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

Alan remained motionless, watching the little craft vanish from his ken. He was thinking hard. Kulmervan had so far got the better of him, but the game was not yet won. It might be check to the King, but Alan was far from being mated. His eye searched the beach—there was nothing in sight; neither boat, nor sailing craft. He looked behind him at the many yawning cavern entrances. He was still in doubt as to the one which led to the Cave of Whispering Madness. He clenched his hands together till the knuckles showed white—there he was, alone on an island, impotent, useless—while the woman he loved was in the hands of a madman, and in danger, not of death as he knew it, but of dishonour, disgrace, and perhaps serquor itself.

There was a mist at sea, and already the little barque had been swallowed up in its grey folds—nothing was in sight on the broad expanse of water. He looked above him—he saw no air bird in the heavens, its body gleaming in the light. On the island there was no trace of humanity but himself. Hope seemed far away. Then suddenly he remembered Kulmervan’s words. “Take the most easterly path, my Waiko. Always to the East.” Unconsciously he turned to the left, and walked quickly across the sands. A great promontory of rock stood out before him, hiding from sight the next little bay. He strode towards it, and found it was impossible to get round it. Already the water was too deep, so he made up his mind to scale it. Clambering up the slippery rocks, he at length reached the top. There before him lay the whole stretch of coast line. Tiny bays; little rivulets coming down narrow valleys and emptying themselves at last in the sea; rugged headlands, and grassy slopes all took their place in the picture. None of these things, however focussed themselves upon his mind; one thing only he saw, and one thing only drew him helter skelter over the rugged rocks. A tiny boat, almost like the Rob Roy canoe he favoured in his ’varsity days, lay drawn high up on the beach, and near it, a little log cabin was built at the water’s edge.

Hurriedly he made his way to the little hut, and knocked loudly on the door. There was no reply and he tried it; it opened at his touch. He entered it—it was deserted, but he soon had proof of its owner. Upon the wall hung a beautiful painting of Chlorie—and it was signed “Kulmervan, from his kinswoman. Chlorie.” On a table by the window was a pile of books, and on the fly leaf of nearly every one was written in a strong hand, “Kulmervan, Taz-Ak of the House of Pluthoz.” Mostly the books were on Astronomy and Alan noticed with amusement one was called “Quilphis, or the most important unimportant Planet.” Quilphis—Terra! His world, once his all—now nothing.

He looked round the room, a door led on one side to the sleeping apartment, and on the other to the kitchen and offices. The whole place was tastefully furnished and showed signs of frequent use. Alan hurried to the seashore—the little craft was called the Chlorie. He sprang into it, and pushed off. In the bow he saw a tiny engine with three levers. He was already slightly acquainted with the simple Keemarnian machinery, so he pulled one down with assurance. Instantly the boat skimmed along the water at a terrific speed. Hastily he touched the second, a slower pace resulted, and the third stopped the boat altogether. With the first speed on, he ploughed out to the horizon. He could see no trace of Kulmervan. The sea was desolate and bare. He felt hopeless. Had Kulmervan swamped the boat, and were he and Chlorie now lying dead at the bottom of the sea? Death! He knew the Jovians had no death—yet surely they were not immune from drowning? Perhaps they would remain on the sea’s bed—serquor. The thought maddened him, and savagely he turned the boat first this way, then that, in his hopeless endeavour to find the fugitives. Kymo had sunk, darkness was setting in—he could see the faint outlines of the hut. Suddenly two beams of light shone out from its windows, which were as suddenly obscured. Kulmervan had doubtless returned. Quickly he turned the boat towards shore; he drew close in and beached her without a sound. Quietly he crept up to the open window and moved the heavy curtain ever so slightly.

There was Kulmervan in his easy chair, reading a book—but he was alone. A knock sounded and a man appeared.

“Do you want refreshment now, my lord?” he asked.

“Yes, Arrack. At once.”

“Shall I take refreshment to the lady, your mate?”

“No, Arrack. But stay—take her a glass of wine, and,” fumbling on his table—“melt this pellet in it. She will fall asleep. When she is asleep, carry her hither and place her in my room. ’Tis my wedding night, Arrack. I have an unwilling bride it’s true, but before Pirox the Killer, my mate shall she be this night.”

Arrack smiled evilly. “’Tis well, my lord. I will do thy bidding.”

“When you have brought her hither, stand sentinel at the rocky ledge. If Alan the Evil should appear, strike him down, bind him and acquaint me. Should that happen to him, then Pirox the Killer again will have a victim.”

Silently Arrack left the room to return almost immediately with a tray laden with food.

“Where did you go this midday, Arrack?” asked his master.

“To the Cave of Whispering Madness, my master. I built the sacrificial pyre beneath the altar. Everything is in readiness. I hardly expected you so soon. Two Kymos should have passed before you came.”

“The pyre is ready? Good! But what did you with the Chlorie?”

“’Tis on the beach as it always is.”

“Nay,” said Kulmervan, “when I landed at the covered bay, I dragged my unwilling bride by way of the beach. The Chlorie was not there, and I thought you must have sailed to the mainland for food.”

“It is there I swear, my lord.”

Kulmervan looked puzzled. “Could Alan have found it and—” he began—then—“Go quickly, Arrack, and see.”

Alan slipped round the corner of the hut, and in the darkness stood flush with the wall, completely hidden. He saw the figure of Arrack run lightly down to the beach, heard him get into the boat, and as quickly return. He reached his coign of vantage in time to hear Arrack say, “It is there, my lord. I saw and touched it. It has moved its position slightly, but the wind has been rather high to-day; otherwise it was as I left it.”

“That puling girl has taken my senses away,” grumbled Kulmervan. “I can think of naught but her. Go, Arrack, fetch her here. But remember, give her the wine first. When she awakens, she will have become my mate,” and he chuckled hoarsely.

Alan was in a quandary, he scarcely knew what to do. Was the secret way into the place where Chlorie was hidden, in the cabin or not? He wormed his way round the hut, and as he did so, he saw a door open, and in the ray of light a figure cross to a little lean-to shed, that had been built against some high ground. He gave Arrack a moment or two of grace and then followed him in. There on the floor was an open trap door with some steps leading from it into the unknown below. A length of cord was in a corner of the shed, Alan picked it up and then followed Arrack. At the foot of the steps, a subterranean passage led for some distance, and then opened out into a large cave. He remembered it—it was the one immediately under the secret exit in the Cave of Whispering Madness.

He saw Arrack in front of him—he had taken a key from his waist and had undone a heavy, metal door. Silently Alan crept nearer and nearer to him. He heard the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. He heard Chlorie’s gentle word of thanks. Now he could see the grim tragedy. Chlorie had finished the wine, and was now swaying to and fro; she tottered and fell on to a low couch in a corner of her prison. Arrack watched her until he was convinced she was fast asleep, then he put the wine bottle down and bent over the prostrate girl. He remembered no more—a mighty blow rendered him unconscious, and Alan tied up his unresisting foe, and left him helpless upon the ground.

Tenderly he raised Chlorie and bent over her—he was aching to kiss her sweet lips, but he remembered her anguished cry, “Not my lips, Kulmervan, not my lips.” No, until she offered them of her own free will, they should remain sacred to him. He knew she would sleep deeply for some time, so he examined his quarters. Chlorie’s cell was hewn out of the solid rock, with nothing in it but a chair, a table and a settee. There was the passage leading to the log cabin; the one with the glimmer of light that led he knew to the sea shore; and the one to the cave above. To the right, there was a tiny passage that looked almost like a crack in the rock. He peered through—it led on into the distance, and he was determined to try that. Arrack had carried a lamp which gave a good light. Alan picked it up, lifted Chlorie gently, and started down the passage. He wondered whether it would lead to safety, or to adventures even more horrible than many of those he had been through. He held Chlorie tightly; he was determined not to lose her again. Again the passage opened out into a cave—narrowed, and a still larger cave came into view. He saw a niche high up in the wall, and with his precious burden, he managed to reach it in safety. He found himself on a high narrow ledge, where they could rest in safety from the machinations of Kulmervan.

Chlorie woke to find her head supported by a strong arm, and her hands held between two firm ones. She looked up. “Alan,” she breathed, and made a tiny movement towards him. “My Chlorie,” he murmured, and their lips met in one warm long kiss. “Oh, my darling, you really love me?” he said brokenly at last.

“My Alan, I know not the customs of your world. In mime, it is shame to a maid who offers her lips before she is wed. Indeed, a maid would never be thus,” and she slipped from the circle of his arm—“even were she sworn to wed. I know not your customs, my Alan, but I am Ipso-Rorka, and my father’s child. I—I love you, Alan—”

“And you’ll be my wife?” he asked tenderly.

Shyly she hid her face on his breast “In truth, my Alan,—’tis sweeter far to be asked, than ask. I am glad you are of a different world—for your wooing is stronger and yet more sweet than ours. Oh, willingly, willingly, Alan, will I marry you.”

Alan had at last met and won his ideal, and he caressed and murmured sweet nothings to her, until they forgot they were fugitives—forgot that a madman would soon be on their trail—forgot aught but the joy of the present, and the hope of the future. Chlorie recovered herself first. Shyly she slipped her little hand into Alan’s. “My loved one,” said she. “My father the Rorka knows naught of Kulmervan and his sin. We must escape, reach him, and for the safety of the community, for the traditions of our dear land, we must send Kulmervan to the Hall of Sorrows.”

“My Chlorie, nothing will purge him of his sin. He is mad—quite mad.”

“But he must go away all the same. See what unhappiness he has caused already—see what he may do in the future!”

“You are right. He must be put away. He has money, position and cunning.”

“Where are we, my Alan?”

“I know not where this leads,” said Alan, “but it is the only road I dared take.”

Hungry, tired and worn, they crept on along the little narrow ledge. Suddenly a cave, lighted from without through slits in the wall, burst on their view, and Chlorie gave a startled exclamation. “The Hall of our Fathers,” she cried, “I have been here before.”

“What is it?”

“This is the place where the regalia of each reigning Rorka is placed, together with his throne, when he has left the fair land of Keemar, through the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata.” Round the cave were thrones of all descriptions—some in heavy marble—others in gold adorned with precious jewels; others just simple, wooden thrones, that showed their antiquity.

“Down, down on your knees,” cried Chlorie, and Alan realized that the cave had become alive with living figures. The thrones were occupied by men who wore crowns of gold and jewels, and who carried sceptre and orb in their hands. The cave that had been dead and cold only a minute before, was now alive. But there was no sound; all was hushed and still, and the figures were shadowy and unreal. “Oh my Mitzor,” breathed Chlorie. “The joy! To think I should have been permitted to witness this scene—to see the wraiths of my forefathers. My Alan, watch—read a meaning in this visitation, for it augurs well.”

Alan felt unable to move. He was petrified at the sight before him—at the ghostly pageant of years gone by. Slowly the Rorkas—kings of æons past—rose from their thrones and walked in single file to the end of the cave. There they ranged themselves on either side of a slightly raised platform of rock. They prostrated themselves, and Alan saw a thin vapour rise and like a curtain shut out from sight the little stage. Then it lifted, and through the shadowy film he saw strange figures disporting themselves amid the strange scenery. Then, all at once, he realized that he was watching shadowy figures of himself and Desmond and Mavis. He saw their little cottage at Arroch Head; he witnessed their hasty flight in the Argenta; once more he saw the destruction of the world, his world. But this time it was different. Like a tiny star it shone white and bright, then it shivered, turned red like a tiny ball of fire in the sky, burst into a thousand different pieces, and then disappeared from sight. And as it disappeared the scene clouded again, and the filmy curtain of haze shut out the picture from his sight. The scene changed—once more he saw himself as an actor on the stage, but this time he was a minor character in the drama. Kulmervan was the villain, and played the chief character. He witnessed their meeting in the little lane—he watched the flight of the air bird, Chlorie—the descent, and the abduction of the Ipso-Rorka. So the play went on until one more picture showed clearly before him. He saw Chlorie—Chlorie in a gown of diaphanous white with a crown of gold upon her head. By her side he stood, crowned and with orb in hand; and between them stood a child—a man child who bore traces of his mother’s beauty and his father’s strength. Then darkness came upon the scene, and Alan drew his trembling love still closer beside him.

Then the wraiths of the Rorkas became faint and misty, and when next he looked, they had vanished from sight.

“We shall win through, my Alan,” said Chlorie. “The wraiths of our Rorkas never show themselves except to the favoured few.”

“Do you know the way out from here?”

“Yes. Straight through yonder archway a passage leads to the sea. We are not far from Hoormoori. The island is Waro—the Isle of Joy. It is a safe place for Kulmervan to have chosen for his madness—no one would have sought for evil here.”

“How far is Hoormoori then?”

“From where we emerge into the light, we shall see the citadels and towers of my home. Oh Alan—the joyous moment when I can take you by the hand and lead you to my father—my chosen one—my love.”

“How shall we reach the mainland?”

“We must light a beacon on the shore. Fire is a signal, and some one will row across to us.”

In a short while they emerged through a tiny door out on to the beach. They gathered sticks and laid them crosswise upon each other until they were man high, and then set the pile ablaze. At length came a sign from the distant shore where white minarets gleamed in the light, and golden cupolas rose high in the air. There rose against the whiteness of the scene tall tongues of flame and curling smoke.

“Their answer,” said Chlorie. “Some one will soon come now.”

They watched a craft put out to sea—they saw the pale green sails grow clearer and nearer. Soon they could distinguish the crew. Chlorie ran down to the sea’s edge, and stood gaily clapping her hands.

The little launch beached with a groan and a rattle and a Waz stepped out. “We saw your signal,” he began, then a look of recognition came over his face and he fell on one knee and clasped the Princess’ hand and impressed a loyal kiss upon it. “Oh my Ipso-Rorka,” he cried. “We have mourned you as serquor. No tidings could we get of you. Mournings and tears have been in Hoormoori for ten and one Kymos. The Rorka has shut himself within the precincts of his palace, and neither eats nor drinks; but sits always alone—silent, and quiet, and drear.”

“Thank you for your welcome, my Waz. I have had strange adventures since I left my father’s house. These I will tell my people when the right moment arrives. But first lead me to my father.”

The journey to the mainland occupied a very short space of time, and Waz Okoyar obtained a bhor for the Ipso-Rorka.

“I shall not forget you, Waz Okoyar,” said Chlorie. “Reward shall be given you for your speedy assistance to me.”

“Nay, my Princess, it is a joy to have served you.”

Hoormoori proved to be even more beautiful than Minniviar—the streets were wider and the buildings more magnificent. The bhor stopped outside a marble building. “I told him to stop here,” whispered Chlorie. “It is better that I break the news to my father myself, of my safe return.” They passed through a noble courtyard into a lovely garden. “Our own private apartments. I shall be able to get to my father unnoticed.”

Through a little door, up a short flight of stairs, and down a narrow corridor. A heavy curtain of blue hung outside a doorway. Chlorie lifted it gently. Alan drew back. Much as he loved her, he could not intrude at such a sacred moment.

“Father!”

“My child! My child!”

There was the sound of kissing—a whispered conversation, and then Alan heard his name. Slowly he entered the room, and at last was face to face with the Rorka—King of all Jupiter, but above all, father of his loved one. The majesty of the Rorka overwhelmed him, and he bent his knee in homage.

“Nay, rise,” said a gentle voice, musical, benign, soothing. “Rise and greet me, oh my Alan, for Chlorie has told me you are to be my son.”

Hoormoori was rejoicing! Their Princess, Chlorie the Ipso-Rorka, was found. Not only was she alive and well, but she had found her mate. True he was from another world, but she loved him, and the Jovians, like the men of Terra, dearly loved a romance. The wedding day was fixed, telepathic messages had been sent to Sir John, and he and his party were coming to Hoormoori as guests of the Rorka.

The Rorka was very troubled over Kulmervan. Never, in the history of Keemar, had such a terrible tale of iniquity been told. His cunning, his audacity, his double life was a terrible blow to the proud old Keemarnian.

Waz-Y-Kjesta was thankful to welcome Alan back. Day after day he had circled over the island, and sent search parties to find the missing ones. The Isle of Waro, which was joined to the larger isle by a narrow strip of sand, they left unexplored. It was holy ground—consequently they missed the log cabin of Kulmervan. Waz-Y-Kjesta, Alan, and a staff of twenty men embarked on the Chlorie and flew to Kulmervan’s retreat. They landed close to the hut, and although firearms were unknown on Keemar, they, on Alan’s advice, protected themselves with heavy sticks and carried thick silken ropes.

They found the hut empty and signs of a hasty retreat. From the little house they crossed to the “lean-to” and descended into the subterranean passage. They ascended the steps to the Cave of Whispering Madness, and forced the door open. The Cave was empty. Alan looked behind the huge fossil animal and hoped to find the body of Waiko—but it had gone. Ominous foot prints on the sandy floor proved that his body had been found, and Kulmervan and Arrack had dragged him back to the Altar. As they reached the slab of stone Y-Kjesta gave a cry of horror.

“See, my Alan. Mitzor have mercy!”

There on the Altar were the charred remains of what had once been a man. The bones were twisted into horrible forms, as if, in their last convulsive agony, they had writhed in vain on the table of fire. One bony arm hung over the side. Every scrap of flesh had been burnt from it—even the tips of the finger bones were missing. The skull was hairless—the eyes had been scorched from their sockets. It was a horrible sight and Alan shivered.

“Who is it?” asked Y-Kjesta.

“I am afraid it was Waiko. Heaven grant he was serquor when that madman found him.”

Gentle hands attempted to move the charred remains from the bed of pain—but they fell to powder as they were touched. The whisperings in the Cave served to make the horrors more intense, and the Keemarnians turned their heads as they passed the human sacrifice.

Down the steps they all travelled, but no trace of Kulmervan could they find. They forced the outer entrance to the cave, but although they hunted through the leafy byways and hidden avenues, he continued to evade them. Again the cave was searched, and the Waz was inclined to give up the task.

“Is it possible,” asked Alan at last, “that he is hiding in the place of the Wraiths of the Rorkas?”

“No. Nothing evil could live in the presence of our holiest men.”

“Nevertheless, I’d like to go there,” suggested Alan.

The Waz shrugged his shoulders. “As you will, my Alan. Remember, of all Keemarnians, only the Rorkas can visit again the home of their life. They would not show themselves to such a thing of evil as Kulmervan has become.”

But at the entrance to the Holy Place they saw Kulmervan. Stiff he was standing, and upon his face was a frozen look of horror. Y-Kjesta fell to his knees. “The Wraiths,” he cried.

A cloud of haze had passed away, and upon the little stage was being enacted a drama. High in the air a great white cloud hovered. It was pink tipped with a golden glory shining through; at either side were lesser clouds, but all tinged with the glorious roseate hue. And in chains beneath them stood the astral figure of Kulmervan, surrounded by Keemarnians who had gone before. And as they watched, his clothes melted away, and naked and ashamed he stood before his judge—the great white glory. Gradually a dusky shadow seemed to come over the gleaming body, darker and darker it grew until it was jet black. Not the black of an African native, but a cruel black; a thick black that was horrible to look upon, so evil was its appearance. Then all the Keemarnians shrank away from the solitary evil figure standing alone before the glory. The shadowy figure of Kulmervan looked round him wildly, and threw out his hands in supplication. It was no use. His prayers were too late. A yawning pit showed up bright with flames. Yellow tongues of flame licked round the mouth—long, red flames danced together in riotous harmony. Then out of the terrible place appeared a figure, so terrible that Alan closed his eyes and strove at once to forget it. A figure that was neither man nor animal, but part of both. A creature with bloodshot eyes and a baleful smile, with teeth that looked like fangs, with arms that twisted and twirled like evil serpents. Nearer and nearer the figure drew, until, radiating with heat, it drew close to Kulmervan. There was a mighty noise—the Great White Cloud vanished leaving the scene in a pitchy darkness—only the fiery cavern gleamed and glistened. The venomous figure put a sinewy arm about the form of Kulmervan—there was a crackling noise—the hideous smell of burning flesh, and the picture vanished as the two figures disappeared into the fiery jaws. Then Y-Kjesta spoke. “The Great White Glory has judged. We cannot punish now.”

There was a fearsome shriek, and Kulmervan rushed from the cave, and fell prostrate on the ground outside. Y-Kjesta stooped over him. The body was rigid—the eyes fast closed.

“Serquor has descended upon him,” said the Waz. “Righteousness has spoken.”

With an awed feeling, Alan watched them pick up the body and carry it to the air bird, and as they did so a mighty roar filled the air. There was a sound as of thunder—a blinding flash—then silence. The Cave of Whispering Madness had gone! Shivered to atoms, there was nothing but a hillock of rocks and sand to mark the last resting place of Waiko the Unfortunate. The little passage to the Sacred Cave alone remained perfect. When the last shock of the earthquake had subsided, Arrack the servant came out from his hiding, and threw himself upon the mercy of Alan. Firmly he was bound, and taken to the Chlorie, there to await the judgment of the Rorka.

“My son,” said the Rorka, when he had been told the whole story. “Kulmervan was shown his future punishment. He may not be suffering now, for he is in the unhappy state of serquor—but some day, when he leaves this world, his time of pain will come. A case of glass shall be made to hold his cold and rigid body. In the Hall of Sorrows shall it be placed as a living testimony of the fruit that is garnered by evil. To Fyjipo the accursed shall be taken—there to remain, until he changes the state of serquor, for his lasting punishment.”

Sir John, with Masters, Desmond and Mavis arrived at Hoormoori in time for the trial. They were much interested in Alan’s adventures, and were looking forward to witnessing the spectacle of Jovian justice. Mavis and Chlorie were already warm friends, and the Rorka insisted on the strangers occupying suites of apartments in his palace. Baby John Alan had grown into a fine boy. Now nearly four, he toddled about the palace and chattered away in a quaint mixture of Keemarnian and English. The grown-ups seldom used English now—their past life seemed to be fading away entirely; they were already acclimatized to Jupiter and looked upon it as their home. Mavis at the bottom of her heart, however, did not forget all the pretty customs in which she had been brought up from childhood and she it was who introduced a trousseau as a necessary adjunct to a wedding. Chlorie took up the idea with fervour, and in future all society weddings had trousseaux, cakes and honeymoons as essential parts of their festivities.

Chlorie’s mother had heard the call of Schlerik-itata when she was but a small child, and possessing no near feminine relatives, the Keemarnian Princess was glad to have Mavis helping her at the happiest time of her life. All was bustle and rush at the palace. The wedding was to be a grand affair, but before it took place, Arrack had to answer publicly the charges that were brought against him. In the large Justice Hall, on the day appointed, the Rorka took his seat wearing his purple robes of Justice.

A fanfare of trumpets announced his arrival, with his postillions and servants and attachés. All wore full court dress, and the whole scene was picturesquely brilliant. Alan had not yet been admitted to the highest circles in Jovian society; his honour was to come on his wedding day—so to meet the exigencies of the case, a special raised seat had been placed at the right hand of the Rorka, and there Alan sat in state and watched the proceedings. There were neither lawyers nor barristers in this wonderful land of harmony. The case for the defence, if so it could be called, was taken by the High Priest—and for the prosecution by the highest Djoh in the whole of Keemar.

The Rorka listened to the statements made on both sides, and gave his sentence as he thought fairest. No appeal could be made afterwards; his judgment was final. Never had there been such a case as this one. Arrack had broken the traditions of his land. If the Rorka adjudged him guilty, he would take his punishment stoically. The Rorka rose, and the silence in the court was profound. “Bring in Arrack the Miserable,” he cried, and Arrack appeared in the prisoner’s garb of an ugly neutral tint. This garment of shame was worn only by prisoners, when charged with some heinous offence. It was something of the shape of a Jewish gaberdine. About his waist the prisoner wore a hempen rope; his head was covered with a hood, and there were sandals upon his feet. “O Arrack,” said the Rorka, “take your seat upon the Penitent’s Chair, for you are accused by this court of most grievous dealings. If you are found guilty, a terrible fate awaits you. Speak first, Lamii, Djoh of all Keemar, read your charge first.” And Djoh Lamii, a dignified old greybeard, stepped forward and read from a parchment.

“Rorka, most mighty, by the grace of Mitzor, Keemarnians one and all, I charge Arrack the Miserable with grievous sins. Whether he alone is responsible or whether responsibility rests with another—unnamed, but now in a state of serquor—remains to be proved. First, I charge Arrack with idolatry and devil worship,—nay more, I charge him with the greatest offence of all against Mitzor—the offence of offering black sacrifices, the sacrifice of living bodies, to Pirox the Killer, a graven image of hideous aspect. I charge him with acting as assistant in that Temple of Sin and Death. I charge him as a heretic and a heathen. He, a born believer in the one and only Creator, is a deserter from his faith. I charge him with aiding the unnamed, now serquor, in his horrible, nefarious practices. All these charges are with regard to his sins against Mitzor. Now I charge him with attempting to lay hands on the precious person of our loved Princess; with offering her wine that was drugged, and being a party to keeping her a captive against her will. Above all, I charge him with trying to aid the unnamed, now serquor, to soil her purity, and thus to cause her to wed one she did not love. These, O Rorka, are the sins in brief, and a more hideous category of evil, I have never before had to repeat. Although I am old, and my call must come soon, this is the saddest day of my life to think I have to utter such things against a true Keemarnian.”

He sat down, and then rose up Misrath the High Priest. “O Rorka, the mighty and the just. I cannot deny the charges that Lamii has brought. Long have I talked with Arrack the Miserable, and it is hard to offer even a word in his favour. Yet because of thy justice I beg of you to hear me out, and I will tell the tale of sorrow and shame. Arrack and the unnamed, now serquor, were foster brothers. The mother of the unnamed received her call while her babe was yet a suckling, and these two babes, suckled from the same breast, drew the food of life from the same woman. As toddling mites they flew their kites together, and threw their balls. Then the sire of Arrack, Meol, now serquor, took these suckling babes to the Temple of Pirox the Killer. It is he I blame, not the innocent ones. He, with two others, lived a life of lies. Respected Keemarnians, wise fathers, loving husbands, they lived unsuspected of their evil practices; for they were all devil worshippers and offered up the black sacrifice. But serquor took them all into his bosom. These tender nurslings grew in the ways of sin. He, the unnamed, possessed brains and cunning. He was the leader. He it was who took Arrack the Miserable on to our Isle of Holiness—made him build him a hut, and left him there, a tool to work his will and prepare his heathen rites. Since he was of tender years he has led this life—hating it, yet loving it; fearing it, yet welcoming it. Then the time came when he, the unnamed, whispered words that affrighted even Arrack the Miserable. Whispered words of passion for a Princess. The Ipso-Rorka was named—and even to that length of degradation would Arrack have assisted, so deep was he in the toils of sin. Then the day of reckoning came. Mighty thunders shook the Cave of Darkness. The wrath of Mitzor tore it asunder; no more shall these perfidious practices be handed down from father to son. No longer shall sin creep out unseen in Keemar. The Great White Glory has spoken. The Temple of Sin is in ruins, and under the mass of rock and stones lies the tortured body of Waiko. Whether he, too, had practised the sins of the unnamed also, we know not. But we do know his character was weak. We pray that his suffering on the Black Altar may have purged his soul and that soon he will be sitting in the warmth of the Tower of Help.”

Misrath sat down, and the Rorka rose. “I have heard your case, O Arrack, in silence. I have listened to your tale of shame. One thing only is in your favour. You sought not an evil life, but sin and its sorrows were taught you when you were yet a child. But—” he paused. “You lived the life of Keemar. You attended our services of joy that were offered to Mitzor. You knew sin was abhorrent to us. From the time when our first parents populated our world, we have fought to keep Keemar perfect. Thanks to Mitzor we nearly succeeded. It is to prevent the occurrence of sins like yours that I pronounce sentence. Misrath, High Priest of our Temples—our Mediator on earth between Mitzor and man, robe the sinner in the garments of shame.”

Immediately the grey tinted gaberdine was torn from Arrack, and in its place was put a long robe of black. The covering was taken from his head, and the sandals from his feet. His head was bowed in shame, and in shame he was led to the Sentence Bar, there to hear his fate.

“Through the streets of Hoormoori shalt thou be led,” said the Rorka. “A rope round thy middle shall direct thee the way to go. Neither man nor woman shall speak to thee. Neither beast nor bird shall be permitted to fawn upon thee. Alone and an outcast shalt thou be sent upon thy way. Lonely shalt thy days be. Lonely shalt thou be taken to the Hall of Sorrows at Fyjipo. There thou shalt live until thy beard grows and turns white with age. Should thy call come early, alone wilt thou have to meet the Great White Glory. No Sacrament shall help thee on thy way. Neither incense nor prayers shall assist thee in thy last moments here. Alone and wretched thou shalt leave this world. But should thy call not come soon, then shalt thou stay in the Hall of Sorrows until thy beard covers thy face and thy middle, then—when that time arrives, shalt thou be free to leave the place of sorrow. But thy life will be lonely all thy days for the sins thou hast committed.”

Misrath rose. “Oh my Rorka, thy wisdom is sound, thy judgment just. May I ask but one favour for the guilty Arrack? During his time of sorrows, should he perform two noble deeds wouldst thou reconsider thy verdict and allow him freedom?”

“Yes, Misrath. Should he perform two noble deeds, deeds that mark him as a true son of Keemar, then publicly shall his punishment be remitted him, and once more shall he take his place among the people he has wronged. I have spoken.”

The Rorka rose from his seat of justice, and with another fanfare of trumpets took his place in his state bhor and drove to the palace. Alan waited to see the end. The wretched Arrack was led from his place, and taken through a side entrance out on to the highway. There a rope was twisted round his waist, a rope that had six ends. Six men took hold of each end, and dragging it taut, led him through the streets. On he went, a misery to himself, and to those that saw him.

An air bird was made ready for the journey to Fyjipo. Alan begged that he might accompany it. He wanted to see for himself what the Hall of Sorrows was really like. He had no conception of it. Was it like a Pentonville or Portland in England, or did it possess some horror that no ordinary human mind could conceive?

“Go then,” said the Rorka to Alan. “Swift be thy journey there, and as swift return. Just time shalt thou have before the day arrives when Misrath shall make my child and thee—one. One on earth and one in Heaven.”

“Farewell,” said Chlorie, when Alan told her of the journey he was to make. “’Tis customary in Keemar for a bride to withdraw herself from all for twelve Kymos before her wedding day. During that time she thinks and meditates on her future state. I go into silence to-morrow, Alan, and my prayers will be all for you. May you return to me in safety. Farewell.”

The air struck cold and Alan was glad of the heavy cloaks that the Rorka insisted on his taking for the journey. They had passed through glorious scenery, but now it was changing. No longer was the air sweet and balmy; no longer were the fields below covered with beautiful flowers. Great stretches of bare and rocky country took the place of the fields, and snow-topped hills looked down on the desolation.

Then Fyjipo hove in sight. One great building dominated the scene. Of a dark grey stone it looked gloomy and forbidding. Kulmervan, still in the state of serquor, had been brought in a coffin of glass, and Alan felt the awful loneliness of the place, when he saw the coffin being unshipped, preparatory to being placed in the Hall of that dreadful abode. The Waz, who was in command of the journey held the only key to the heavy gates, and as he unfastened them, a drear wailing rose from within.

Arrack was dragged along, pushed inside the gate, and then left—to learn how to fend for himself in that gloomy place. Carefully was Kulmervan placed upon a huge pedestal in the hall. His face had lost its youthful candour, its beauty of outline and its peace. The visage seen through the glass, was the face of an old man worn with sin; evil and sinister. Alan shuddered as he turned away from the coarsened form. The state of serquor as known by the Keemarnians was a very dreadful thing. Struck down in life, the victims assumed a trance-like form from which they never recovered. Real death the Jovians knew not; a far happier parting was permitted them. As in a dream a voice told the sleeper that his time had come—that so many more Kymos would pass before he would have to bid his world good-bye. Then in the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata his body and soul were rendered astral, and in a cloud of smoke the favoured one disappeared from sight, and entered into dwelling with his God. It was a wonderful end; there could be no great sadness at such a departure; no corruption was to be the lot of the departing Jovian—he was just carried into glory. But those poor souls that suffered serquor remained in their comatose condition. Alive yet dead! Dead yet alive! Useless to themselves, and of use to no one! No wonder it was the one dreaded thing in this land of all good.

There were but fifty bodies in the condition of serquor on the whole of Keemar, and most of them had been there for many ages. None could remember some of them as creatures full of life; their names were written on tablets and placed above them—their only connection with the generation of the present. In a small, underground chapel in the Temple at Hoormoori were these poor ones kept. Niches, cushion-lined were made in the walls, and in these the victims were laid. There they would remain until Jupiter itself returned to its first void, and emptied its population into the lap of Heaven.

“I beg you stay not long here, my Lord,” said the Waz to Alan. “’Tis an evil place, and I would fain hurry and leave it far behind me”.

“Nay, my Waz. Stay until the Kymo rises full in the Heavens—’tis but a short time now, and then I shall be ready to accompany you”.

There were no separate degrees of punishment in the Hall of Sorrows. The real punishment lay in its awful loneliness. The Keemarnians who were there were paying dearly for their faults. Utter loneliness—comfortless—cheerless—it was desolation personified. Those were the first impressions that Alan received. Food was let down from the air at certain intervals. There was no division, and only just sufficient to go round. It was a question of first come, first served, and the man who appeared last received little if any of his portion. No lighting was arranged in the place, and as it was near the Pole, half their time was spent in total blackness. There was no warmth; it was cold and draughty; no privacy; no comfort.

The Keemarnians who offended purged themselves clean in this dread place of sorrow. Once they were free of it, they never put themselves into the position to be sent there again. Their terms of incarceration varied. For some it might be for only six Kymos; for others sixty or even six hundred! The worst sinner there had nothing on his conscience one quarter as bad as Arrack the Miserable; but he was sent there too, to consort with them.

Alan could not bear to stay in the place. The atmosphere stifled him—the sight depressed him. His last view of Arrack, was of a lonely figure in a gown of black, sitting drearily in a corner of the big Hall, watching intently the still form of his late master. His hands were clasped, his expression hopeless—his whole attitude one of despair.

“It’s very terrible,” said Alan to the Waz as they sailed away from Fyjipo.

“What is, my Lord?”

“Your Hall of Sorrows.”

“But why, my Lord?”

“Surely it must do more harm than good?” The Waz looked amazed. “I know if I were sent to such a place, I should come out hardened and defiant.”

The Jovian smiled. “That is where we differ, my Alan. The Keemarnian hates evil of every kind. This dread is born in him. He offends—ever so slightly. The Priest remonstrates with him. He makes promises to atone, but offends again. No second chance is given him. Straight to the Hall of Sorrows he is sent, there to live in discomfort, cold and solitude. He is too ashamed to mix with his fellow creatures; so his sin is purged and he comes out a better man.”

Alan laughed slightly at the Keemarnian’s earnestness. “I am afraid, my friend, that the world I came from was more material than yours. A life in such a place would have led to worse sin—it would not have cured it.”

“Then I am glad I belong to Keemar,” said the Waz simply.

They made the return journey in record time, and Desmond and Mavis were waiting for Alan on the roof station when the air bird sailed in.

“Welcome home,” said Mavis. “We have missed you badly. However everything is ready for you, and in three more Kymos we will have you safely married.”

“Are you so anxious to get rid of me?” laughed Alan.

“No,” answered Mavis with a happy smile, “but I’ve tasted the joys myself, and I want you to find your happiness also, my brother.”

“That’s very nicely put, Mavis,” said Alan tenderly. “I could wish for no one but you for Desmond. At first I was a little jealous when I thought his affection for me would be halved.”

“Not halved, Alan.”

“No, that’s not the right word. But Desmond and I had been everything to each other from our childhood, and then you came—”

“Well?”

“Now I understand what it means, and am glad I am going to partake of the same kind of happiness that Desmond enjoys.”

“I’m sure you’ll be happy, Alan. Chlorie is so sweet—so human, so understanding. But—” there came a perplexed note into her voice. “I’m afraid of only one thing, Alan. You are sure you are not too—too material—for these Jovians. You are going to mate with a girl almost—spiritual, if I may so put it. Now—the time is drawing near, I’m so afraid—”

“Don’t be afraid, little woman. I’ve learnt a great deal since I came here. The past is growing dim. My love for Chlorie is so great that I think it is cancelling all my earthly senses. I have only one fear for the future.”

“And that is?”

“My inborn dread of death. Not that I fear death for myself, but dread its coming and separating me from my love. She will not have that fear. Until I can comfort myself in the belief of Schlerik-itata, I shall have that fear always with me.”

“Death!” Mavis looked dreamily into the distance where her son and his father were romping together. “I think I, too, have a tiny bit of fear left,” said she, “but I am trying to put it away. We have left the old world behind us. I was wrong to put doubts in your heart, Alan. You’ve chosen wisely, I am sure. Good luck and good fortune be yours!”