"That Flesh is Heir to"
Sheran Garner swung the Vauxhall around the bends erratically. The headlights forged ahead in twin paths of silver thrusting over the sides of the mountain roadway. Over a thousand feet below a mountain stream dashed itself against jagged rocks in iridescent drops of liquid moonlight, and a haze of glimmering moisture. A vertical wall of grey rock loomed high on the inner side of the descending road, and occasionally pieces of quartzite, polished by the high winds, glittered wickedly at the driver. She slowed down appreciably.
Speed would not help her. It was only her simmering fury that kept her foot on the accelerator. Anger always leads to carelesssness. She slowed down still further. The clock on the dashboard read ten o'clock, and she had another ten miles to Saint-Marceau. He would be waiting for her at the hotel, or in some sleazy cafe with his mistress. Well, Colin Garner was not going to get his divorce; she had told him so quite forcibly on the telephone, and she had not changed her mind. Of course, he would not like that. She knew him. He would first 'flatter, then plead, then storm and finally drink himself insensible. Yes, she knew him. Yet for all that she loved him, and she would not divorce him.
A figure, standing by the edge of the road, was lit up quite suddenly by the headlights as they swung in an arc. It was a woman, and she was waving her arms for Sheran to stop. She eased on the brake, and cruised to a stop beside her. A scything mountain breeze sent a violent, unnatural shiver through her as she opened the car door.
"Want a lift?" she asked. The woman nodded gratefully, and slid into the vacant seat. The moonlight traced her contours as the car glided forward once again.
She was dressed in a tight-fitting black satin dress which closely clung to each curve of her body. A pair of black high-heeled shoes swung on her toes as she eased them off for comfort. Sheran was puzzled. What on earth was she doing dressed like that in such a lonely and forbidding spot? The woman had not even spoken yet.
"Are you going far?" inquired Sheran. " I can take you as far as Saint-Marceau." There appeared to be no response. "I don't think I know your name?"
The woman turned amber eyes upon her, and Sheran noticed a vivid pink flash in her blonde hair.
"My name's Cara," she replied in a distant voice that caused an inexplicable chill to ripple through Sheran.
She continued, " I don't think you will be going to Saint-Marceau, Mrs. Garner."
Sheran jerked involuntarily and the car started to skid. She wrenched the wheel around, and regained control.
"What do you mean? How do you know my name?" " I know everything, Mrs. Garner," she answered.
The atmosphere of the car seemed to swirl in eddies of tension, and Cara's voice seemed to come from a long, long corridor echoing and reechoing until it rang with throbbing resonance in Sheran's brain. A numbness stole over her, and her eyes temporarily lost focus. She found herself saying, "Who are you?" over and over again.
"Just Cara," breathed the woman with the pink flash in her hair. The " r " seemed to roll on and on .......
"What do you mean? You don't think I'll get to Saint-Marceau? Of course, I will!"
"You are going much further than that, my angel. I've come to take you with me." The car started to zig-zag crazily in Sheran's weakening grip. The steering wheel seemed locked in a vice under her sweating palms. "How old are you?" "Twenty seven!" "I thought so. Still, we take them young as well as old."
"Who are you? WHO ARE YOU?" The car spun, and the road dissolved.
"Death, my dear," she whispered. " My name is Death !" Something snapped in Sheran's brain.
*
A dreamy melody stole across the river to where Colin Garner was sitting outside the Bistro Antoine in Saint-Marceau. As he sipped a lager, a young woman approached and he rose and met her with a discreet embrace. He led her to the old stone bridge over the river. A mountain breeze with the scent of pine rippled around them as they stood, arms around each other, watching the night-life of Saint-Marceau reflected in the moving, colour-splashed mirror of the river's shimmering surface.
" It's all right, honey," she told him in a husky, seductive whisper, "her heart was weak just as you said. The strain was too much for her. We can get married now."
As she rose on her toes to a passionate kiss, the moonlight glimmered for a moment on a vivid pink flash in her blonde hair.
Alvin Camden.