THE MESSAGE OF APALANO.
The furniture in use in the city of Manoa, in material and style, was
not unlike that found in Japan. That in the palace was of exquisite
design and finish, much of it inlaid with gold and silver. It was such
a cabinet that Monella now unlocked: he took from it a parchment roll.
"This," said he, "is the document I gave the king the first day he
received us. Now, of course, it belongs to him; but I have borrowed
it, temporarily, to show you. It was written by Apalano, the last
descendant of those 'White Priests' who fled this country ages ago
with the king Mellenda. In some of the old parchments in my possession
it is described how those who thus went away found the empire going
everywhere to pieces, and falling a prey to barbaric hordes of black
or red or cruel white races; and how they eventually took refuge in
the secluded valley high up amongst the peaks of the Andes, of which
I have already spoken to you, and dwelt there through many centuries.
They had brought with them, and succeeded in cultivating, the 'Plant
of Life,' or 'karina'; but, notwithstanding--and albeit it made them
all long-lived--the fatal disease, the 'falloa,' claimed them one after
another, till Apalano and I alone were left. Then the 'falloa' laid
its withering hand upon Apalano also; he lost his last child, and that
affected him very deeply; for, before he died, he wrote this strange
letter which tells all about myself that I know with certainty; yet
hints, as you will see, at still more to be learned in the future. I
will read it to you:--
"'TO SANAIMA, THE CHIEF WHITE PRIEST OF MANOA. OR, IF DEAD, HIS
DESCENDANT OR SUCCESSOR. OR TO THE REIGNING KING OF MANOA,
GREETING.
"'I, Apalano, the last of the descendants of the White Priests who
fled with the great King Mellenda, do commend to your care the
bearer of this letter, he whom ye will know by the name of Monella.
He is, after myself, the sole survivor of our race outside thy land
of Manoa. Treat him with all courtesy, respect and confidence,
for he is of royal descent, and the unsullied blood of thine
ancient line of kings flows in his veins. Mark well his counsels,
give heed to his warnings, and observe his rulings; for he comes
to restore the true religion of the Great Spirit, and to bring
peace and happiness to our land. Long years ago he did receive a
grievous injury to the head in combat with a savage foe. This cast
a shadow upon his memory of the past, so that he knoweth naught
of what went before, and his former life is blank, save for some
vague passing glimpses that, at rare times, come back to him in
the guise of dreams and visions. We could have told him much of
all that went before, but we have refrained;--first for that he
might not have rightly comprehended what we had to tell, and next,
in mercy; for he hath suffered much. It was deemed best that the
recollections of his sufferings should sleep until the time for his
awakening should arrive, when the work for which the Great Spirit
hath appointed him shall lie before him and shall form his sorrow's
antidote and comfort.
"'The memory that hath untimely been suspended--for we know that it
may not be destroyed--perchance may be restored to its full power
by such an accident as wrecked it; but, failing that, there is but
one sure treatment--namely, to drink of the infusion of the herb
called 'trenima' that groweth in Myrlanda and nowhere else. Let the
stranger Monella, that bringeth this to thee, drink of 'trenima'
in accordance with the rules I have laid down for him upon another
scroll; let him, for some weeks, take of it sparingly even as I
have written; then more frequently, and lo! all his past life,
now hidden, shall be revealed to him, the sun shall light up the
recesses of his memory, and he shall know himself and what lies
before him.
"'And my dying eyes, though unable yet to pierce the future, still
can see that his coming amongst you shall be in itself a sign
of the truth of these my words. When he shall appear to you I
know not; only that it will be at the time the Great Spirit hath
appointed--not an hour sooner nor an hour behind that time--ay, not
one minute. And herein ye shall read a message from the Almighty
Spirit, and ye shall know that Monella's coming at that special
time was marked out by the hand of Destiny. And ye shall find upon
his body marks whose meaning will be known unto Sanaima, or to him
on whom hath fallen his mantle.
"'With my greeting, I bid ye now farewell--ye unto whom this
scroll shall be delivered--my first and last message to the land
of my forefathers, and to those that now rule there. Through many
centuries we, a faithful few, have kept your memory and our love
for you green in our hearts; and I and those who have been with me
had hoped, as the appointed time drew near, that the Great Spirit
would have deigned to grant to us to see our ancient city and our
native land. But it was not to be; all have gone save me and him
who brings you this; but in him I send the blessing that we have
preserved and nursed for you through long years of persecution and
despair.
"'If ye would return our love and care for you, I pray you show
them unto him we send. I know that he is worthy of them; and,
further, that in his own breast he bears for you the sum of all the
love we in our own persons would have shown, had we been spared to
greet ye--I and those who have preceded me to the land of the Great
Spirit.
"'Farewell!
"'APALANO.'"
When Monella had finished reading this strange letter, he leaned his
chin upon his hand and fell into a reverie, Leonard and Templemore
meanwhile looking on in silence. Presently Monella roused himself, and,
with a deep-drawn sigh, passed his hand across his forehead with a look
of pain. His action was as though he had half-caught some flitting
thought or memory, that had, after all, eluded him; and that the effort
to retain it had cost him mental pain. After a short interval he said,
with one of his rare smiles and in the musical voice that captivated
every one, so full were they of kindliness,
"Now you know as much about me as I know myself. I did not show you
this before, because I had been charged to hand it only to those to
whom it was addressed; and this is the first opportunity I have since
had, for the king sent it to Sanaima, who returned it only a day or
two ago. But, since you must now consider seriously the question of
your going or remaining, it is right that you should know all I can
tell you of myself. It is very little; yet sufficient to explain my
present feelings. You can understand, now that you have read that
letter, that I am now, with all my heart and soul, one with these
people. I look at everything from their point of view; I consider only
their interest, their welfare, their safety, their advantage. If you
shall elect to remain with us--to become one of us--you shall find me
ever a staunch friend who will do all he can to make you feel at home
amongst us, and will place you in positions of great honour. If, on the
other hand, you prefer to leave us, you shall not go without such marks
of the king's favour as are beyond, perhaps, your dreams. These are the
alternatives that lie before you. Take time to ponder them; there is,
as I have already told you, no need for an immediate decision."
When, after leaving Monella, the two were once more alone together,
Leonard burst out with the thought that filled his mind,
"I scarcely know how to express my feelings. I am full of sadness and
yet of joy, and I know not which predominates."
"I know what it will be," said Jack gloomily. "You will stay, and I
shall have to return alone. What excuse I shall give to people for
leaving you here--dead to them and to the world for ever--or whether
I shall ever be forgiven for appearing to have deserted you, God only
knows. I wish you would think a little upon all this. For the rest,
I congratulate you with all my heart. To be the future king of so
ancient and remarkable a nation, is a piece of 'luck' that does not
fall to everybody. By Jove!" he exclaimed with increasing earnestness,
"upon my word I don't wonder at your going in for it--indeed, if--that
is--well, if I had not already set my mind upon something else, I
would chuck up the world in general and throw in my lot with you and
be your--your Prime Minister--or State Engineer--or some other high
functionary." And he laughed good-naturedly at the ideas the suggestion
called up in his mind.
"Don't let us meet trouble half way," said Leonard hopefully. "The time
of parting is not yet; who knows what may turn up? Monella may make us
some concession that will meet the case. And now look here. I have been
thinking of a plan for sending a message home."
Jack stared.
"How on earth?" he asked.
"It won't be much of a message, and perhaps it will never reach home;
but we can try. Let us find a place where we can get a view in the
direction of 'Monella Lodge' and watch at night for camp fires out on
the far savanna. We must find a spot screened from observation on this
side. Then we will bring some powder up from our stores, and flash some
signals as Monella had arranged."
"But what good will that do? Even if they are seen it will only be by
Indians who will not understand them."
"Never mind. If any Indians see them they are sure to spread the news
about; and probably the first place to hear of it will be Daranato, the
Indian village where my old nurse Carenna lives. Matava may have told
her about the signals, or even other Indians. At any rate, she will be
pretty sure to hear of them and let Matava know when he returns; or
perhaps even send a message down by some one going to the coast, to say
that signals had been seen that showed we were alive on the summit of
Roraima."
Jack reflected.
"Yes!" he presently said slowly. "Yes. There is something in the idea.
We will try it; it can do no harm. But, to be of any good, we shall
have to signal frequently; once or twice would not be of much use."
"Precisely. Before long, Matava will be back from the coast, and will
hear of them, and will come out on to the savanna at night to see them
for himself. And he would watch night after night with an Indian's
patience till he saw them."
"Yes; I suppose Monella won't object? We ought not to do it without
his consent. But for that awful forest, we might even go farther; we
might make an expedition for a week or two, and get to 'Monella Lodge'
and leave a letter there; or even to Daranato, and leave letters to be
taken to the coast by the first Indians going that way."
"No, we can't manage that, nor would Monella like us to be away so
long. You never know what trouble might turn up here with these priests
and their vile crew. And that reminds me of that letter Monella read
to-day. What did you think of it?"
"An extraordinary letter! Really, I feel almost inclined to go back to
my former idea that Monella and his friends were all mad together!"
Leonard stared aghast.
"What! You speak of that again?" he exclaimed, real indignation in his
tones. "After the way everything has come out--after all Monella's
kindness----"
Jack stopped him with a smile and a touch of his hand on the other's
arm.
"Put the brake on, old man," he said. "I don't mean anything
disrespectful. But if Monella, who already seems to have been about
the world and to have seen as much as three ordinary men of three
score years and ten--if the point to which his memory reaches is only
a portion of his life--why, you see, he must be Methuselah, or the
Wandering Jew himself, or some other mythical being. Already, he has
puzzled me, times enough, with his extraordinary tales; at the same
time you cannot doubt his absolute sincerity. So that if his 'complete'
memory is to go back farther still, why--Heaven help us!--we sha'n't
know whether we are on our heads or our heels."
After a short silence Leonard spoke.
"But, if they had this 'Plant of Life' with them--those he was
with--would that not in part account for it?"
"It might; but it is making large demands on one's credulity. But what
I really mean is this. I am inclined, at times, to think Monella a bit
mad. He has a religious mania; he has persuaded himself--and evidently,
from that letter, has been encouraged by others to believe it--that
he has a religious mission to these people. Well, no harm in _that_,
you say. No; and that he is honourable, upright, sincere, I feel very
certain. Still, he may be self-deceived. He seems to me to be one of
those fervidly religious mystics who can persuade themselves into
almost anything."
"Yet he is no fanatic. See how mild and gentle he can be; how slow to
anger, how just in his discrimination between right and wrong!"
"I admit all that. Still, I repeat, he might easily deceive himself."
That afternoon Leonard sought out Ulama and asked to be allowed to row
her on the lake; and to this she smiled a glad assent. When he had
rowed the boat out a long distance from the shore, he laid down the
oars, and let her drift. A gentle breeze was blowing, and this served
to temper the ardour of the waning sun.
"Do you remember the last time we were thus alone, Ulama?" presently he
asked her.
"Indeed I do," she answered, her cheek, that had of late been very
pale, now glowing with a rosy flush. "But I began to think _you_ had
forgotten, and were never going to take me out again."
"Ah! It was not my fault, Ulama."
"Whose else could it be?" she asked.
"Well--I cannot tell you now. But, if you remember the occasion, do you
remember also what we spoke of?"
The colour deepened in the maiden's face. She bent her head and fixed
her eyes dreamily upon the water; and one hand dropped over the boat's
side, as on that day of which he had reminded her.
"I then said," he went on, "that I loved you dearly, and asked
you whether you could love me in return. And you said you did not
understand such love as I described to you. Do you remember?"
"Yes; I remember," she said softly. "But then I said I could scarce
credit such sudden love for me; and that you might change. And it seems
you have, for, since then, you have never told me that you loved me."
He seized her hand.
"No, Ulama," he cried passionately, "it was not so. I have not altered.
But I feared--that--well, that your father might be angered. 'Twas for
that reason that I spoke no more to you of love."
"In that you did my father wrong," she answered frankly. "My father
loves me far too well to cause me pain and----"
"Ah! Then--would it pain you were I to go away from here and never see
you more?"
She started, and a look of mingled fear and grief came into her eyes.
"You are--not--going away?" she faltered anxiously.
"Not if you bid me stay, Ulama. If you but whisper in my ear that
you may come to love me--if only a little--then I will stay--stay
on always--forget my country, my own people, my friends; give up
everything, and live for you--for you alone, my sweet, my gentle Ulama;
my beloved Ulama!"
Gradually her head sank until it rested on her hand; her colour
deepened, she made no reply, but still gazed pensively into the water.
"Tell me, Ulama--am I to stay or go? Oh, say that you will try to love
me!"
He still retained her hand, and now he passed his own gently over it,
she making no effort to withdraw it. Thus answered, he pressed his lips
upon it, and at this, also, she showed no resentment.
"I would have you stay," she presently murmured softly; "but indeed I
fear it is too late for me to try to love you, for my heart tells me
you have my love already."
And the boat drifted aimlessly in the evening light. The sun had set,
and the moon, the witness of so many lovers' vows--both true and
false--had shown her silvery light above the surrounding cliffs; and
still the two sat on and scarcely spoke, yet, in speechless eloquence,
recounting to each other the old, old tale.
And, when the sweet Ulama left the boat, her heart could scarce contain
the joy that filled it; and in her eye there was a light that it had
lacked before, so that the king, her father, drew her affectionately to
him and asked her what had wrought this wondrous change.
She shyly bent her head and answered him,
"To-morrow thou shalt know, my father." Then she hid her blushing face
upon his shoulder. "I have a favour to ask of thee; but--I would fain
not speak of it this evening."
Then, as though fearing that he would wrest from her the secret of her
joy, she stole swiftly to her room, and from her window looked across
the lake, now shimmering in the silver moonbeams.
For long she sat there motionless, dreaming youth's fond dreams;
dwelling, in loving tenderness, on every word and look she could recall
of Leonard while the boat had drifted here and there, and the lap,
lap, lap, of the ripples against the sides had kept up a soft musical
accompaniment to the rhythm of love's heart-beats.