Читать книгу The Perfect World - Ella M. Scrymsour - Страница 9

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For some time after the cousins met again so strangely, they could only grasp each other’s hands—their hearts were too full for words.

“I’m like a silly woman,” said Desmond at last “but oh! Alan, I seem to have been in this Hell a lifetime.”

“Poor old boy.”

“No one to speak to but Kaweeka—no one to look at but Kaweeka—always Kaweeka—until I felt I should go mad.”

“How did you get here?” asked Alan at last. “We were never able to discover the origin of the Light. Oh,” he shuddered, “I shall never forget seeing you carried off—whirling through space—it was terrible.”

Then Desmond began his story in a quick jerky way, as if eager to get it done. “The Light came upon me so suddenly, I didn’t realize what had happened. All I knew was—that I had a fearful burning sensation round my waist—and that I was being carried through space. Then came a descent through darkness which seemed to last a lifetime. I seemed to be going on and on—and then suddenly I found myself in the presence of the high priest in the temple here. I have no recollection of how I reached it—I think I must have lost consciousness and then—”

“Well?”

“Well I felt so ill after the journey that the rest seems all hazy. I know I participated in some of their vile religious ceremonies. I was forced into the belly of Mzata—”

“Is that the idol?”

“Yes. I remember the heat was overpowering. Then before I realized anything else, Kaweeka came and rescued me. She carried me here, and—well, old chap, the rest isn’t pleasant. The woman is a fiend. Down here there is no one for her to allure, and as I believe I was the first white man to get here alive, she gave me the benefit of her powerful wiles. She admitted me into a kind of harem, in which I am”—he laughed bitterly—“her chief husband.”

“My God,” said Alan hoarsely, “You have married her, Desmond?”

Desmond nodded. “I suppose that’s what it is—but I don’t understand much of what she says. At any rate I was taken to the temple and after a long ceremony, she came forward and acknowledged me before the congregation. Time after time I’ve been within an ace of killing myself, for the situation is unbearable. But she has spies everywhere and every chance has been taken from me.”

“Can you understand her tongue?”

“No, up to now I have only managed a very few words. I know her name. I know that Mzata is the god of their temple,—but I cannot get further than that.”

“What do you do all day?”

“Nothing! What is there to do? I go out and Kaweeka accompanies me, caressing me the whole time. Should she not come—then I am followed by her spies. The natives watch me with suspicion; they seem to lick their, lips as I pass, and long to fall upon me and throw me to the flames. I’ve seen sights since I’ve been here, and heard sounds that would make the strongest man tremble. Alan,” solemnly, “I’ve seen human beings—human beings that we knew in Marshfielden—people we respected and loved—thrown to the fire through the medium of Mzata. I saw Mrs. Skeet brought here—shrieking—sobbing—crying—and I saw her thrown into the belly of the idol. I was in the temple and rushed forward to save her, even if death had been my reward—but Kaweeka gave a signal and I was seized and bound and forced to witness her tortures. She saw me and recognized me, and as she was sent nearer and nearer the flames she cried to me to aid her. ‘Mr. Desmond! Save me! Save me!’ she shrieked, and do you know, Alan, as the flames closed over her body, I heard ‘Mr. Desmond! Save me!’ come wailing up through the fire.”

“Then that is the grave of all the lost ones from Marshfielden?”

“I am afraid so.”

“What exactly is the ‘Light’?”

“I don’t know—I’ve tried to find out—but it is some power of their own that they have learnt to control. I think it is some force—something to do with the natural light that pervades this place. It is sent through the earth itself by the aid of some infernal mechanism, and when it reaches the world above, it attracts a victim which it strikes and brings back—a living, sacrifice to this hell down here.”

“It is a very terrible menace to our world.”

“Indeed it is! Some of the victims arrive mutilated and burnt, and welcome the fire to deliver them from their pains. In some miraculous way I was unhurt by it—at least I was burnt very slightly, and soon recovered. But, Alan! How did you get here? Did the Light bring you too?”

“No, Desmond!” And Alan told the story of the coal mine disaster and how he found the river that brought him to his cousin.

Suddenly their eyes met, and a quick flash passed through their brains simultaneously. Alan was the first to dispel it.

“It’s no good, Desmond, we couldn’t possibly escape the way I came. We could not battle with the current that brought me here. The water is too deep to attempt to wade, and there isn’t so much as a ledge on either side to which we could cling.”

“What are we going to do then?”

“Of course we must try and escape—but how? As far as I can judge we must be somewhere near the centre of the earth. How can we get implements to cut our way back again—and even if we did, how long would it take us to do it? No, we are in a tough position, and there isn’t even a telegraph pole or telephone wire to aid us.”

Their conversation was broken by the entrance of Kaweeka. Unannounced and without deigning to knock she entered the room, and both men rose to their feet hurriedly.

Alan stood with folded arms and a stern expression upon his face. The moment’s madness of the yesterday had passed. He knew the woman, siren, devil, call her what you will, to be sensuous and foul—and his passion had passed, leaving him firm in his strength and with power to resist her.

Like a serpent she glided up to them, and touched them playfully on their cheeks, and then, ignoring Desmond entirely, she held out her arms invitingly to Alan. Sickened he turned away, but she came up behind him, and put her arms about his neck. Brutally he pulled them apart and flung her from him with a very British “damn”—which, though the word might be unintelligible to her, left the meaning clear and plain. A look of fury, followed by one of malicious hatred, passed over her features, and she turned abruptly from Alan to Desmond, and in a low monotonous tone crooned in her own language to him.

Desmond fought against her powerful wiles for some time, but he was frail, and her all pervading power drew him nearer and nearer. Once more her arms were open, and Desmond was drawn into them as a fish is drawn into a net.

Kaweeka gave a low chuckle, and turned in triumph to Alan. With a half step forward he raised his hand as though he would strike her, then drew back in time, turned quickly and left them alone. Up and down the outer room he paced and watched from the opening the stream of purple people walking up and down the street—men, women and children, all bent on work or pleasure. In a way they seemed to be civilized, yet it was a civilization unknown to the upper world. An oppression came over him and he rushed to the door and tried it. It was unlocked. That was more than he had hoped for, and he hurried down the stairs to the outer door. But there his progress was impeded, for a sentry on guard drew a peculiar kind of spear and prevented his passing.

Alan cursed and swore at him, and then tried more pacific measures to get his way; but the man was impervious to everything, and Alan retraced his steps and took refuge in a little alcove not far from the main entrance. Suddenly a hand on his shoulder startled him, and turning he saw Desmond looking at him in a shamefaced manner.

“We can go out, Kaweeka says,—at least that is what I understand her to mean. Will you come now, Lanny?”

As he used the old boyish name, Alan felt a sob rise in his throat and he grasped Desmond’s hand.

“Come on! old boy,” said he, “I want to talk to you.”

Kaweeka was standing near the door as they reached it, and she waved to them to intimate they were free to go out—but as they passed her they heard her issue a command to the guard at the door who followed them, and although they realized that he was for them a protection among the wild people of the underworld, yet it stripped them of all hope of ultimate escape.

“Dez,” said Alan at last, “Do you love Kaweeka?”

“No,” in a low voice.

“Old chap, cut loose from her. When we get to the world again—don’t let our stay down here have coarsened us. The life is sordid enough, God knows, but don’t let us be sordid.”

“She has such power, Lanny.”

“I know, Dez, but fight it down, boy, I’ll help you.”

“Thanks, old chap.” Then suddenly, “Do you think we shall ever get away from here?”

“I mean to have a try, how, when, or where I don’t know yet, but there are two of us now and we must fight hard for our freedom.”

“I suppose we really ought to try and gain the confidence and trust of some of the natives?”

“That won’t be easy, but we must make the most of any opportunity that may come our way.”

Then they lapsed into silence as they looked about them in interest at the quaint places they passed. The streets twisted and turned like a veritable maze, and the boys wondered how the natives could ever remember their way about. There were no shops to be seen—the whole community seemed to live on roots that grew abundantly everywhere, variegated fungi that grew in clusters on low bushes by the water’s side, and fruits. Fish too was eaten at times, but it seemed as if it was only allowed to be consumed during certain periods when religious festivals were being kept.

Every home seemed to possess all the necessaries for weaving the moss into garments for wear. There was little difference in the men’s and women’s dress—a tunic that was worn wide open at the breast and a slightly shorter skirt on the male was all that distinguished them, except of course, the training of the hair.

The families seemed to live in intense domestic happiness, but jealousy made them suspicious of their neighbours, and members of the bodyguard of the high priest and Kaweeka were continually called in to check the bickerings and quarrels that were always taking place.

Alan and Desmond walked on heedless of time; suddenly their guard came up behind them, and in no gentle manner intimated to them that it was time they returned.

Their life grew very monotonous, but they were together—that was their only comfort. Kaweeka had grown sullen and silent. She seemed to realize that her uncanny power was useless now that Alan had appeared on the scene, and she brooded over the slight he had put upon her when he scorned her.

They still lived in her house, but seldom saw her. Food was brought them at regular intervals. Sometimes days passed and they were not allowed to go out. At other times Kaweeka would grow soft and gentle and would send them out in her chariot, and they would take their food and be away all day, wandering by the underground rivers and lakes, or gathering fruits in the quaint dwarf copses, where the tallest tree was not more than four feet high.

Time hung very heavily on their hands, and there seemed no hope of their ever being able to extricate themselves from their terrible position.

They learnt to weave the moss into tunics for themselves, and they made mats and rugs for their apartments. Grasses they plaited into belts—and that constituted the whole of their amusement and work.

Their personal guard, Wolta, was a particularly fierce individual, who had never recovered from his violent dislike of the white strangers. What services he did for them he did grudgingly, and their food was often ill-served and spoiled through his spite.

Then came the day when a new man appeared to wait on them. They could not understand what he said, but Okwa intimated to them that they were to follow him. He led them down to the lower floor and out into a courtyard behind the house.

There in a rude coffin, fashioned of cloth stretched on poles, lay Wolta—dead. The boys watched in interest, for this was the first death they had seen since they had been in the underworld.

No cover was placed over the dead man, no religious ceremony was held over the inanimate form. The coffin and its burden was carried down the dark street by two bearers. On they went until they came to a dark lake whose waters were black and evil-looking. Without any ceremony the body was pitched out into the water. It floated eerily for a few minutes, the eyes open wide and the mouth contorted into a grin. Then there was the sound of a splash and a large head appeared, followed by another and another. There was the snapping of teeth and the sound of closing jaws—and an ominous purple stain floated on the top of the lake.

The boys turned away sick at heart from the horrible sight—and when they did look again—all trace of Wolta had vanished—there remained only the same stain on the bosom of the water. The two bearers calmly folded up the collapsible coffin and slung it across their shoulders;—it was quite ready for the next victim that death might claim.

“It’s horrible,” said Desmond with a shudder. “I wonder whether they give all their dead to those filthy man-eating fish?”

“I should think so,” answered Alan. “Their idea of burial seems worse than some of the rites of the South Sea Islanders.”

Their days passed in sickening monotony, and their lungs ached for fresh air and salt breezes. They spoke to no one, saw no one but Okwa, and they were getting into such a state of nerves, they could hardly converse sanely one with the other. Okwa came in one day and intimated that they could go out. Moodily they walked down the streets and made their way to a river near by—a guard, as usual, following close behind. They sat down on the steep mossy banks that led to the water’s edge; depressed and wretched they remained moody and silent. Suddenly there came the sound of a scuffle behind them—a startled cry and a splash. A little girl had stumbled, and rolling down the slippery bank was struggling in the water. The current was very strong, and the little maid, swimmer though she was, was unable to battle with the rapids. Twice her head had disappeared from sight.

In a second Alan was in the river after her, and diving down, brought her to the surface; but the whirlpools were strong and treacherous and the water deep, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that he succeeded in reaching the bank, where Desmond was waiting, in whose arms he placed the now unconscious child. But the strain he had undergone proved almost too much for him, and even as he saw the child into safety, he slipped back into the river and the boiling waters closed over his head. He rose again to the surface and with an almost superhuman effort clung to the bank, and Desmond and their guard pulled him ashore.

His first thought was for the child who was lying seemingly lifeless on the ground. He knew the elements of first aid, and vigorously moved her little arms above her head, and then pressed them well against her ribs. Gradually the air was pumped into her lungs, she opened her eyes, smiled, and in a very few moments afterwards was able to stand.

“There, run along, little one,” said Alan, kindly—but the child put her lips to his and clung to him, and he had perforce to hoist her to his shoulder and march home with her, ensconced there happily like a little queen. The guard prostrated himself before them, and bowed and kissed the ground.

“You’ve made a conquest,” laughed Desmond. “I wonder who she is.” As they neared the precincts of the city they heard the clashing of cymbals and the beating of drums. A religious procession was in progress. Alan and Desmond stepped aside to allow it to pass. A long column of veiled temple virgins led the way, followed by priests and acolytes and tiny children, consecrated at birth to the temple, who scattered leaves on the ground. Then an aged patriarch hove in sight, borne on a litter with a canopy of gold.

The little girl became excited. “Abbi! Abbi!” she shrieked, and wriggled to get free from her throne on Alan’s shoulder. The priest’s face grew livid. He uttered a cry of rage and gave a swift command to two attendants by his side. Instantly the symmetry of the procession was broken, and Alan and Desmond were bound with rope and dragged away. It was all done so quickly that they had no time to resist.

The little girl had watched the scene with wondering eyes, and when she realized the whole purport, flung herself into Alan’s arms. The priest issued another quick command, and with the little one holding fast to her rescuer’s hand, she obviously told the story of her escape.

When she had finished the priest kissed her tenderly, and then knelt low before the two boys and kissed their feet. Then they were given places in a litter behind the high priests and were taken to the temple—this time as honoured guests.

They were led to the altar, and very suspiciously and timidly seated themselves on the steps, one on either side, which the high priest indicated to them. The ceremonial service was very long and tedious, but was unaccompanied by any sacrificial rites, much to the satisfaction of the two boys.

Then the priest stood facing the people, and held out a hand to each of the boys who stood shamefaced and awkwardly beside him. There followed an address, and the boys knew it was the story being told to the people of the rescue by Alan.

When the priest had finished speaking, he bent down and kissed their hands, and wildly the congregation flocked to the altar rail to follow his example. They were accepted by the whole community as friends. Their lives were no longer in jeopardy. Then the boys resumed their seats and the ceremony of the temple was concluded.

During the service Alan’s eyes were riveted on some peculiar characters that were inscribed on the walls, at intervals, as far as eye could reach. It was a group of hieroglyphics repeated over and over again, and there was something oddly familiar about them—yet he was unable to guess exactly what it was. Then the people’s voice rose in song—he listened intently. Again and again were the words repeated like a chorus and almost unconsciously he committed the sounds to memory.

Soon the service was ended and in triumph they were led back to Kaweeka’s house. She met them with renewed wiles and charm, but the boys were strong and she left them alone with rage in her heart. They ate the food that was placed before them in silence, a silence which Alan broke by saying abruptly, “Could you make out anything of the last hymn the people kept singing over and over again in the temple, Dez?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, could you understand it?”

Desmond looked surprised. “Of course not,” he laughed. “Could you?”

Alan did not answer the question, but asked another.

“Well, they sung it over a good many times—didn’t you memorize the sounds?”

Desmond thought a minute, “I think I did,” he replied. “It sounded something like: