Two hours' ride south of the Phoenician city of Gebal, which the Greeks
called Byblus, the river Adonis pours into the sea the water it has
gathered from the melting snows and living springs of the Lebanon. Every
year the banks of the stream were thronged with multitudes that swarmed
out from Tyre and Sidon, Byblus and Sarepta, and all the fishing hamlets
and farm villages from Aradus to Joppa. These people were pilgrims to
Apheca, the source of the sacred river Adonis.
It was the month of Tammuz, when summer bursts with fecund life upon the
land of Syria. The change of the season was thought of by the Syrians
under the pleasing myth of Astarte and Tammuz; or, as the Greeks told
the story, of Venus and Adonis. When summer yielded to winter, stark and
sterile, this was Tammuz, in his strength and beauty, slain by the wild
boar. The returning spring-time was the resurrection of the fair
divinity under the embraces of the yearning goddess. The water of the
river, reddened by the earth that mingled with it, as the melting snows
from the Lebanon overflowed the channel of the stream, was it not
Tammuz's blood?
Several months had elapsed since the events heretofore related. The
ruddy tide of Adonis River had already sent out its annual invitation
for the festival. The report had been duly repeated that the star, which
was none other than Astarte herself, had been seen to pass over Lebanon
and fall into the pool of Apheca, the fountain-head of the river.
The joy of Astarte and Tammuz, now restored to each other's arms, was
especially honored by love-making between the sexes. The innocent play
of sentiment among the simple-minded people would naturally have
degenerated into grossness, even had there not been prescribed the
sacrifice of maidenly modesty upon the altar of Astarte, as a
preliminary to legitimate marriage. The renown of the festival of the
Syrian goddess drew not only worshippers, but the curious and the vile,
from all parts of the world, as insects are attracted by light and by
foulness.
The banks of the river Adonis were adorned at places with the memorial
tombs of the god, wrought not only with the highest Phoenician art, but
in many cases with the touch of the more delicate chisel of the Greek.
Interspersed among these permanent ornaments of the sylvan stream were
the tents of the pilgrims, whose rich canvas and streamers contrasted
gayly with the sombre rocks of the deep ravines and the dense shadows of
the overhanging trees. These tents the wealthier folk pitched for their
noontide rest or for the night, as they journeyed leisurely towards the
river's fount.
A pavilion larger than all others, and which excited the gaping gossip
of the passers-by, was that of the household of Ahimelek of Tyre.
Indeed, next to the marvels of the goddess herself, the visit of Zillah
was the chief notoriety of the season at Apheca. She was to engage in
the ceremonial which not only marked her entrance upon womanhood, but
which was to be especially preliminary to her marriage with Rubaal, the
presumptive king. By ancient custom the queen of Tyre was also ordained
a priestess of Astarte. The splendid rites of Zillah's institution as
such were to follow the less seemly ones. This would have drawn to her
tent the curiosity of all, even if the tent had not concealed the person
of one who had been the affianced of King Hiram, whose translation to
the estate of the gods surely omened some miraculous blessing upon her
who would have been his queen and bride.
The priests of Melkarth had joined with those of Astarte in fanning the
popular interest in Zillah's investiture, as it was understood that the
greater part of Ahimelek's dower would go into their coffers; for
Rubaal, her prospective husband, was but the priesthood crowned in the
person of its tool.
To Layah, the handmaiden of Zillah, the strange taking-off of the king,
whatever it meant, was the profoundest disappointment of her life. She
had thought so long of him as her young lord, had served him with such
devotion when she served her young mistress, that she had now no object
in life but to join with Zillah in her mourning, or to comfort her as a
mother would comfort her broken-hearted child. From the marriage of
Zillah with Rubaal she shrank, and would have detested it even if her
mistress had been able to put off her old love for the new.
"To-morrow, Layah, is the day. It has come at last."
Zillah raised her face to her companion's. It was very fair; more
winsome than ever before. It had been growing in beauty; but of that
spiritual sort of beauty that awakens pain together with admiration. Her
eyes were deeper set; more lustrous, but with a far-away look, as if the
light that kindled them came from beyond the common day. Her face was
thinner, its lines harder and sharper. "A typical face for a priestess!"
old Egbalus said, as once he saw her. "A sufferer's face!" thought Layah
every day, and a hundred times a day, as she saw beneath it the tragic
features of her mistress's soul.
"Do you hold to your resolution, my lady?" Layah asked, her voice
trembling, scarcely making the words articulate.
"Yes--at last! at last!"
Layah threw herself on the ground at her mistress's feet. She remained
for a while as one in prayer. At length, raising her face, she cried:
"O my lady! have I influenced you to this decision? Tell me truly, as
Astarte lives! as Baal-Hiram lives there in the sky! tell me, truly,
have I led you?"
"No, Layah, you have not. It was the covenant I made with him who was
Adonai to me, my lord Hiram! my god Hiram, if Baal will! Baal will take
us both. Hanno himself, and he is wisest of all the priests, assured me
that we should not always be separated. I asked him directly if at the
festival of Adonis I might not go to Hiram. He replied that in the lore
of the priests such things are said to have occurred, and bade me be
true to Hiram, and watch; and, furthermore, he gave me a sign of the
divine will. But I may tell it to no one; not even to my faithful
Layah."
"If," said Layah, "I have not persuaded you to the deed, tell me now,
before the gods, have I sought to dissuade you?"
"No, my dear Layah, you too have been true to my lord Hiram. You have
not hindered me from my holy sacrifice to him."
"May I have my reward, then, from the hand of my mistress?"
"Ask what you will, Layah."
"Let me go with you, if merely human creatures may enter the world of
the gods. Perhaps I can serve there. They have slaves there, have they
not? The sky has flecks in it. Why may not I be with you? I know that
Baal-Hiram will let me come with you."
"No, no!" cried Zillah. "It must not be. If I live after my body is
dead--and who can tell?--let me think of you as living here. I will come
back often, and bless you; or I will watch over you as the moon gleams
upon us. And if I do not live again, let there be one heart in this
world to mourn for me. I have none other than thine, my dear Layah. My
father does not love me, except for the riches I may bring him. To you I
give these. See! This armlet was Hiram's gift. Let me put it on you.
This necklace you shall wear. Do not deny me this favor, or I shall
believe no one on earth loved me."
The two women remained much of the night weeping, or in grief too deep
for tears: Zillah prayerful and resolute, the comforter of her
handmaiden; as if the poor girl's sorrow were for some other misery than
that of her consoler.