis. What are you doing in this house, Mr. Helvis? What do you want? Her. Look! A red banner of the epidemic. Yes, for her. Are you mad, George? Is this the recovery of the poor girl's suffering? Death and disease are in the form of Lady Eleanor. And I am the banner bearer. Oh, George, George, listen to me. We were friends in better days. You shared some confidences with me. I know how you loved her. I promised to do all of my power to save the Lady Eleanor, but you must not go near her. Save her? She, whose very breath breeds a poison in the air? Whose mantle has shaken death and pestilence upon us? Never was so great a curse visited upon this land as the Lady Eleanor. How dare you, sir, get out! I must see the Queen in her awful beauty of the pestilence. I must see God's work. She challenged his order. She raised her will like a host of spears against him. And like the fallen angel she has been cast down. I must see the Black Queen. Will seeing her help? As water to the thirsty. As succor to the abandoned. Give me your hand, George. I will take you to her chamber. Here is her chamber, George. Open the door and go in. It's...it's dim. I do not see her. Call her. Lady Eleanor. Ellen! Ellen! She doesn't answer. Enter. Enter and keep calling. Ellen! It's I, George Helwis. Can you hear me? A drop of water. My throat is burning. Water on the table. In a moment. Here. Here, drink it. Who are you? George Helwis, Ellen. Scaven to scather. Go away. I am not dead yet. Where is the mantle, Ellen? Ellen! These are the grapes that I have gathered in winter. This the empire glittering in my hair. I have been trapped. Where is it, Ellen? She lied, George. She lied. She said that power would be mine. That glory would be mine. That I would be an imperial queen on earth. A royal consort. A shining evening star. But she did not say death's consort. No. No, she did not say that. Have you hidden it, Ellen? All men were her enemies. And through me, she struck back at them. I was the gatekeeper, George. The gatekeeper. Ellen, the mantle. What? What did you say? The mantle. Where is it? Oh, it's here. Around me. I am wearing it. Ellen. This is royal dying, my man. All queens take their glory to the grave with them. And the prisoner is buried in his chains. No, Ellen, no. And you are all avenged by it. My bit of splendor is almost done. They will ask for the crown jewels back. And I will go out through the servant's entrance. No, Ellen. You will get well. You will. Poor lad. You love the exiled queens still. If there were pity left in me, I would pity you. But as a close friend of the exiled queen, believe me, she is worth no man's love. What? My throat is burning. What? Here, Ellen, drink. Drink. George. Yes, doctor. Did you see her? Yes, I did. And is she? What are you carrying there across your arm, George? What is it? The mantle, doctor. The mantle. The procession is almost there. They'll burn the mantle before the province house and let the wind take command of the ashes from where I stand beside my own grave, my own tombstone. I can see George Helwes entering the square. His mouth is working as if he was shouting, but I do not hear the words. There. They've lowered the litter with the mantle now and they're building a funeral pyre. About the square strieds George Helwes waving his crimson banner aloft. He stalks the living like death himself. They're finished. There. Someone's coming forward with a blazing torch and flings it. Leap, flame. Leap. A wall of fire has leaped up about the mantle enveloping it. A ruddy glare glows on the walls of houses on people's faces and on the blood-red banner in George's hand. And it is done. Done. The mantle is consumed. Listen. The bell has stopped tolling. From the time-worn pages of the past we have brought you the story The Curse of the Mantle. Bellkeeper, toll the bell.