The Perfect World: A romance of strange people and strange places

The sweet toned bell in the Observatory at Minnaviar rang violently, and startled the students out of their usual calm and placidity.

Kulmervan looked up from his studies. “What is it, my Waiko?” said he in his own language to his friend.

“I know not, my Kulmervan. Let us go to the Turret Room, and see.” The two astronomical students at the most important meteorological college on the whole of Keemar, went swiftly up the wide, marble stairway to their Djoh’s room. Before they were half way up, the bell rang louder than before.

“Haste, my Waiko,” said Kulmervan. “The Djoh is anxious.” As they reached the archway leading into the experimenting room, the Djoh met them.

“At last,” said he testily. “At last you are come. I summoned you as there is a most remarkable phenomenon registered by the sensitive disc. After we recorded the destruction of the planet ‘Quilphis,’ you will remember, we discovered a new comet or meteor that seemed to have separated from the planet itself. We witnessed this extraordinary ‘star’ whirling toward us, daily nearer and nearer. Our learned Ab-Djohs consulted together as to the meaning of this extraordinary thing. At last I was consulted, and by the aid of every scientific means we possessed we tried to discover the substance of this new moving orb. You recollect?”

“Yes, my Djoh,” answered Kulmervan, the senior student.

“Look,” said the Djoh triumphantly, and he led the way to a large disc that stood in front of the large window. This disc was of glass, and was connected by etheric pipes to a large telescopic tube fixed outside the window. It was by the aid of this that the Keemarnians studied the solar system, and learnt about the other worlds in the sky.

As Kulmervan looked into the disc, he saw, by reflection, a peculiar body suspended in the heavens—stationary it rested near Wirmir and Kosli, the twin stars of Gorlan. “What is it?” he asked eagerly, while Waiko, the younger student, stood silent, listening eagerly to the conversation.

“It is the meteor of Marfaroo,” said he. “It is the strange body that detached itself from Quilphis, when the life of that unfortunate planet was run.”

“But it is still now, my Djoh.”

“The four Meevors have not yet risen, my son. In fourteen permos from now, they will be bright and shining. When they are at their full, they will draw that orb within our surrounding vapours. Then we must direct our light rays upon it, and draw it within our atmosphere. It is a wonderful thing, my son, and will aid us in our knowledge of science. My theory is, that it is a minute portion of the planet Quilphis itself. Oh, very small, hardly as big as the Rorka’s palace; but the knowledge of its composition will help us in our research. Take turn and watch with me, my sons, and at the right moment we will direct our Ray upon it.”

Eagerly the students watched. The honour was great the Djoh had put upon them, and they were eager to be present when the light of the four full Meevors should shine upon the strange presence in the sky.

“But the time the Kymo sinks to rest, my sons, the fourth Meevor will be at the full, and we will watch the developments with interest.”

The three surrounded the little disc; the pale beams from the Meevors shone distinctly on the glass; there was a movement—the foreign body moved slowly toward them.

“The Ray,” cried the Djoh. “Summon the Ab-Djohs.”

Ten Ab-Djohs appeared at Waiko’s call. They were all dressed in the green tunic and vest and short cloak—the symbol of their calling as the highest astronomers in the land, bar one, the Djoh himself, who wore a voluminous cloak and tall, conical hat in addition. The wise men adjusted the focussing apparatus and directed the nozzle toward Wirmir and Kosli. A whirring noise sounded—and then suddenly shot out a most glorious ray. “When Kymo has risen but four thoughts, the orb will be here,” announced the Djoh. “Waika, go call Waz-Y-Kjesta. Tell him the Djoh has words of import to utter.”

Soon Waz-Y-Kjesta appeared. He was a handsome man, fair-haired, long-limbed. He wore his blue toga as became him as Waz of the air birds, the vessels which were used by the inhabitants of Keemar to journey by the sky.

“Fetch in that strange star, O Waz,” said the Djoh. “Bring it to earth, and I will await its arrival here.”

Waz-Y-Kjesta bowed low. “Your will shall be done, my Djoh,” said he, and he went swiftly to the place where his air birds were housed. “Mashonia,” said he to his Waz-Mar, or Lieutenant. “Order out six air birds, we go on a mission for the Djoh.”

In a very short space of time, six beautiful “birds” rose from the ground and skimmed toward their goal which was now approaching very rapidly.

“My Waz,” cried Mashonia suddenly. “It is part of no planet that we are approaching. See, there is glass in front, and men like ourselves are looking toward us!”

“They are like us, yet unlike us,” said Waz-Y-Kjesta. “They are habited in sombre clothing—they look dark and gloomy.”

“Where can they come from?” asked Mashonia wonderingly. “All sons of Keemar would signal us. They are strangers from another world, I fear.”

Gradually they circled round the Argenta, and brought her safely to the ground. They watched the lifting of the shutters curiously. This was indeed the strangest “air bird” they had ever seen. When Sir John gave his wild cry, the Keemarnians realized that the strangers who had come in so wonderful a manner to their land, had suffered acutely. “Send for six Bhors,” said Waz-Y-Kjesta quickly, “these friends are ill.”

In the shortest space of time, the Bhors, the Keemarnian carriages, appeared. They were comfortable litters like vehicles, laden with rugs of silk and downy cushions. Above were canopies of silk which shaded the occupants, who swung hammock wise from a wheeled frame, into the shafts of which were harnessed magnificent colis—beasts very similar to Shetland ponies, only with long curly hair.

At a command from Waz-Y-Kjesta, Mashonia and another leapt nimbly over the bulwarks of the Argenta, and without a word, in turn carried all the erstwhile prisoners of the airship, and placed them on cushions in the comfortable Keemarnian equipages. As Alan was carried past the Waz, he murmured feebly. “A guard for the Argenta, please.”

A look of surprise passed over the Keemarnian’s face. “What meanest thou?” he asked.

“A guard,” urged Alan. “The Argenta contains all our possessions.”

“A guard?” answered Kjesta. “Nay, why should we do that? It is safe there. It does not belong to us. Fear not, no one will touch it, my friend.”

Gently the colis stepped out, drawing easily the Bhors and their occupants. “Drive to the palace of the Jkak,” said Waz-Y-Kjesta. “We must acquaint him first with the news of the arrival of these strangers.”

The weary travellers saw nothing of the country through which they passed. They were too weary and worn to raise themselves on the cushions and look around. The cool breeze swept across their faces and refreshed them, so they were content to remain as they were and not think or worry about the future.

A runner was sent before to acquaint the Jkak of their near approach, and as they stopped at his beautiful palace, men came out, unhooked the hammock part of the Bhors, and carried the occupants into the Jkak’s presence. He was awaiting them in the cool reception hall, and regal and patriarchal he looked, in his robe of loose green silk, with his golden fillet low upon his brow.

“My brothers,” said he in a low musical voice. “Welcome to Keemar, the land of all good. Eat first from yonder viands. They will revive you.”

Trays daintily laden with food and wine were placed before the hungry travellers. The Jkakalata, consort to the Jkak, attended to Mavis. “A child,” said she, “and a woman, too. Come, Persoph,” to her husband, “give me that glass of friankate—it will revive her.” She moistened Mavis’s lips with the fragrant wine—Mavis opened her eyes, and as she looked at the kindly woman’s face, she burst into tears. “Who are you?” she cried.

“I am Mirasu, the Jkakalata,” she replied. “Drink this, it will do you good.”

Mavis drank long of the sweet liquor, and ate the strange fruits that were placed before her. Alan, as usual, was the first to recover and made a movement as if to rise from the Bhor.

“Nay,” said Persoph. “Do not move, I beg you. Rest, and later you can tell us your story.” Then he turned to Desmond. “She with the babe—she is yours?”

“How did you know?” asked the perplexed husband.

“By the look in your eye when my Mirasu handled your babe,” said the wise old man sagely. “It was the look of possession.”

“Yes, she is my wife,” said Desmond.

“Wife—ah! that is the word. Now rest among the cushions of the Bhors. Rooms are prepared for you. Sleep, my friends, until the Kymo rises twice again. Then refreshed and strong we will welcome you among us, and listen with interest to your story.”

The Jkak’s palace was of a glorious green marble, highly polished. In the entrance hall was a huge fountain. Six beautiful maidens, their garments chiselled out of coloured marble, held large shells from which poured water into the basin beneath. The figures were life size, and gracefully moulded. Lovely water flowers grew all around, and coloured fish swam in and out among the pebbles and plants.

Up a wide stairway, which branched out into large galleries, the strangers were carried, the Jkak himself leading the way, as if he were doing homage to the Rorka himself. They wended their way through a narrower passage which widened out again into a spacious loggia. In the very centre of this space four malachite pillars, highly polished, supported a crystal shell out of which poured sparkling waters into a pond beneath. There were six doors round the loggia; at the first the Jkak stopped, opening it himself, led the way in. With gentle hands Desmond and Mavis were transferred to soft, downy beds. “Rest, my friends, and sleep until Morkaba brings you wine and food.” Then the other three were taken to separate sleeping apartments, where their weary limbs rested in contentment on the soft, downy cushions.

Desmond and Mavis’s room was perhaps the largest—a glorious room with a wide balcony upon which were growing the most beautiful creepers and plants—with wonderful perfumes and flowers. An enormous four poster bed stood in the centre of the room, with its back immediately in front of the door. A canopy of silk was overhead; there were no sheets or blankets upon it, but there was an abundance of cushions, and silken rugs of all hues. Easy chairs, plenty of mirrors and a dressing table furnished the room. The walls were of a polished pale pink marble, and the fittings, tapestries and silken hangings were all of colours that blended and made one harmonious whole. All the other rooms were similar, except in the colouring, and on the polished marble floors were spread rugs of exotic colours.

A silver bell tinkled! To Mavis, it sounded like the Angelus on a summer morning. She opened her eyes; again the bell sounded. “Where am I?” she cried, and with sudden remembrance. “Baby—where’s Baby?”

Desmond woke. “Where’s Baby, Dez?” she asked again piteously, and even as she spoke she heard the sound of a tiny chuckle, and by her side on a bed, the miniature of the one she was on, lay her baby, crooning with delight. The bell tinkled again. Desmond went to the door and opened it slightly. A smiling girl was outside with a table on wheels. “Your mushti,” said she wheeling it toward him.

“To eat?” queried Desmond.

“Of course. It is pleasant on the ‘vala,’ outside among the flowers—have it there with your friends.”

“Thank you. It’s breakfast, Mavis,” said Desmond. “Look out on the balcony and see if Uncle John is there.”

Mavis was almost too bewildered to ask any questions, and obeyed. There was a tiny gate dividing their balcony from the next, and she went through. “Uncle John,” she called softly.

Sir John, Alan, and Masters appeared at the window of the next room.

“You’re awake then?” laughed Alan.

“Yes.”

“Have you had any food?” asked Desmond.

Alan laughed. “A table each—and chock full. Shall we wheel ours along and all have it together?” In a trice the six were sitting down to the first real meal they had had since they had so miraculously escaped from the end of the world.

The tables were of different coloured glass, and were laden with food very different from that to which they had been accustomed. There were jugs full of steaming liquid, neither tea, coffee, nor cocoa, but with a reminiscent flavour of all three, and extremely refreshing. There were wines—fruits whole, and fruits compote. There were cereals served almost like porridge, and there was bread too. Bread and tiny, crisp rolls, biscuits sweet and biscuits plain, and pats of golden butter. It was a delightful meal, refreshing, invigorating, and so different from the stodgy, unwholesome tinned meats they had been living on for so long. There was also a tiny tray for the baby—a bowl of fresh new milk and some rusks. A plate of a kind of arrowroot mixture was greatly appreciated by little John Alan, who cried out “More—pese, mum, more.”

“The little beggar likes it,” said Sir John. “He appreciates the change too. Well, here we are all on land again at last, and among friends.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Mavis.

“We’ll throw ourselves on the mercy of the Jovians of course; make up our minds to settle down in a new world, and live the remainder of our lives in peace and contentment.”

“Shan’t we ever go home again?” Mavis’s eyes widened, and she looked imploringly at the others. The truth was forced on her mind at last. She had no home! Gone were all her pretty possessions—gone her trinkets, her books, her silver. Gone also her delicate trousseau—her frocks, lingerie, jewels.

Everything was gone. The world itself had vanished.

“Now, my dear,” said Sir John. “We must acclimatize ourselves to this new life. After, all, we can easily do that. We have been treated as honoured guests, so I must speak to the Jkak, and find out our future standing in this world.”

“They speak English!” said Alan wonderingly “How is that? Surely we are the first English people who have found their way here? There can’t be a colony of Britishers in Jupiter!”

The bell sounded again, and Alan went to the door. Waz-Y-Kjesta stood outside. “The Jkak is eager to see you,” said he. “If you feel strong enough and sufficiently rested, come with me and I will lead you to him.” They followed him down the stairs to the entrance hall, and through into a spacious apartment.

“The Reception Room,” said the Waz. “The Jkak wishes not to be on formal terms with you—he bade me bring you to his garden room.”

Through a doorway they went and out into the most glorious garden they had ever seen. Fountains splashed in the sunlight—tiny brooks gurgled over white stones, as they wound round beds of flowers. There was a riot of colour in this wonderful garden—glorious, flowering trees and shrubs abounded—creeper-covered archways were everywhere, and at the further end they could see a creeper-covered arbour, hung with exotic blooms. Inside this were easy chairs, settees and comfortable lounges. The Jkak, and Mirasu, his Jkakalata, were seated there awaiting their arrival, and rose to greet them.

“Now tell us your story,” said the Jkak, “for wonderful it must be.”

“First,” said Alan, who at Sir John’s request, acted as spokesman, “how is it you can understand our language? Surely English isn’t spoken here?”

“English?”

“Yes. We are English. We come from that part of our world that was known as England, you know.”

“We have the ‘gift of tongues’ my friend,” said the Jkak. “Until we spoke to you, we had never before heard your tongue, but the moment you spoke we understood. I cannot describe our gift—it just—is. We of Keemar all speak one tongue. No confusion is here. Until you came, we had never had the opportunity to benefit from this gift we all believed we possessed. To-day, all Keemarnians are thanking Mitzor, the Great White Glory and Tower of Help, for His graciousness in having conferred upon us this gift, and for allowing us to have the means given us for using the ‘gift of tongues’. We understand, all of us. We may not understand every expression you utter, for things are different in other worlds, and we ourselves no doubt possess peculiarities of our own—still we can converse freely with you.”

“It is a wonderful gift to possess,” said Sir John.

“Now your story,” insisted the Jkak gently.

So Alan told the whole story of his life since the time when he and Desmond first went to Marshfielden. He told of the Light, and the people of Kalvar—of their wonderful escape from the bowels of the earth, and of the end of the world.

“So Quilphis is no more,” said the Jkak. “Indeed, we witnessed its destruction, and thought that your airship was part of the planet itself. And so,” he went on, “you believe that the end of the world was caused through the failure of the fire in the centre of the earth?”

“I feel sure of it,” said Alan. “During our stay in Kalvar, we noticed that the Fire grew daily less and less. And the purple people prophesied that when the Fire went out, then would come the end of the world. I think that, in its last dying gasp, it tried to get a new lease of life. In its gigantic death struggle, it burst its bonds, and earthquakes, volcanoes, and water spouts were the result.”

“Oh, it was horrible,” said Mavis shuddering.

“And your ship—the one you sailed in—you must invite me to see it,” said the Jkak.

“Why, of course,” said Sir John. “Have you not been?”

“It is not mine,” replied the Jkak. “It would be an impertinence to pry into your affairs without an invitation. Now, with regard to yourselves. I must see that you go to Hoormoori and pay your respects to our Rorka. Hoormoori is the chief place in this world of ours; it is there that our Rorka has his palace.”

“Rorka?” asked Mavis “What is that?”

“Our Rorka rules over the whole of Keemar.”

“Have you only one Rorka or King over the whole of Keemar?” asked Sir John.

“Why, of course. Why should we have more?” asked Mirasu smiling. “Keemar is one world—with one Rorka. Then we have one hundred Jkaks, and one thousand Moritous—that is enough, surely, to govern a world?”

“Are you only one nation then?”

“Naturally. We are all Keemarnians—just one great nation, divided into many families. We all speak the same language—all worship in the same fashion Mitzor, the Great White Glory and Tower of Strength, and all live in peace, friendship, and harmony, one with another. But now my friends, strangers though you are, you are welcome here. I will put at your disposal houses and serving men.”

“We possess nothing,” said Sir John. “We have no property, no valuables—nothing but the Argenta. How shall we repay your kindness to us?”

“Repay?” said the Jkak, “nay, that is another, word I know not the meaning of.”

“But,” began Alan.

“Nay, you are strangers in a strange world. It is our duty to make you all feel at home here. I can see you were of high estate in your own country—you must be of high estate here also. Know you, we are wise in this land. Our Rorka is first, and his spouse, the Rorkata, ranks second. Their offspring and nearest blood relations come next; then come the Jkaks and Moritous; our Djohs and Ab-Djohs; the Wazi, Captains of our air birds, our learned men and students, down to the serving men and maids, and the builders of our homes and our ships. From highest to lowest, all share ‘pro rata’ in the good things of the world. We are all satisfied—the laws of our land have fixed the rates that are to be paid to each household from the common fund. I assure you, there will be enough and to spare for you.”

Masters spoke for the first time. “I am Sir John’s servant,” he began.

“No,” corrected Sir John. “Masters is my faithful friend and adviser.”

“Then you would like him to dwell in the same house with you?”

“Please,” said Sir John, “and my nephew Alan, also.”

“And you, no doubt,” went on the Jkak turning to Desmond, “you would like to have apartments to yourselves.”

“Thank you,” answered Mavis for her husband and herself.

“Good. I will summon Waz-Y-Kjesta. There are several new houses near at hand. Go with him—you can take your choice,” and with a wave of the hand and a smile, they realized that they were dismissed from the presence of the Jkak and his charming wife.

Waz-Y-Kjesta was hovering near and came toward them. He had received his full instructions beforehand. “Come,” said he. “The houses that are unoccupied are quite close—come and take your choice.”

“How is it,” asked Alan, “that we can walk so easily now. When we first came out on to the open deck of the Argenta, our limbs were as heavy as lead. We could not walk an inch, and we were so top-heavy we could hardly stand.”

“That is easy to explain,” replied the Waz. “Eight Kymos have risen since you arrived here.”

“Kymos?” asked Mavis. The Keemarnian names puzzled her.

“Sun?” suggested Alan.

“Ah, you call it—sun. Yes, since you first came, the sun has sunk seven times. You have slept—breathed in our air. While you were sleeping, our men of science administered medicinal gases through your nostrils. These gases lightened you—took from you the heaviness of your earth. You will find no difficulty now,” and he led the way through the garden to the most glorious street it was possible to imagine.

“Now you will see our country,” he continued, “and compare it with your own. You are not too tired?” he asked Mavis.

“No, of course not. I feel too excited. I want to see your beautiful city—your beautiful country. May I first see that my baby is all right?”

He gave the necessary permission, and soon she returned. “He is sleeping peacefully,” said she. “Morkaba is watching over him. Now I’m ready,” and they all went down the marble steps of the Jkak’s palace, eager for their first sight of this new, strange land.

They walked down a lovely avenue to the outer gates. It was grass-covered, soft and velvety and cool. Birds with the gayest plumage hopped among the branches of the trees, and came fearlessly up to the strangers. One bird, perhaps as big as an English bullfinch, of many colours and with a fan-shaped tail, perched on Mavis’ shoulder, and chirped prettily to her.

“How wonderful!” said she.

“Did not your, birds do that?” asked Waz-Y-Kjesta.

“No, they were too nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“Yes—frightened—terrified,” she explained.

“I understand the meaning of the word you utter,” said he, “but you will not find the sensation of fear known on Keemar. We live in harmony with our birds, our animals, and even our fish. They are all our friends.”

At the end of the avenue they found themselves on a broad road. Hills rose up at the side, steeply in some places, while in others the rise was more gradual, leaving moorland and valley in view. Houses were built at intervals along the roads, all of wonderful, coloured marbles, but they were all surrounded by beautiful grounds, and added to the scene.

“Oh,” said Mavis suddenly. “There’s a shop.”

Waz-Y-Kjesta looked puzzled, and followed her gaze. “Oh yes, you mean our Omdurlis. How else should we get food to eat and clothes to wear?”

“How then do you manage about your coinage? Do you have money?” asked Alan curiously.

“I know not the word.”

“How do you buy things—what do you give in exchange?”

“Oh, we have laika—royla, suka and minta,” said he; and he drew from his purse that hung satchel-wise across his shoulders, some coins. The first was square, as large as a five shilling piece, and green in colour.

“This will purchase the most,” he said. “Five roylas make a laika.” The royla was exactly the same, but no bigger than a florin. “Then there are ten sukas to a laika, and twenty mintas.” The last two coins were of a bronze hue and as big as a shilling and a sixpence.

“I expect those five coins are equal to a fiver, a sovereign, a two shilling piece and a sixpence,” said Mavis thoughtfully.

“How do you get your money?” asked Sir John.

“Oh, from the Rorka,” explained the Waz. “I am a Waz—I receive one thousand roylas or two hundred laikas a murvin. The Jkak will get a thousand laikas, while little Morkaba, who is born of the workers, gets but ten and her food.”

“I suppose the shopkeepers make a lot of money,” said Desmond.

“Oh no. All members of the Omdurlis get one hundred laikas. All that they make above that they are bound to send to the Rorka. He places all the surplus in the general fund which is held in reserve for all Keemarnians. As each male Keemarnian reaches the age when he has seen the Kymo rise three thousand and thirty times, he journeys to Hoormoori, makes his bow to the Rorka, and receives from him his manhood. According to the station in life in which he has been born, and from which he has sprung, so he learns to take his part in life.”

“It is a wonderful system in theory,” said Sir John. “But how does it work in practice?”

“It is our custom,” was all the reply the Waz made.

“But don’t you sometimes find you get dissentient spirits? Don’t they rebel against this formality? Don’t they want to make more money than is allowed by custom? Don’t you sometimes have trouble from these spirits?”

Waz-Y-Kjesta smiled. “In our books of science we have read that in other places than ours—there were troubles like those you name. That man fought man—brother hated brother—women sorrowed, and children were rendered homeless. We, in Keemar, know not the meaning of such things. We are happy; we are content with our life; why should we complain?”

There were no ugly streets and lines of shops in this wonderful city; but the Omdurlis were to be found here and there at the edge of the grass covered paths, while the houses lay further back. Everywhere were to be seen happy-faced men and women, and laughing children. Bhors driven by colis, and bhors driven by the etheric power that was used for lighting and propelling purposes, thronged the streets, and the whole scene was gay and beautiful.

Although the sky was a wonderful blue, and all the buildings were of white and brilliant coloured marbles, the whole effect had none of the tawdry or bizarre appearance of the cities of the East, in the world; but the whole was soothing and pleasing to the jaded nerves of the earth folks. They turned a corner and found themselves in a short road ending in a cul-de-sac formed by high gates and marble pillars.

“This is one of the houses,” said Waz-Y-Kjesta. “Come, and see it.” The garden entranced Mavis before she saw the house. It was like a picture out of the fairyland she had dreamt of as a child—the fairyland she had dreamt of as a woman! For are not all true women half fairies at heart? Is not the mysticism of life itself a fairy gift to a pure woman’s mind? Mavis had lived her life among the fairies. As a child she had played with them in bluebell woods and primrose glades; and when she renewed her own childhood in her baby, she renewed through him her acquaintance with the fairies.

Trees overhung the grassy path which was on a gradual upward slope. Burns ran down on either side—rushing, laughing, maddening burns. Tiny flowers peeped out among the grass; lichen-covered rocks reared up majestically from the centre of still pools. Gnarled trees lined the way, and their twisted roots formed steps up the hillside. The top spread out plateau-wise, and a blue marble house was built in the very centre. It was not very large; a verandah ran all round it on both floors, and the foliage and creeping plants added to its beauty. The door was open wide, and the splashing fountain in the entrance hall looked inviting and cool. Apart from the kitchen and servants’ quarters, there were on the ground floor only two living rooms and the entrance hall. Each of the six bedrooms on the upper floor had magnificent bathrooms leading from them. They were like miniature swimming baths, shallow at one end, deepening to six feet, and the water was hot and cold in the pipes. The whole house was decorated in a delicate shade of blue, and was absolutely ready for use. Mavis was entranced. “May we stay here?” she asked.

“I will acquaint the Jkak with your decision,” answered the Waz. “Now,” turning to Sir John, “through the garden yonder, and down a short woodland path is a garden house. Would you care to see it? It might suit you, and you would be all near to one another.”

“It sounds most attractive,” said Alan.

They walked through the garden and down the hill on the other side of it, and saw, nestling among the trees, the tiniest house they had so far seen on Jupiter. It was an absolutely perfect bachelor establishment, and the three men decided at once that it was an ideal spot to live in.

“The Jkak is eager to see your air bird,” announced Waz-Y-Kjesta. “When may he go?”

“Why I’d forgotten all about the Argenta,” said Alan. “Can’t we go now?”

Mavis looked from one to the other. “Do you want Dez?” she asked pathetically. “I seem to have seen so little of him lately. Dez come—come home, and Baby, you and I will have a long, happy day together.”

So it was decided that Sir John, Alan and Masters should go back to the Jkak’s with the Waz, and arrange about the trip to the Argenta. “Waiting men and maids have already been dispatched to your houses,” announced the majordomo, Marlinok by name.

“Is the Jkak at liberty?” asked the Waz.

“He is, my Waz.”

“Tell him, if it is his desire, the strangers will show him their air bird now.”

A few minutes passed and Marlinok returned. “The bhors are ready and waiting, my Waz. The Jkak has already started.”

Outside they found two double bhors ready, and Sir John and his faithful Masters travelled in one, while Alan and Waz-Y-Kjesta occupied the other. Alan was now able to enjoy the scenery through which he passed. The path by which they travelled ran by the side of an island lake, with tall mountains towering on the further side of the water. The woodland nature of the scene with the twining paths and overhanging branches reminded Alan forcibly of the bank of Loch Lomond between Tarbet and Ardlui; yet the almost tropical colouring of the flora—the wonderful brightness of the birds’ plumage, the waving palm-like trees that were interspersed here and there, were unlike anything he had ever beheld. This place seemed to possess everything to make it perfect—mountain—moorland—water—and woodlands. Nothing was missing from this panorama of glory.

At last the Argenta hove in sight, and somehow its beauty seemed to have lessened in this land of glory. The silver brightness of its aluminium looked dim in the golden sunlight; the torpedo-shaped body seemed ugly and sinister in comparison with the beauty and symmetry of the Keemarnian air birds. The Jkak waited for the strangers to alight, and the Waz whispered his instructions. “Welcome the Jkak, my friend,” said he. “It is our custom. Ask him to honour you by boarding your craft. Let him bring peace and prosperity to your house by stepping across the threshold of your boat.”

“My Jkak,” said Alan, going to the side of the state bhor, “will you honour us all by boarding our Argenta, and bring us joy and peace?”

“You have learnt your lesson quickly and well, my son,” said the Jkak in reply. “I will come with pleasure.” He walked aboard and was extremely interested in the vessel. “But how do you move it?” he asked. “How does it rise into the heights of the heavens?”

“This is the spirit,” said Alan, “but alas, it will not work in your atmosphere. There seems no power in it. Perhaps later on, we might experiment with your etheric current?”

The Jkak and his suite were enchanted with the fittings of the Argenta—the electricity, the furniture, the hangings. As they made their way toward the sleeping cabins, Masters suddenly spoke.

“Poor old Murdoch—he’s in there,” said he. “I am afraid I forgot all about him.”

“Poor chap,” said Alan, “so did I,” and he quickly barred the way. “May I suggest, my Jkak, that you do not go in there,” said he. “A very dear comrade of ours risked his life for us all. He is in there—dead.”

“Dead?” asked the Jkak.

Sir John bowed his head sadly. “Dead,” he repeated, “and one of the truest servants that man ever had.”

“But if he is in there,” said the Jkak with a puzzled frown, “why does he not come out?” He looked at the others in turn. “Why does he not enjoy life with you? Ah! He thinks the Argenta would not be safe without him? That is foolish. I will enter—I will assure him he has nothing to fear.”

“But he is dead,” urged Alan.

“Dead?”

“Yes, he died before we reached Keemar.”

“I know not the meaning of the word. The ‘gift of tongues’ fails me here. Explain—dead.”

Alan looked at him in amazement. Death was such a common word in the world; one met with it at every turn; it was strange that it should remain unknown to the Jovians with their wonderful “gift of tongues.”

“His life has gone,” said Alan simply.

“But life is eternal, my son.”

“Surely you do not live for ever on Keemar?” asked Alan incredulously.

“Ah, no. We do not live for ever on Keemar it is true—but our life is eternal.”

It was impossible to explain—they had no knowledge of death—yet they, on their own showing, seemed to expect to leave Keemar at some time or other. Surely death alone could remove them?

“I beg of you, do not go in there,” urged Alan, and he barred the door of the death chamber.

“My son,” said the Jkak. “I must know all things in my country. If what you call ‘death’ has entered—then I beg you, acquaint me with it.”

“But it is horrible—”

“Let me meet it face to face—”

“It is loathsome,” urged Alan. “I pray you, do not go inside.”

The Jkak made no reply, but raised his right hand high above his head—palm outwards, and even as he did so, Waz-Y-Kjesta and his suite bent low on one knee.

“The sign of the Jkak,” said the Waz. “His wishes must be honoured, his commands obeyed.”

Alan moved away from the door, his head bowed in acquiescence, and Marlinok turned the handle of the door, and stepped back to allow the Jkak to enter. There was a tense silence for a moment, then from the darkened chamber came a startled cry, a cry full of poignant horror, and with an ashen face the Jkak appeared at the door.

“I have seen Death,” said he. “I have seen the horrors of sin. Death, until now, has never entered Keemar. Death brings its own punishment. Death brings horrors and adversity. Death! Oh Great, White Glory, Tower of Help, Mitzor of our Fathers—I have seen Death in its hideousness. Mitzor the Mighty, grant preservation to thy people—grant help to thy faithful.” Persoph the Jkak was trembling. His face was white, his hand was shaking as he pointed to the door.

“What will you do with—with—that?” he asked, almost inaudibly.

Alan answered him. “Bury him, poor chap.”

“Bury?”

“Yes. Do you not dig graves for your dead?”

“We have no dead, my son. I pray Mitzor, that the entrance of this—soul—may not bring disaster on our land. But how do you bury?”

Alan explained, and as he finished the Jkak’s face was more horror-stricken than before. “Nay, my son, bury you cannot. That would be impossible here.” He turned to the Waz. “Does not the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata take place within eight Kymos?”

“Yes, my Jkak,” answered Y-Kjesta. “Ak-Marn sent cards for all to attend it. It will be the biggest feast I have ever known. His seed is mighty, his seed is great. Five thousand and ten cards have been issued, and yet five thousand and more still clamour for admittance.”

“Good,” answered Persoph. “This,” pointing about him, “all this must go. Summon me Misrath, the High Priest. Bid him bring his ‘waters of purity’ and his smoke of sweet odours. Bid him bring his choir of young voices, and bid all prepare. A sacrifice will be offered to Mitzor; the Great White Glory must be appeased.”

Alan and Sir John were very mystified over the whole scene. These Jovians did not seem to understand Death—yet they spoke of sacrifice!

“I am sorry, my son,” said the Jkak. “I can save nothing for you. All must be burnt and offered to Mitzor. Come now, I will draw a ring around the contaminated spot, and we will witness the destruction from without.”

Sir John and Alan were both loth to have the Argenta burnt—but being dependent on the Jovians for their entire future, they were unable to demur. With a silent prayer for the friend who had given his life for them, they left the ship and stood some way off. After an interminable time of waiting, a mighty blast of music burst on their ears, and they saw a procession of etheric bhors coming towards them. The first stopped, and Misrath the High Priest alighted, followed by priests and acolytes in quaint garments of ecclesiastical cut.

A procession formed—two acolytes with censers led the way, and wafted the glorious perfume from side to side. Then followed one of the most mystical and picturesque ceremonies it was possible to imagine. Almost of Mosaic grandeur, it thrilled the watchers. They were unable to understand what was being said—all was in the language of the Keemarnians—but the meaning was plain. The High Priest offered the Argenta and its contents to Mitzor, the Great White Glory. He offered it, with its fine workmanship, its precious metals—and its body of sin. He asked that through the mediation of the sacrifice, any evil might be averted, that the entrance of Death might bring. He consecrated the Argenta to Mitzor—he consecrated the ground it contaminated. He poured the “waters of purity” across its bow, and named it “Meeka,” the Bringer of Knowledge.

Then the Argenta was sprayed from stem to stern with a milky fluid that dried like little curds all over the vessel. A torch was lighted and applied to the ship. Little flames ran along meeting each other until they merged into one great whole; there was a roar and a noise like thunder, and the Argenta, the hobby of a life time, the fruit of patient labour, was no more!

Sir John watched with a set face, but as the fire died out, and he saw that the whole had been swallowed up, had consumed itself entirely,—he crumpled up, and lay inert upon the ground.