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

The populace of Hoormoori were wildly excited, for the time had come when their Princess, the Ipso-Rorka of all Keemar, was to wed. Every place was full, the streets were thronged with visitors, for people had come from all parts of Jupiter to witness the long ceremonies and jubilations that preceded the actual wedding. Parties came from the warmth of Xzor, from the heat of Paila, from the temperate breezes of the Isles of Kalœ. Every dwelling house in Hoormoori was full; every public guest house had used every available space for their overflowing guests. The streets were gaily decorated; the trees were adorned with coloured lights, and across the wide boulevards silken flags were hung. There were festoons of flowers and leaves everywhere. Every window was bright with silken rugs; the whole scene was gay and brilliant.

The first ceremony of interest was the admittance of Alan into the bosom of the Rorka’s family. In a wonderful golden robe Alan stood at the foot of the Rorka’s throne in the great white Throne Room in the palace. The whole apartment was thronged with guests, and by the Rorka’s side sat the Princess. She had on her face a grave, sweet smile, and in her court robes of blue and gold she made a regal figure.

A majordomo handed the Rorka a golden fillet of beautiful workmanship studded with diamonds. This was placed on Alan’s head by the Rorka himself, who said—“Oh Alan, known hence forward by the Royal prefix of Ak—I salute thee. Thou hast taken the oaths of allegiance to me, your Rorka. Thy fidelity and love thou hast offered me. I salute thee, Oh Ak-Alan,” and he took him by both hands, and kissed him on either cheek, and raised him to the topmost step of the throne. Then Alan faced the people.

“Behold him,” said the Rorka. “Ak-Alan, a noble of the House of Pluthoz. Acclaim him as your own, for he is indeed a Prince of the House of your Rorka.”

How the people cheered! With one accord they shouted and surged forward to the foot of the throne, and stretched out their hands to their newly made prince. Alan was delighted with his reception, and had an individual word to say to nearly every one who came near him. The story of his adventure for Chlorie had been widely told; Kulmervan’s treachery was known; and every one welcomed the newcomer royally. But this was only the beginning. Ak-Alan had to become a Djoh of the Outer Shelter, and to receive the blue ribbon of his office. The Golden Circle of Unity of Keemar was placed on his finger—The Star of Joy—The Order of Hope—all these ceremonies took their time. But they were all picturesque and interesting.

Many times had he looked upon Chlorie, but never had an opportunity been given to him to speak with her alone. But at his ardent gaze, the shy colour would mount her cheeks, and her eyes would drop in sweet embarrassment.

Waz-Y-Kjesta had been appointed to the Royal Household of Ak-Alan, and was delighted to have the opportunity to remain by the side of the friend he had made. Persoph the Jkak, and Mirasu the Jkakalata had sent handsome presents to Alan and Chlorie, and had expressed their sorrow when Desmond had announced his intention of settling down in Hoormoori.

“We want to be near Alan,” explained Sir John.

“We shall miss you of course. We are grateful for your kindness to us all since we arrived so strangely in your land. But we should miss the society of our kinsman, we must stay near him.”

“We understand,” said Persoph. “But visit us, my friends, and allow us to visit you. Your friendship is dear to us—your esteem we prize.”

Several orders had been offered Sir John, but he stuck to his prefix throughout. “My father earned it,” he explained. “I honour him by using it. Please allow me to keep it,” and the Rorka gave his permission. During all this time Masters had scarcely left Sir John’s side. A devoted friend, a loyal servant, he remained always at hand in case the old man needed him. And when Alan had been appointed Ak of the House of Pluthoz, Masters received the shock of his life. Suddenly the majordomo cried out, “And I command Masters of the household of Sir John to kneel at the foot of the Rorka’s throne.”

Masters turned dead white, and looked appealingly at Sir John.

“Go forward, my friend,” said Sir John, and Masters obeyed him.

The Rorka rose, and touched him lightly with the Silver Staff of Office of a Waz. “I promote thee henceforward, Waz, to the house of Sir John. Waz-Masters shalt thou be, with all that appertains thereto. Accept this staff, Waz-Masters, for thou art a faithful friend.”

Masters was unable to express his gratitude, the honour was so unexpected that it rendered him speechless; but a few moments later Alan smiled as he saw him talking earnestly with Zyllia, a kinswoman of Y-Kjesta’s. And as Alan watched the luminous eyes that smiled at Masters, watched the parted lips and the colour that came and went in the olive tinted cheeks of the beautiful Keemarnian, he foresaw, and foresaw truly, that soon Masters would forsake the lonely role of bachelor; and another love match would be made in Keemar—the land of all good.

Then came the feasts and banquets; a pageant and procession through the streets of Hoormoori. Bhors gaily decorated, fancifully costumed bands, dancing children dressed like wood nymphs, fair-headed, slim youths with pipes like the pipes of Pan, woodland fairies, ladies in court attire, all took part in this wonderful procession.

And Alan sat on a balcony in the Royal Palace and watched it. But half the time his eyes were feasting on the features of his bride of the morrow. Occasionally, under cover of the cheers and the darkness, his hand would stray out, and for a moment clasp hers in the darkness. But no chance had he of speaking with her alone, and her nearness maddened him with passionate longings. He longed to be alone with her, away in the woods and fields, along the seashore, just they two together, communing with nature in all her glory.

“May I not speak to Chlorie a moment alone?” he begged earnestly.

The Rorka smiled. “In your world, perhaps, it would be allowed. But I cannot sanction it. To-day she belongs to me—to the people. To-morrow she will be yours for ever. It is custom, my son. But to-morrow—” he stopped, and looked shrewdly at Alan. “I have been converted to your—‘honeymoon’. It is a strange idea to us of Keemar, but a beautiful one, and will, I think, prove popular with my countrymen. To-morrow you take her away—alone. No duenna’s guiding eye will follow you. The House of Roses in the Wyio Forest is at your disposal. It is ready—prepared. I have given way on many points, my son, but on this one I am firm. You cannot speak alone to Chlorie to-night. Now I wish to speak to Sir John.” Alan bowed his head and moved away, so that his uncle could take his place. He was further away from his love, but sat in the shadow and gloried in her as the light shone brightly on her profile.

“Sir John,” said the Rorka, “I have heard much about your wonderful airship that carried you safely to our world. Would you be prepared to build another as like it as possible? I will place men, material and means at your disposal. You need want for nothing, and I should esteem it a personal favour if you would at least consider my proposal.”

Sir John’s eyes shone. “O Rorka, you have put new life into me by your suggestion. I felt I was growing old—but my heart is still young. To be of use in your world will make my last years happy; to feel I am not wasting my time will strengthen my life. Masters and I were planning another Argenta on paper only to-day. He has been examining the metal you use, and he says it is even lighter and stronger than our aluminium. My whole time is at your disposal, and Masters’ as well.”

“Speak for yourself, Sir John,” smiled the Rorka. “But unless I am much mistaken, Zyllia will have more to say about Waz-Masters’ affairs than you have dreamt of.”

“Zyllia?” repeated Sir John looking puzzled.

“Look behind you,” said the Rorka. In the room behind were two figures—Masters and a woman. The woman was delicately beautiful. Darker than most Keemarnian women, with blue black hair and flashing eyes.

“So he has found a mate,” said Sir John softly. “I never thought of Masters and marriage. He seemed too mature. In our world he would have been called ‘middle-aged’ He has seen forty and three summers.”

“But Zyllia is mature,” said the Rorka. “She looks a girl, but although her soul is young, she and Masters are not far apart in years.”

“You will not object to the match?”

“Nay. I have a great opinion of Waz-Masters, but I like not his name.” He touched a bell. “Waz-Masters and the Lady Zyllia. I desire them here at once.” The girl bowed, and in a moment the two were standing before him. “My friend,” said the Rorka kindly, “I like not your name. Waz-Masters sounds crude and harsh. In our language we have a far softer word that means ‘Master’ Henceforward shall you be known by that. Waz-Aemo, for now and ever.” Masters remained silent. He was embarrassed and hardly knew what to do. “So you are going to mate with Zyllia?” said the Rorka. Zyllia bent on one knee, her hands extended in supplication. “Oh Rorka, most noble. Have I thy permission? Him have I promised to wed, if I have thy permission. For I love this stranger dearly.”

“My consent was given long ago. I have watched your play with pleasure, my child. Tell Waz-Y-Kjesta he can give you the use of an air bird for your—your honeymoon.”

“Oh how can I thank you—”

“That is enough. See, the procession has resumed—how beautiful are the flowers—the silks—” and taking these words as their dismissal, they bent on one knee, and then passed from the balcony to the room beyond.

The last vehicle had passed, the last burst of music had died away, night fell. But one more ceremony remained to conclude the time of rejoicing—the wedding on the morrow.

Alan woke early on the morning of his wedding day. His personal attendant had placed all his wedding clothes ready for him, and he donned the golden robe and swung from his shoulders the blue velvet cloak. It was lined with gold, and caught up at one corner with a beautiful jewelled buckle. His fillet of gold was on his head, and as he looked at himself in the long glass he saw the romantic robes fade away, leaving in their place a worn and shabby, but nevertheless very comfortable golf jacket. The shadowy figure was carrying a bag over his shoulder—golf clubs. Alan sighed. It was a very long time since he had teed up, and with a mighty drive seen a little white ball sent skimming along at a terrific pace. He could see the ascent to the approach of his favourite green; the green itself, smooth and velvety, resting in a little hollow below. Well, he would get his game of golf on Jupiter. He would plan a course, have clubs made, and he and Chlorie would—No, he didn’t regret giving up the old and ugly garments of the earth. He regretted nothing. He wouldn’t have altered his fate if it had been in his power to do so. Life held nothing for him but Chlorie. Life and love were before him, and he felt fitted for and happy in the new world.

His golden, sandal-like boots were on. The ring for Chlorie was in his satchel purse. The Crown of Wifehood with which he would presently crown her was in Y-Kjesta’s possession. The Waz also had taken care of the gifts, which according to the rites of the Temple he must present to his wife. The coins, to represent that he endowed her with his wealth. The loaf divided in two—to denote that she would share in everything. The fresh cut flowers, a symbol of the joys they would find in each other, and lastly the basket of fruits that were to be laid on the Altar and offered as a burnt offering to Mitzor the Mighty. As they were reduced to ashes, the High Priest would waft them to the four winds of heaven, and the nuptial pair would swear to love each other until such time arrived as the burnt fruits regained their virgin freshness. A poetical way of vowing their eternal fidelity each to the other.

Waz-Y-Kjesta entered. He was plainly nervous at the thought of the part he was to play in the day’s ceremony. “The time has come, my Alan. Your bhor awaits you.”

“I am ready,” Alan smiled at the Waz. “I don’t know how I should get on without you to-day.” The streets were thronged with people. Alan sat alone in the State Bhor which drove slowly down the decorated streets, and immediately in front of the bridegroom’s equipage rode Y-Kjesta, on a magnificent white coli.

Sixteen Keemarnians, appointed by the Rorka for his personal staff, rode behind him. Sir John and Desmond were already in the Temple. A beautiful blue carpet spread from the door to the street, and the whole way was lined with flowers. Slowly Alan walked up the flowered aisle and took his place at the altar rails. The organ was playing softly. Suddenly it burst out into the Ipso-Rorka’s personal air—The Bride had arrived. On the arm of the Rorka she walked up the long aisle. Her bridal gown of blue brought out the colour of her eyes. Upon her hair was draped a thin veil of gold, and her long train was carried by little sturdy John Alan! At the altar rails they stopped, and the High Priest demanded—“Who giveth permission, that this woman shall leave her home and her people, and live in peace with the mate of her choice?”

“I do,” said the Rorka.

“You are convinced that happiness and joy will be the woman’s lot?”

“I am.”

“Thanks be to Mitzor. I am content.” Thereupon the Rorka took his seat upon his throne, and the ceremony commenced.

Mavis, who had followed the bridal procession, now took her place on Chlorie’s left, to assist the bride. It was a beautiful ceremony, and the incense, the priest’s vestments, the music, all helped to make it awe inspiring and impressive. The gifts were offered—Chlorie accepted them—the moment was almost at hand that would make them one. Alan was repeating softly after the priest—

“May this ring, with which I encircle thy finger, be a lasting proof of the unity of our affection. May the circlet with which I crown thee, prove that I honour thee as my loved one, and install thee as Queen of my House.”

And Chlorie answered softly, “I accept this ring, and from my finger it shall never slip. I accept the crown that thou offerest me, and in return I pray Mitzor the Mighty, that I may rule my household wisely and well.”

Then came the vows of love and fidelity; each repeated the words with hands clasped.

“Before Mitzor the Mighty, the Great White Glory, I promise to let naught come between my chosen spouse and me. I promise to love him (her) and honour him (her), share his (her) troubles, and smooth away his (her) griefs. Lastly, I ask Mitzor, the Tower of Strength, to crown us both with the glory of our union.”

Then, kneeling, the High Priest blessed them.

“May Mitzor, the Great White Glory, bless you both, and keep you both in the paths of righteousness. May he make thee, Oh Ak-Alan, a tender husband; and thee, Chlorie, a loving wife. Thy vows are made—kneel and pray while the sacrificial fires are lighted, and the dust of thy offering is thrown to the winds.”

Hand in hand the newly married pair knelt. Into a tiny tabernacle the offering of fruits was placed—the doors closed upon it. A second passed, and by the aid of etheric heat there was nothing left but a little powdery dust.

Slowly the priests and the acolytes walked down the aisle, the bridal pair following. With prayers and exhortations the dust was scattered, and wafted out of sight by the breeze. The ceremony was over—a hymn of joy was sung, and Alan and Chlorie were led to their bhor that was waiting.

They drove together in the open bhor, and Chlorie could not speak—her heart was too full of emotion. The excitement, the cheering, the crowds tired her—and yet there was still the reception to get through.

Not a word had she spoken to her newly made husband, but as they alighted he whispered—“You don’t regret, my darling?”

She gave him a quick, shy glance, but it satisfied him. They had to wait for the congratulations of the intimate friends and guests, but at last Mavis whispered, “Come, dear, it is time for you to change into your other frock.” Quietly the bride left the reception and changed into her other gown. Tenderly she bade her father good-bye.

“Good-bye, my little one,” he murmured, “Mitzor take care of you. In forty Kymos I shall come for you. Be happy in your new life.”

“Good-bye, my father.”

“Good-bye.”

“You will find everything in readiness at the House of Roses,” said Waz-Y-Kjesta.

There were renewed cheers, the band played—and the comfortable equipage drove off, bearing the happiest couple in all Keemar.

“My darling,” murmured Alan, when they were at last outside the town, and running swiftly through quiet country roads. “Are you sure you won’t regret this day?”

“Never, my Alan,” she replied, her eyes smiling as she nestled close to her husband—“but Alan, I think I am a little frightened all the same.”

For answer he crushed her in his arms, and rained passionate kisses on her unresisting lips—and it sufficed her. She was content.

Many hundred times the Kymo rose and set, and Ak-Alan and his wife, beloved of all Keemarnians, lived in peace and happiness. A son and daughter had been born to them, and now the time had come when the Rorka had received his call, and through the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata would make his exit from the world, and enter into glory.

“My son,” said he, “the voice came in my sleep last night. My room was bathed in a wonderful whiteness when the messenger from Mitzor called me. ‘When the Kymo reaches the full for thirteen days make ready—for on the fourteenth thou shalt meet the Great White Glory.’ I must now set my house in order. You will reign jointly with Chlorie. I can safely leave my country in your hands.”

“Father,” said Alan, “must you really leave us?” He was troubled. “Oh it’s terrible.”

“But why?” said Chlorie. “I shall miss my father it is true—for I love him dearly. But how can I wish him here, when his happiness lies yonder?”

“I don’t understand,” said Alan miserably. “Death is so sad.”

“But it is not—death—” said the Rorka. “I am simply—‘going away’.”

“That’s just it. You are going away, and you are never coming back.”

“That is true, my son. I am never coming back—but you will eventually come to me. Why mourn? To mourn is selfish.”

“It’s no good,” said Alan. “I suppose I am of coarser clay. I can’t believe that I could ever ‘pass yonder’ through the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata. I come from another world. Suppose I die—oh you don’t know death as I do—but suppose it comes to Keemar through me, and afterwards through my children.”

“Have no fear,” said the Rorka, “that day will never come.” And so the last few days had passed, and Alan saw him enveloped in the incense, and vanish from sight.

Alan marvelled at his wife’s fortitude. He had felt the knife of death on Terra; this glorious parting was so different. He longed to believe that he, too, one day, would vanish thus, material and earthy though he was. And so Alan the Rorka, and Chlorie his wife were crowned, and occupied joint thrones in the land of Keemar.

Their joy in their unity, in the completeness of their life, was a constant wonder to them. They renewed their joys in their children—their life was almost perfect. Sir John was growing feeble. Part of the time he spent with Mavis and Desmond, and part with Alan. But wherever he went, Masters and Zyllia always accompanied him.

Mavis’ three children and Alan’s two, grew up like brothers and sisters; indeed, their parents were all like one big family. Alan had not long been on the throne of Keemar, when an urgent message was brought him, that Waz-Mula, humbly begged an audience.

“Who is he?” asked Alan.

“He is holder of the key to the Hall of Sorrows,” answered Y-Kjesta, “and sails the air bird, that plys to and fro from Fyjipo.”

“I remember him well. Bring him in.”

“O noble Rorka, I beg a favour of you,” said Mula.

“What is it that troubles you?”

“You remember Arrack the Miserable?”

“Well?”

“He has done a most noble thing, O Rorka. A most terrible scourge has come upon the Hall of Sorrows. A fire broke out. How or where it started no one can tell, but when I reached the place, it was a raging furnace, and the poor captives were beating against the gates in their frenzy to get out. The heat was intense—their skins were blistering. I landed safely, and rushed to undo the gates. But even as I did so, great tongues of fire curled out and licked round me. See, O Rorka, my hands are burnt—my hair is scorched. Three times I essayed to unlock the padlock, but the flames drove me back. Suddenly I heard a cry, and Arrack burst through the flames. ‘Throw me the keys,’ he cried, and his tone commanded and I obeyed. I watched him as he touched the red hot metal—the flames were fiercer than before. He never trembled or grew hasty. Although his clothes were in flames, and the flesh burnt from his fingers, yet still he strove to open the prison door. At length he succeeded. Five figures fell out on to the ground, burnt and still. I called to Arrack to save himself, but his only answer was to beat his way through the avenue of fire. Minutes passed and he did not return. We looked at the poor burnt things at our feet—their souls had departed, but as we looked their mutilated bodies disappeared. Then through the smoke and grime Arrack appeared bearing in his arms a burden which he laid at my feet. He returned again and again, and yet again. Five women’s lives he saved, and he returned again to save the life of a pet animal. Then, O Rorka, he fell at my feet. His face was burnt beyond recognition; his poor hands useless; his body one mass of blisters. He, and those he saved we brought to Hoormoori. The women are now in safety, but Arrack says his call has come. Oh, my Rorka, this then is my prayer. His one wish now, is to enter into glory through the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata. Will you grant him pardon, and answer his prayer?”

Alan was much moved. “Go, return to Arrack. Tell him Misrath shall come and administer the Sacrament himself.”

“May I say that?”

“Yes. Where is he now?”

“On board the air bird. He is in great pain, but I think I could get him taken to the Temple in safety.”

“See to it at once, my Waz.”

Hurriedly Alan sent for Misrath, and told him the news.

“He has purged his sins indeed,” said he.

So, with the rites of Schlerik-itata, Arrack left Keemar. He bent and kissed the hem of Alan’s garment, and sank back exhausted in his chair. And as the incense covered him, his voice could be heard murmuring—“Great White Glory, I come—I come.”

“And so there is to be no more Hall of Sorrows,” said Chlorie softly.

“No, my darling.”

“It’s gone for ever?”

“Yes. It has served its purpose, but I don’t think its omission will bring more sin into Keemar.”

“I believe you are right, Alan. It was a terrible place, and sometimes I think the punishment was too great for the sin.”

A blue-eyed curly-haired girl ran into the room. Breathless and flushed, she clasped a doll in her arms, and hugged a pink-cheeked apple. She was followed by a bright, eager-faced boy of twelve or thereabouts.

“No, John Alan, I won’t marry you,” said she. “I am Acuci, and Ipso-Rorka, and you are only Ak.”

The children did not see the grown ups who were hidden by a curtain, and their childish chatter went on unheeded.

“You must marry me, Acuci—I love you, and papa says that love is everything.”

The little maid pouted. “I love you, John Alan, and I think I’ll marry you after all.”

The two children embraced fondly, and ran out of the room hand in hand.

“My wife,” said Alan. “Don’t ever leave me. Teach me to know the real meaning of Schlerik-itata—teach me to believe.”

Chlorie offered her beautiful lips to her husband. “Love teaches everything, my husband. Love is powerful—love is mighty. Love will teach you even that.”

He strained her to his breast. “My wife—my wife—I love you so. The terror of parting is always with me. Teach me to believe—you see, dear, even in this Perfect World, there is a grain of sadness—of earthly discontent.”

“My husband—I have no fear—listen—.” And from outside came the merry laughing voices of their children at play. “In your children you will learn belief.”

Envoi

The time came when Sir John himself heard the Call. Half believing, half fearing, he bade farewell. The prayers were said, the incense rose about him, and he, like the Jovians themselves, was taken to the Great White Glory and was seen no more. And in that moment, Alan believed and was content.

“My wife,” he cried, “no longer is there any sadness in my life. I believe. Jovians we have become in body and in soul, I no longer fear—death.”

And hand in hand they sat, married lovers ever, and watched their children at play.