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

Alan bent over his uncle, but the High Priest waved him away. “Touch him not,” said he sternly, and such command rang in his tones, that Alan stepped back involuntarily.

Again the scene was repeated—Sir John was prayed over, sprayed with the “waters of purity,” and incensed. As the sweet fumes found their way up his nostrils, he stirred. Alan rushed to him and embraced him. “It was only foolishness, Alan,” said he brokenly. “But the Argenta—my ship—I was so proud of her. Masters, you know how I felt? She was my all in my days of sorrow. And in my days of joy, when reunited we sailed in her, she was my joy.”

“I understand, Uncle John. But try not to mind—when one is in Rome—you know the rest. We are in Jupiter and we must do as the Jovians wish.”

Persoph the Jkak, came up to them. “Nay, grieve not,” said he kindly. “We have cleared this place of sin. An air bird to take the place of the one that has gone shall be placed at your disposal. Go you home. Cards will be brought you for the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata. I beg of you all—attend it. Nay, I command you. We will meet again within eight Kymos. Farewell. Farewell.”

Waz-Y-Kjesta, motioned to their bhor. “Come, my friend,” said he. “I will drive you back another way—we will drive along the shores of the secti, and watch the breakers roll in.” The sea shore was wonderful; the sea was blue, a deep, deep blue, and the breakers, flecked with foam, rolled in to a golden shore. They passed bays, promontories, caves and rocks—and they found the drive of bewildering beauty.

Alan asked, “What is the Sacrament of Sch—”

“Schlerik-itata?” supplemented the Waz.

“Yes.”

“My friend, you must wait until you witness it. You will understand us more fully when you have been to the home of Ak-Marn. Now to-night, there is a small party being given by Kulmervan and his fellow students at the Observatory. I have been asked to bring you all. Will you come?”

“With pleasure,” said Alan.

“The Jkak is sending you all a complete outfit, my friend. Your clothes are old, travel-stained and torn—they are sombre too. If you accept his present, wear to-night your brightest garments.”

“Will you help me to adjust them?” asked Alan.

The Waz drew himself up with a haughty air, but it as soon passed. “I was forgetting, my friend, that you know not our customs. The serving men will assist you. When you reach home, you will find your house fully staffed, and Quori, a most efficient steward and adviser.”

“What about meeting to-night for the party?”

“I will call for you as the Kymo sinks. You will have bhors sufficient for your use.”

When they reached home they found a note awaiting them from Mavis, asking them to come over and have lunch with her and Desmond, and they walked through the garden to the other house. Mavis was waiting for them, her cheeks dimpling and her eyes sparkling. “It’s a wonderful country,” said she. “I’ve nothing to do all day; the cooking and cleaning seem to go by clockwork. Morkaba is Baby’s personal attendant and mine; she has arranged my frock. How do you like it?” and she twirled round on one foot showing the soft draperies of Keemarnian dress.

It was of a soft green, embroidered with coloured silks and her hair was left loose flowing around her shoulders, and caught above her ears by a narrow fillet of gold that gleamed as she tossed her head.

“I like it much better than the frumpy old English fashions,” said she. “Desmond is not quite ready yet—he will look splendid.”

“We shall change later,” said Sir John, “and I shall be glad to get out of these stuffy and dirty garments. All the same I don’t fancy myself a cross between an imitation gladiator and a stained glass twelfth century saint.”

They thoroughly enjoyed their meal; eggs served in a wonderful salad of fruit and vegetables proved to be the staple part, and this course was followed by a baked grain, similar to barley, but of a bright green colour, deliciously creamy and sweet. There was milk to drink, and plenty of heavy cream.

“They seem to be almost vegetarians here,” said Mavis, “for although we have had plenty of milk, eggs and cream, I have not seen a sign of fish or meat.”

“All the better,” said Sir John, “after all that tinned stuff while we were on the Argenta—ugh!”

They drove in state to the students’ party. The Waz had constituted himself their guide, and they were very thankful for his services. The large ground floor of the Observatory had been converted into a veritable bower of roses. At one end, almost hidden by flowers, were the musicians—playing dreamy music on soft-toned, stringed instruments.

The Host in Chief, Kulmervan, with Waiko, stood on a raised dais at one end and received their guests, who were all announced by an usher who wore a kilt-like shirt and a flowing cape. As the strangers entered he announced from a card they gave him, first in his own language and then in English, “Sir John, Alan, Desmond, Masters, and Mavis.” No surnames were known on Jupiter, and so far they possessed no Keemarnian title. To Sir John they gave his prefix, although they did not quite understand it.

A great silence reigned when the announcement was made—Kulmervan left the dais and advanced toward his guests, and this mark of homage was acknowledged by clamorous cheers from all the others who were present.

“Welcome,” said he. “I witnessed your descent upon our land. Indeed, it was I who helped to focus our ray of attraction upon your vessel and helped to draw you into our atmosphere.”

“What are your rays?” asked Alan. “Surely you had never any cause to use one before?”

“Indeed, yes, my friend. Some time ago, some of our Keemarnians, while experimenting in the Heavens, found themselves outside our atmosphere. They never returned. Across the roadway between the red planet ‘Mydot’—Mars I think you call it—and ourselves, are many rapidly moving meteoric bodies. We fear that our gallant brothers met one of these, and were destroyed. Many men of science went after these lost ones but none ever returned. Through our wonderful glass, we saw one of our air birds in space; it was unable to reach home. Then was the great magnetic ray discovered. In the shortest space of time it was perfected, and played on the silent air bird. Gradually it was drawn nearer and nearer to our shores until it was within our atmosphere, and was able to land in safety. Since that time, if air birds venture too high, we have nearly always been able to save the adventurous spirits, and in your case, we brought you safely here.”

“It’s a wonderful invention,” said Sir John, “and I can imagine would have been of immense value to our airmen on earth.”

Kulmervan then presented them to Waiko, and Mavis was led to a seat of honour on the dais.

They spent a most enjoyable time, and the whole entertainment was very like what they were accustomed to on earth. Games were played,—games with balls and racquets, and balls and hoops, and between the games there was singing and dancing.

Refreshments were served in a hall adjoining, and consisted mainly of luscious fruits and dainty cakes and pastries. The many Keemarnians they met, invited them in turn to parties and entertainments, and they felt they had more invitations than they could safely accept. “Never accept,” whispered Waz-Y-Kjesta to them all, “unless you mean to honour your host with your presence. A refusal never offends, but to accept and then to disappoint, is unforgivable.” Suddenly in the middle of the dancing a trumpet blew loud and clear. The band ceased and the couples stood still. Then rang out a fanfare of royal welcome, and the guests rushed to the entrance hall in great excitement, waving and cheering. “It must be some one of importance who is coming,” said Desmond. “Perhaps it is the Rorka,” suggested Mavis. There was a roll of drums, and then, on a litter carried by six stalwart men, entered a girl of perhaps eighteen years. The cortége stopped and Kulmervan bent low before her, and kissed her proffered hand. She bowed ever so slightly, and he assisted her from her cushioned throne. She stood beside him, and proved to be quite small, not more than five feet in height, but of a beauty almost indescribable. She was very fair and fragile. Her eyes were purple-blue fringed with long, black lashes. Her fillet was of gold, and was enriched with gems the colour of her eyes, while her robe of blue hung in folds about her. Perhaps it was her lips that impressed the watchers most. A perfect bow—they were of a vivid scarlet that contrasted strangely with the delicate pink flush of her cheeks. Self possessed, calm and regal she looked as she graciously acknowledged the plaudits of the guests.

“Who is she, Alan?” asked Mavis. But he was unconscious of her question, he could only gaze and gaze at the beautiful apparition who had come so unexpectedly upon the scene.

Waiko bent in turn before the stranger who whispered something to him. Immediately he came toward Mavis. “We are honoured to-night,” said he. “The Ipso-Rorka Chlorie has journeyed from Pyrmo to welcome you. She heard of your presence and came at once.”

“Who is she?” asked Mavis.

“Why the highest lady in the land—the only child of our Rorka.”

Mavis went toward where the girl stood, and the Ipso-Rorka held out both her hands to the English girl. “Welcome,” said she, in a voice musical and low. “I hear you start soon to honour the Rorka, my father, with a visit. May I welcome you first?” In turn the others were presented to her, but her attention was all for Mavis—it was Mavis the woman she wanted to know.

And Alan? He had seen his ideal! Years before, he wondered whether he would ever meet her—and now he had. And a King’s daughter! And he a stranger in a strange world! How dare he even lift his eyes toward her. Yet he dared—and his pulses leapt madly as his eyes feasted on her beauty. Not once did she address him—not once did she even seem to notice him. Chlorie put her hand lightly on Desmond’s arm. “I will dance with you,” said she smiling, and Alan watched them lead the merry throng of dancing couples. The demon of jealousy, earth jealousy, was in his heart.

“Why are you looking so—how can I put it—so sad?” asked Kulmervan.

Alan laughed. “He has a wife,” he muttered. “Why does he take her from others?”

“But she has honoured him. It is not for us to choose for the Ipso-Rorka,” said Kulmervan.

“Yes, but she is so beautiful, so sweet, so glorious,” began Alan. Then he stopped suddenly. “Oh,” he continued, “what do you people of Jupiter know of love or hate? Your lives are too quiet, too humdrum to know aught of passion—”

“Teach me! Teach me!” cried Kulmervan leaning toward him. “Your face is drawn—your eye hard. Yet you look as if you could battle with the world. What is it?”

“Love and hate,” said Alan grimly. Then he laughed. “What a fool I am. Desmond is my cousin; we love each other like brothers. He has won Mavis—why should he not dance with the Ipso-Rorka? Mavis does not mind.”

But Kulmervan turned away in silence. Knowledge had come to him in a curious way. He saw passion, love, hatred, anger, jealousy all raging within a human heart. Unconsciously the feelings were photographed upon his too sensitive mind. Love that had only smouldered was now born in all its fury for the Princess Chlorie, the fair. And with love was born the twin, hate—hate for Alan, the man he feared might supplant him.

It seemed as if death, although burned and purified, had brought into Keemar unrest and sin. The prayers of the High Priest himself were unable to wash it away, until scourged and purified the earth folk themselves became less material and more godlike and true.

The day for the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata arrived at last and the strangers found themselves on the way to Ak-Marn’s palace.

Although the Aks had no administrative powers, as had the Jkaks, they were held in the highest esteem, for they were princes of royal blood.

Ak-Marn greeted them warmly. They saw that his dress was different from the usual male costume. He was in unrelieved white, and wore neither jewel nor ornament. The material of his robe, which hung with a long cloak to the ground, was almost like plush and there was something almost bridal about the costume. Yet Ak-Marn was an old man, with a beard of white, and grandchildren in plenty. Surely Schlerik-itata could not be the same as matrimony, thought Mavis.

The guests were eight thousand in number, and all wore their brightest jewels and their finest raiment.

There was singing and dancing and much gay chatter, and the whole scene was one of wonderful gaiety and joy. Refreshments were brought in, and Ak-Marn began to speak. The English people could now understand the Keemarnian language fairly well. It was easy, its grammar simple, and its pronunciation almost Latin.

“Friends,” said Ak-Marn. “I break bread with you. Two and ten Kymos have sunk since I quenched my thirst or satisfied my hunger. I’ve prayed to Mitzor, the Great White Glory and Tower of Help, to prepare me for my journey. My call came eighty and five Kymos since—I saw the figures in fire. I heard my call, and am prepared. I go with hope in my heart—with joy in my breast. I am to be envied, my friends, for my days have been long upon Keemar. I leave my loved one, Viok, and our children, and our children’s children in your care, my friends. When I am gone, cheer her with loving words—help her with kind counsel. I leave you with love in my heart. I leave you with the knowledge that our parting is not for long. Soon you will join me in the home of the Tower of Help. Remember that the eternities of time cannot be measured.”

Then bread was broken, and there followed the “Feast of the Sacrament,” and the most intimate friends of Ak-Marn drank to his “future”—drank to his coming “joy.” And Alan and Sir John were no longer mystified. They realized that what they in their materialism knew as “Death” was nigh—but not Death, the slayer of happiness, Death, the dread reaper, but Death in a kindly form, a death that gave life—a death that was glorious.

“I thought at first that the Jovians were of a finer nature than ours,” said Alan.

“If they have conquered Death, they must indeed be high,” said Sir John thoughtfully.

“Who is Mitzor?” asked Mavis.

“The God of our Fathers, my dear. The God of Abraham and the God of the New Testament. Whatever their religion and ritual is, they worship the same God as we do,” said Alan.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite.”

When the feast was ended, the guests, one by one, bade farewell to their host. It was a long tedious business, as no one was permitted to pass without at least a few personal words from Ak-Marn who was seated on a raised chair near the doorway. And as each woman passed out, she was crowned with a wreath of beautiful, freshly cut flowers, from which hung a filmy white veil, while the men were given long white cloaks with hoods which they drew over their bare heads. Mavis bent her knee, and held out her hands to the kindly old man. “My child,” said he. “Our beautiful ceremony is so far meaningless to you. Go home—pray to Mitzor the Mighty that He may refine and cleanse you, that when your time comes you may be reincarnated to Him, through the medium of his Sacrament. Farewell.”

To Alan he spoke long and quietly. “My son,” said he, “you are in a strange world, you are young, you are carnal. Ah,” as Alan would have protested, “we of Keemar, my Alan, are not as of your world. We know not sin as you know it. Our first parents, Menlin and Jorlar, were placed in a garden—” Alan started—“Yes, my friend, as your parents were. They succumbed not to temptation—so they lived in happy solitude for many years. Then Mitzor in His great kindness gave them the knowledge of Love—Love without sin. They mated. Their love grew. Children of love were born sinless into our world. Child bearing was a glory; motherhood the highest estate. They knew neither sin nor sorrow, and so in love our populace grew.”

“Do you mean to say you are sinless here?” asked Alan incredulously.

“My son, it is not an estate for us to glory in, for the merits do not belong to us, but to our first parents. No—real sin has never entered here, but we live in dread of its coming. In a far off country—in Fyjipo—there is built a large palace behind high walls. If anger, or lust, or impatience is shown by any one of us, an order is given and the offender is taken to the Hall of Sorrows to purge away his sins. Should a madness come upon us, for such we reckon these failings to be—we are kept safe until it has passed, and until we can no longer contaminate our fellow creatures.”

“It’s a wonderful country,” said Alan. “Where we come from, is all sin and misery and—”

“Nay, tell me not. I go on a journey. I shall face my Mitzor. I charge you, should you or your friends feel this madness coming on you, hide yourselves, I beg, in the Hall of Sorrows. Stay there until it has passed, and preserve the purity and happiness of this land. Farewell.” The cloak was fastened round Alan’s shoulders, and he too left the kindly presence.

Waz-Y-Kjesta was waiting for them at the outer hall. “Go home,” he whispered. “Your bhor awaits you. I beg of you, eat no more this night, but in the early dawn, while Kymo still sleeps, put on your cloaks, and the Lady Mavis her veil, and go you to the Temple of Mitzor. Farewell.” It was a very solemn party that retired to their rooms that night, yet the full mystery of the Sacrament had not been unfolded to them.

It was dark when they arose, and in a dim twilight they drove to the Temple. They had never before been inside it, and it was with much trepidation that they waited on the threshold. It was a very beautiful building of pale blue marble—the colour of the sky. An enormous dome rose up in the centre of the square body of the Temple, and at the four corners, minarets with gilded tops finished the picture. A flight of fifty steps led up to the doors which were of a burnished metal, and studded with precious gems. Just inside was an antechamber, where the guests waited in silence until they were ushered to the seats that were allotted to them. The inside was wonderful. Mosaic walls representing allegorical tales gleamed in the dim light; the roof was of gold, and marble pillars supported it down the long aisle. An enormous altar rose up at the further end upon which were carved in marble cherubim and seraphim. In the sanctuary, if such it could be called, was a small white throne of marble, with heavy, white curtains draped at either side. It was placed in such a position that although it did not intercept the view of the altar, which was high above the nave, yet it could be seen by every one in the building.

The seats allotted to Alan and his party were very near the front where rails of gold separated the Sanctuary from the people’s part of the Temple. Music floated on the air—soft like babbling brooks and the song of birds; now bursting out into thunderous praise and mighty worship.

Suddenly there came a solemn hush; a bell tinkled; the organ played softly, and there came the sound of boys’ sweet voices raised in ecstasy: from a door at the side of the choir a dozen acolytes walked dressed in their garments of white. The procession started down the nave. After these boys came priests and deacons, and then Misrath, the High Priest walked in front of a raised throne. On this sat Ak-Marn, his eyes closed and his hands clasped in prayer. Behind him walked his wife and their children. Their faces were radiant, it is true; yet there was a touch of sadness in his wife’s gait. Then followed more priests and acolytes, all singing hymns of joy.

The procession wound round the Temple, and back through the middle aisle, and through the rails into the Sanctuary. Ak-Marn was led to the marble throne; his wife alone of his family had followed close behind, and now his arms were around her. Their lips met in one long kiss, then with a bowed head she left his side, and took her place with her family in the very front seats.

The organ thundered. Voices rang in a mighty pæan of praise. Then silence! Misrath came forward and offered prayers to Mitzor—prayers of offering, prayers of supplication. A mighty wreath of freshly cut flowers was placed upon the altar. It was to be a burnt offering, and as the smoke of the sacrifice arose on the air, the white curtains were drawn around the figure of Ak-Marn and he was hidden from view. Then singing rent the air; the acolytes incensed the throne, until it was entirely covered by the perfumed smoke, covered like a pall.

Alan watched in wonder. The grandeur of the prayers, the singing, the mystic curtains drawn around Ak-Marn appalled him. Misrath’s voice rose above the music.

“Children of Keemar,” he intoned. “One more brother has been caught by the mantle of Mitzor, and has left this world for ever. He has gone to Glory, gone to Happiness—gone to Mitzor Himself. Peace be unto his house. Peace be unto his wife. Peace be unto his seed for ever. We bid him—farewell.”

There was a great silence. The censers were stilled. Gradually the smoke of the incense cleared away from the marble throne, now gleaming in the rising rays of the Kymo.

Misrath touched the cords of the enveloping curtain, and drew them back. The little white throne was empty! Ak-Marn had returned to the bosom of his Creator! But stay! On the floor, as if shed in the hurried flight of its owner, lay the bridal robe of Ak-Marn. The High Priest raised it, blessed it, sprinkled it with the waters of purity, and Ak-Marn’s wife received it in her arms. Then the mighty congregation rose and sang one last song of praise, and at the end, quietly left the building. And the last view Alan had of Ak-Marn’s wife was of a solitary figure, dressed like a bride, clasping the little white throne that was the last resting place of her loved one.

“I don’t understand,” whispered Mavis hoarsely, as they were being driven back to their home.

“My dear, he is dead,” said Sir John.

“Dead? If that is Death, then it is something to welcome and not to dread,” she answered softly. There was a faraway look in her eyes. “What a wonderful Sacrament! Death that is no sorrow—only a parting for a little while, and then—reunion.” She clasped her husband’s hand. “Belovèd,” she murmured, “if Death comes to us like that, then can we have no real sorrow any more. Its shadow cannot cause us pain or grief. What do you think, Alan?”

But Alan did not answer. He was thinking of two deep blue eyes, a laughing mouth, wilful golden curls that flirted on two soft, pink cheeks. He was longing to crush the lithe and sweet body close to his, and smother her roses with kisses. The knowledge and fear of Death had lapsed; Jupiter had eradicated it,—but with its extinction had come love. Love, stronger a thousandfold than Death. He looked upward to where the Sun, Kymo in all his glory, was shining. The whole world was bathed in a glory of light. Yes, Jupiter had conquered death, and before him lay life and love!

Marlinok, the Jkak’s majordomo, called on Sir John and Alan a few days after they had witnessed the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata. “Will you be ready,” he asked them, “when the Kymo is at the full, to start on your journey to Hoormoori to render homage to the Rorka?”

“Are we all to go?” asked Alan.

“But one of you need go,” he answered. “The Rorka will visit Minniviar later, and then the other strangers may make their bows.”

“I am glad of that,” said Sir John, “for I should like to stay here in quietness and retirement for a little while. I am beginning to feel the burden of my age, and am worn out with the strain of the last few years.”

“I will go to Hoormoori,” announced Alan, “I can start at whatever time the Jkak thinks best.”

“He has prepared incense and jewels for you to take as gifts from the absent ones,” said Marlinok, “if you will now see Waz-Y-Kjesta all your arrangements can be made.”

“I’ll go now,” said Alan.

Alan was going down a pretty lane toward where the air birds were housed when he suddenly became aware of footsteps behind him. He turned—immediately the footsteps ceased, and he could see no one. Thinking he must be mistaken, and fearing nothing from the Keemarnians, he went on his way blithely. The air was deliciously warm, and the fresh breeze, balmy with the scent of flowers, tempered it. Still the footsteps followed with monotonous regularity; as he hastened, so they became quicker; as his died down, so they ceased altogether. Yet he had no sense of fear, no feeling of impending evil; the thought of peril on Keemar was impossible to imagine. The Keemarnians were of a breed as different from the earth to which he belonged, as he was from Heaven! He passed delightful homely fields, gleaming with buttercups and daisies. Friendly cows chewed the cud in sleepy enjoyment. They did not rise as he drew near, but only raised their sleepy heads, and looked at him out of their liquid eyes with interest and friendliness. A pig grunted in a corner as she suckled her squealing young; a donkey brayed; a couple of goats were nibbling the grass while their kids frolicked near them. He saw strange animals too. There was the gorwa of the deer family, a beautiful creature, the colour of a Scottish stag, and its counterpart in miniature, but with none of its brother’s timidity. All the animals on Keemar were of a smaller build than those he had been accustomed to. The cows were even smaller then the little fawn Jerseys so valued in England. He had seen terriers and bull dogs, dalmatians and spaniels in this strange world, and the bigger breeds were all represented on a smaller scale. The Jkak had a dog—a Borzoi, Alan would have called it, yet perhaps it was no bigger than a small Irish terrier; but strangely enough, its beauty was not diminished by its minuteness. So Alan went on. The way was strange to him, but he was enjoying the calmness of the scene, and he knew his excellent bump of locality would sooner or later lead him to Y-Kjesta. Again the footsteps beat time with his own, and anxious for companionship, he stepped into the shadow of a tree, and hoped to waylay a shy, but friendly stranger. A second passed. The footsteps had ceased—then came a rustling, and the head of Kulmervan the Student appeared over a honeysuckle bush. Silently he came forward, alert and watchful until he was on a level with Alan.

“Hullo!” said Alan amiably. “Where are you going, Kulmervan?”

The effect was magical! Kulmervan jumped as though he had been struck, and his face whitened. He remained silent. “I’m going to see Waz-Y-Kjesta,” went on Alan. “Are you coming my way?”

Kulmervan did not reply, but a baleful light gleamed in his eyes, and his mouth twitched.

“What’s the matter?” asked Alan curiously.

Suddenly Kulmervan spoke, and there was a wealth of passion in his tones. “Why did you come here, you strangers? I was happy until you came. I was contented. You have made me want—want the unknown. You have stirred my heart and filled it with longings that I cannot yet fathom. Why have you come to stir up misery among a happy and contented race?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Alan, “I have done nothing.”

“You’ve done everything. You dared to raise your eyes to the level of Chlorie, our Ipso-Rorka. You put thoughts about her into my head. Oh—” as Alan would have broken in—“I read your thoughts, it was easy, my friend. You dared to think of her as a woman—even your woman. It was an impertinence, I tell you. I love Chlorie with my whole soul, and before Mitzor the Mighty, I’ll carry her away into some far off land, before she can look with a favourable eye on a man, not only of another world, but a man of a coarser nature than our own.”

Kulmervan was breathless when he finished, for his words had come thick and fast, tumbling over themselves in his great excitement. Alan was speechless, and looked as he felt, absolutely uncomfortable and ill at ease. “Why your very pose proves guilt,” continued Kulmervan.

“Why should I not love Chlorie?” demanded Alan, “Why should my love for her cause strife between us?”

“Because, my stranger, I am a Prince of the Rorka’s House. I am not only Kulmervan the Student; but Taz-Ak of the House of Pluthoz. Why else would Chlorie have honoured my party—why else come to the dance of a student? There are but four Keemarnians that Chlorie can marry, and I rank second.”

Alan wondered at the time why the Princess should come in so natural a manner to the Student’s reception. He wondered at the time at her familiarity with Kulmervan. She had patted his hand, smiled into his eyes, and had honoured him more than once with a dance.

But Alan, too, was in love. Idiotically, insanely in love with a woman who had not even troubled to raise her eyes to his, at his presentation. His pulses throbbed at the remembrance of the touch of her fingertips as he raised them to his lips. He loved her, and in that moment was born a desire to overcome all obstacles, and princess or no princess, to win her. But he knew too that in this pleasant land of Keemar an enmity had come upon him, and wondered whether the Curse of Death had brought it. He wondered whether the dead and decomposed body of their faithful Murdoch had indeed brought sorrow to this fair land.

“I’ve spoken to your Ipso-Rorka only once,” said he. “The night of your party. She has called on my uncle and Mavis. Mavis has been out driving with her several times. But I, unfortunately, have missed her each time. Surely you are not jealous because I—”

“Because you love her? I am,” said Kulmervan thickly, “and I say this—if you so much as dare to raise your eyes to her, if you dare to address her, I’ll make you suffer for it—aye, even though I also suffer eternally for it,” and with that he turned on his heel and walked quickly away.

Alan was very perturbed about this meeting, and felt inclined to tell the story of it to Waz-Y-Kjesta,—yet the sacred feeling he had for Chlorie was not to be spoken of, or bandied about from man to man. No, he would keep it to himself, and trust to time and common sense to cure Kulmervan of his strange hatred.

He walked quickly on, and already could see the air birds in the distance, circling above their houses. The little lane turned quickly at right angles—there was a steep descent, and hedges rose at either side to a height of six or seven feet, while the overhanging branches of the trees met in the middle and formed a leafy arch. The grassy banks were carpeted with flowers, and the scent hung sweet on the air. Again the narrow path turned sharply to the right, and before Alan realized it, there almost at his feet, stretched across almost the full width of the path, lay a lion, full grown, with his shaggy mane stirring in the breeze. Alan stopped suddenly, and his heart beat quickly. The lion’s eyes were closed—he was sleeping.

The Englishman was almost afraid to move lest the savage beast should spring upon him and devour him. He looked round to the right, the bough of a tree hung low over the path. He leapt up the bank, and with one mighty spring caught hold of it, and swarmed up to a topmost branch.

He was safe—but the sudden sound had startled the lion, who rose up and with a low growl prowled backward and forward beneath the tree.

It was an uncomfortable position to be in—the tree bough was very thin, and bent and twisted and crackled ominously. Still the King of Beasts remained sentinel underneath. Alan felt the perspiration on his face as the limb shivered and bent, yet there was no other to which he could move. Still the animal remained near, his quickened senses no doubt wondering at the noise he heard, and waiting to see what had caused it.

The minutes dragged by—the branch was weakening perceptibly—he could already see the white of the inside where the branch was gradually tearing away from the parent trunk. There was no one in sight, and still the lion walked restlessly to and fro.

The Kymo was sinking rapidly. It was already low down on the horizon, and Alan knew he had been about two English hours in his perilous position. He saw a branch above his head, and he wormed his way along to see if he could in any way reach it. Carefully he went—slowly—suddenly with a scream and a crash the branch gave way, and Alan felt himself being hurled to the ground.

The distance was not great, and he landed in the centre of some sweet-smelling, soft bushes. He was dazed, and wondered when the lion would pounce. He knew he was powerless to help himself. He heard the pad, pad, of its feet; he could hear the sharp intake of its breath—then the thing was upon him. He shut his eyes and waited.—Nothing happened but the snuffing of the wild beast, and a gentle nosing as it examined the stranger.

Alan opened his eyes. The animal was sitting on its haunches surveying him, and he felt there was amusement in the beast’s eyes as it watched him. He moved slightly—still the beast watched motionless. He raised himself up from the encircling bushes and clambered down. He knew he would have to face the inevitable.

Suddenly a voice hailed him, and he saw Waz-Y-Kjesta coming round the bend in the lane. “Stand back,” he cried. “There’s a lion here—he may spring!” But the Waz came on fearlessly. Alan was petrified, his tongue was parched, no sound came from his lips. He watched the Waz in frozen horror.

The Keemarnian was smiling. “Where have you been, my friend? You are late—very late. I thought you had missed your way, so I came to seek you.” He was now within three feet of the lion. “What is the matter? Why are you so grave? Has aught affrighted you?”

Alan pointed to the tawny beast. His hand was shaking. Surely the farce must end soon, the lion spring, and tragedy culminate the play.

“Why Maquer,” said the Waz affectionately, “what are you doing here? You seldom visit us, you know.”

The lion moved toward him, and rubbed his great head against the Keemarnian’s leg, while Y-Kjesta talked to him and petted him.

“He’s tame then?” gasped Alan with a rush of relief. “You know him?”

“No, my friend. I’ve never seen this Maquer before—they generally stay in rocky places.”

“But he is so friendly.”

“All beasts are friendly here, my Alan. What—would Maquer have hurt you on your Earth?”

And Alan laughingly told of his fright at the lion. He had learnt one more truth about Keemar—there were no savage animals upon it. Of a truth, it was a perfect land!

Waz-Y-Kjesta was highly amused at his friend’s story, and together they went toward the air birds. The Keemarnian airships were indeed wonderful creations. White and gold, they were shaped like swans, with graceful wings outspread, gleaming in the light. They were made of a mixture of wood and metal, and contained accommodation for perhaps forty passengers, as well as the Waz in command, and a staff of ten. Although not as big as the ill-fated Argenta, the Keemarnian airship was possessed of a speed nearly thrice as great.

“This is the Chlorie,” said Y-Kjesta, “and our fastest bird. The Jkak has given orders that you are to choose your own vessel, so perhaps you would like to see over some others?”

“No,” said Alan, looking at the blue hangings, and seeing in them the reflection of his love’s eyes. “No, this one will do beautifully.” And the Waz was impressed by the easy way in which his friend was pleased. He little realized that it was the name of the vessel—the Chlorie—that attracted him. And in the strangeness of it Alan tried to read his fate.

“We’ll go for a short cruise,” said the Waz, “and go back to the landing stage Minniviar.”

There was not a cloud in the sky, and the warmth from the sun’s rays was pleasant.

“I can’t understand how you benefit so considerably from the sun, your Kymo,” said Alan. “Let me see, you must be at least five times further away from the sun than we were on our earth, yet instead of your light and heat being reduced to about one twenty-fifth of our supply, you appear to benefit to exactly the same degree.”

“Ah, my friend, that is easy to explain. Dark clouds hover outside our globe—”

“Yes, bands of vapour,” corrected Alan.

“Well—vapour. These bands completely encircle our world. They are saturated with a composition of gas, sulphuric ether I think you would call it. Well, this gas acts as a trap to the sun’s rays. It admits the solar rays to our planet but prevents their withdrawal. Therefore it permits the heat to enter, but prevents its escape.”

“Well?”

“Consequently we get the maximum of light, and an equable temperature.”

“Do you then, have no seasons here?”

“Seasons?”

“Yes, Spring or Winter.”

“Oh yes, it is cold at the poles—very cold, but as we get nearer to the equator it becomes warmer, and hardly varies. You see, my Alan, our world differs from yours. The axis of rotation is almost perpendicular to our orbit, consequently we are not subject to seasons as you were in Quilphis.”

“I didn’t know that before.”

“We too, are more flattened at each end—indeed, there are many differences between our world that is, and yours that was.”

“Do you ever have rain here?”

“Yes, my Alan. How else would plants live and crops thrive? But again, we do not suffer from excesses.”

“But don’t you have hurricanes that last from six to seven weeks? Surely those are excesses.”

“Hurricanes? I do not know the word.”

“Hurricanes—winds—tornadoes.”

“Why they affect only the polar regions, and nothing lives there.”

“Well,” laughed Alan “I think your world is a great improvement on ours.”

The scenery they passed on this pleasure trip was very varied, but very similar to the world he knew at its best. Here he could imagine he was in the highlands of Scotland with its crags and hills and torrents. There in Southern France with its vineyards sloping to the river’s edge. Again, the warmth of colouring suggested the tropics, and the next moment they were flying over great inland arms of a sea, that were reminiscent of the fjords of Norway.

They descended at last, and went to the Jkak to bid him farewell. There a surprise awaited Alan.

“My son,” said the Jkak. “Our Ipso-Rorka has decided to travel in the Chlorie to Hoormoori. She desires to reach her father’s side without any more delay. Taz-Ak Kulmervan has obtained permission from his kinswoman to attend her on her journey. But you need have no fear, my Alan. I doubt whether you will even see the Princess. She will keep within the precincts of her apartments, and will be attended exclusively by her maid.”

Alan felt distressed. Should he tell the Jkak of his encounter with Kulmervan? Had he obeyed his first impulse and confided in the kindly old man, he would have saved both himself and Chlorie from much suffering. As it was—well, who can tell which is always the right course to take? Errors are made, and paid for in suffering, even in a Perfect World.

“Is it far, my Jkak, to Hoormoori?”

“Forty Kymos will take you there.”

“Forty Kymos—about twenty of our earth days! It is quite a long way then?”

“Ah, my friend, you have no idea of the size of our planet.”

“And yet you are all one nation—with the same customs and religion and speech! It is hard to comprehend, my Jkak, for at home on our little islands, we were composed of four distinct races.”

“The Ipso-Rorka will board the Chlorie immediately,” said the Jkak. “Now Mitzor be with you. Farewell.”

There was no sign of the Princess when Alan boarded the ship, neither was Kulmervan to be seen, but he was surprised to find Waiko lounging on the deck. He gave Alan a cursory nod of recognition as he passed, but did not rise or offer any greeting.

“Don’t you know Waiko?” asked Y-Kjesta in some surprise.

“Why of course. I met him at Kulmervan’s party.”

“Then why does he not rise and greet you according to Keemarnian custom? You have broken bread with him—”

“Please, Y-Kjesta, don’t say any more. I—I think I understand, and perhaps it’s my fault. Let it pass.”

“As you will, my Alan.” The Chlorie rose, soared gracefully over the marble buildings of Minniviar, then tilting her nose, climbed swiftly.

The Princess remained in her cabin, her doors were closed, and the balconies round her apartment shuttered.

“Ought I to pay my respects to the Ipso-Rorka?” asked Alan.

Waz-Y-Kjesta looked at him in horror. “Nay, my friend. It is not seemly to address our Ipso-Rorka unless she summons you first. She has given strict orders that she is not to be disturbed.”

So! Kulmervan had begun his work of revenge. Darkness fell, and Alan retired to his little cabin. There were few on board, ten souls in all, and the whole place was wrapped in stillness. All the same he felt very restless—the four moons of Jupiter were shining brightly; they were now passing over a sea, and the moonbeams were playing on the rippling waters. He rose, dressed himself, and was about to leave his cabin, when he heard a faint movement outside. His senses were quickened, he felt for the first time since his entrance into this new world, a feeling of impending danger.

In a second his mind was made up—quickly he placed a cushion on his couch and covered it over with rugs: in the semi-darkness it almost showed the curves of a living body. The door latch rattled softly, and Alan slipped behind the folds of a heavy silken curtain. Softly the door opened, until it was just wide enough to permit the passage of a man’s body. Alan peered through the curtain opening and saw that it was Kulmervan who had entered.

The Keemarnian stepped over to the couch and touched the coverlet. “He’s asleep,” he whispered in his own language, and Waiko entered softly. “Have you the spray?”

“Yes, my Kulmervan—but is it necessary? I’m afraid—”

“Fool,” hissed Kulmervan. “The spray.”

Waiko handed him a long piece of tubing, the end of which was fastened to a small bulb. Kulmervan laid the nozzle end on the bed—there was a slight hissing sound, and the room became sweet with a subtle scent.

“Quick,” whispered Kulmervan to his accomplice, “hasten, lest the fumes overpower us,” and the two hurriedly left the chamber closing the door tightly behind them.

The air was already heavy, and Alan felt a drowsiness coming over him. With a mighty effort he opened the window and leant out. It was a battle royal between the fumes and the fresh air. Alan felt his head reel and his senses swim, but the pure night air conquered, and the little cabin was soon free of its poison.

Silently Alan sat until the dawn broke, thinking over the strange problem that had presented itself to him. He had made an enemy, unwittingly it is true, but an enemy who would stop at nothing in order to further his ends. He wondered what effect the powerful fumes would have had upon him. In a land where there was no death, could life be taken? What would have happened to him had he inhaled them? He was determined to ask Waz-Y-Kjesta at the first opportunity. Suddenly from without a cheery voice hailed him. It was the Waz.

“How did you sleep, my friend?” and he entered the cabin.

“Very well indeed,” said Alan, glibly lying.

“I slept badly, my Alan. I had evil dreams of you. I saw you lying—serquor—oh!”

“What is serquor?”

“It is the worst thing that could befall us on Keemar, my friend. Seldom it happens—but once in a lifetime. The body stiffens, sleep comes from which one never awakens. Life is, to all intents and purposes, extinct. Yet the body does not melt into nothingness, as at the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata. It remains on earth, cut off from the living, cut off from those already in glory,—useless, desolate, alone.”

“What causes it?” asked Alan eagerly.

“Sometimes a blow or a fall—or it can be produced artificially by inhaling morka, a gas used in the weaving of our silks. The workers wear shields over their mouths when using it, and are very careful. Never have I known such an accident to occur, but it could. It was thus I dreamt of you, my Alan.”

Alan smiled. He had come across as strange proofs of telepathy as in the old world between kindred spirits. Whatever happened he knew Waz-Y-Kjesta was his friend. “Perhaps I am in danger, my friend,” said he. “If so can I count on you?”

“My Alan, I would suffer even serquor for you,” he answered fervently. And Alan knew he spoke truly.