DEATH IN JUPITER
They walked down a lovely avenue to the outer gates. It was
grass-covered, soft and velvety and cool. Birds with the gayest plumage
hopped among the branches of the trees, and came fearlessly up to the
strangers. One bird, perhaps as big as an English bullfinch, of many
colours and with a fan-shaped tail, perched on Mavis’ shoulder, and
chirped prettily to her.
“How wonderful!” said she.
“Did not your, birds do that?” asked Waz-Y-Kjesta.
“No, they were too nervous.”
“Nervous?”
“Yes—frightened—terrified,” she explained.
“I understand the meaning of the word you utter,” said he, “but you will
not find the sensation of fear known on Keemar. We live in harmony with
our birds, our animals, and even our fish. They are all our friends.”
At the end of the avenue they found themselves on a broad road. Hills
rose up at the side, steeply in some places, while in others the rise
was more gradual, leaving moorland and valley in view. Houses were built
at intervals along the roads, all of wonderful, coloured marbles, but
they were all surrounded by beautiful grounds, and added to the scene.
“Oh,” said Mavis suddenly. “There’s a shop.”
Waz-Y-Kjesta looked puzzled, and followed her gaze. “Oh yes, you mean
our Omdurlis. How else should we get food to eat and clothes to wear?”
“How then do you manage about your coinage? Do you have money?” asked
Alan curiously.
“I know not the word.”
“How do you buy things—what do you give in exchange?”
“Oh, we have laika—royla, suka and minta,” said he; and he drew from his
purse that hung satchel-wise across his shoulders, some coins. The first
was square, as large as a five shilling piece, and green in colour.
“This will purchase the most,” he said. “Five roylas make a laika.” The
royla was exactly the same, but no bigger than a florin. “Then there are
ten sukas to a laika, and twenty mintas.” The last two coins were of a
bronze hue and as big as a shilling and a sixpence.
“I expect those five coins are equal to a fiver, a sovereign, a two
shilling piece and a sixpence,” said Mavis thoughtfully.
“How do you get your money?” asked Sir John.
“Oh, from the Rorka,” explained the Waz. “I am a Waz—I receive one
thousand roylas or two hundred laikas a murvin. The Jkak will get a
thousand laikas, while little Morkaba, who is born of the workers, gets
but ten and her food.”
“I suppose the shopkeepers make a lot of money,” said Desmond.
“Oh no. All members of the Omdurlis get one hundred laikas. All that
they make above that they are bound to send to the Rorka. He places all
the surplus in the general fund which is held in reserve for all
Keemarnians. As each male Keemarnian reaches the age when he has seen
the Kymo rise three thousand and thirty times, he journeys to Hoormoori,
makes his bow to the Rorka, and receives from him his manhood. According
to the station in life in which he has been born, and from which he has
sprung, so he learns to take his part in life.”
“It is a wonderful system in theory,” said Sir John. “But how does it
work in practice?”
“It is our custom,” was all the reply the Waz made.
“But don’t you sometimes find you get dissentient spirits? Don’t they
rebel against this formality? Don’t they want to make more money than is
allowed by custom? Don’t you sometimes have trouble from these spirits?”
Waz-Y-Kjesta smiled. “In our books of science we have read that in other
places than ours—there were troubles like those you name. That man
fought man—brother hated brother—women sorrowed, and children were
rendered homeless. We, in Keemar, know not the meaning of such things.
We are happy; we are content with our life; why should we complain?”
There were no ugly streets and lines of shops in this wonderful city;
but the Omdurlis were to be found here and there at the edge of the
grass covered paths, while the houses lay further back. Everywhere were
to be seen happy-faced men and women, and laughing children. Bhors
driven by colis, and bhors driven by the etheric power that was used for
lighting and propelling purposes, thronged the streets, and the whole
scene was gay and beautiful.
Although the sky was a wonderful blue, and all the buildings were of
white and brilliant coloured marbles, the whole effect had none of the
tawdry or bizarre appearance of the cities of the East, in the world;
but the whole was soothing and pleasing to the jaded nerves of the earth
folks. They turned a corner and found themselves in a short road ending
in a cul-de-sac formed by high gates and marble pillars.
“This is one of the houses,” said Waz-Y-Kjesta. “Come, and see it.” The
garden entranced Mavis before she saw the house. It was like a picture
out of the fairyland she had dreamt of as a child—the fairyland she had
dreamt of as a woman! For are not all true women half fairies at heart?
Is not the mysticism of life itself a fairy gift to a pure woman’s mind?
Mavis had lived her life among the fairies. As a child she had played
with them in bluebell woods and primrose glades; and when she renewed
her own childhood in her baby, she renewed through him her acquaintance
with the fairies.
Trees overhung the grassy path which was on a gradual upward slope.
Burns ran down on either side—rushing, laughing, maddening burns. Tiny
flowers peeped out among the grass; lichen-covered rocks reared up
majestically from the centre of still pools. Gnarled trees lined the
way, and their twisted roots formed steps up the hillside. The top
spread out plateau-wise, and a blue marble house was built in the very
centre. It was not very large; a verandah ran all round it on both
floors, and the foliage and creeping plants added to its beauty. The
door was open wide, and the splashing fountain in the entrance hall
looked inviting and cool. Apart from the kitchen and servants’ quarters,
there were on the ground floor only two living rooms and the entrance
hall. Each of the six bedrooms on the upper floor had magnificent
bathrooms leading from them. They were like miniature swimming baths,
shallow at one end, deepening to six feet, and the water was hot and
cold in the pipes. The whole house was decorated in a delicate shade of
blue, and was absolutely ready for use. Mavis was entranced. “May we
stay here?” she asked.
“I will acquaint the Jkak with your decision,” answered the Waz. “Now,”
turning to Sir John, “through the garden yonder, and down a short
woodland path is a garden house. Would you care to see it? It might suit
you, and you would be all near to one another.”
“It sounds most attractive,” said Alan.
They walked through the garden and down the hill on the other side of
it, and saw, nestling among the trees, the tiniest house they had so far
seen on Jupiter. It was an absolutely perfect bachelor establishment,
and the three men decided at once that it was an ideal spot to live in.
“The Jkak is eager to see your air bird,” announced Waz-Y-Kjesta. “When
may he go?”
“Why I’d forgotten all about the Argenta,” said Alan. “Can’t we go now?”
Mavis looked from one to the other. “Do you want Dez?” she asked
pathetically. “I seem to have seen so little of him lately. Dez
come—come home, and Baby, you and I will have a long, happy day
together.”
So it was decided that Sir John, Alan and Masters should go back to the
Jkak’s with the Waz, and arrange about the trip to the Argenta. “Waiting
men and maids have already been dispatched to your houses,” announced
the majordomo, Marlinok by name.
“Is the Jkak at liberty?” asked the Waz.
“He is, my Waz.”
“Tell him, if it is his desire, the strangers will show him their air
bird now.”
A few minutes passed and Marlinok returned. “The bhors are ready and
waiting, my Waz. The Jkak has already started.”
Outside they found two double bhors ready, and Sir John and his
faithful Masters travelled in one, while Alan and Waz-Y-Kjesta
occupied the other. Alan was now able to enjoy the scenery through
which he passed. The path by which they travelled ran by the side of
an island lake, with tall mountains towering on the further side of
the water. The woodland nature of the scene with the twining paths and
overhanging branches reminded Alan forcibly of the bank of Loch Lomond
between Tarbet and Ardlui; yet the almost tropical colouring of the
flora—the wonderful brightness of the birds’ plumage, the waving
palm-like trees that were interspersed here and there, were unlike
anything he had ever beheld. This place seemed to possess everything
to make it perfect—mountain—moorland—water—and woodlands. Nothing was
missing from this panorama of glory.
At last the Argenta hove in sight, and somehow its beauty seemed to have
lessened in this land of glory. The silver brightness of its aluminium
looked dim in the golden sunlight; the torpedo-shaped body seemed ugly
and sinister in comparison with the beauty and symmetry of the
Keemarnian air birds. The Jkak waited for the strangers to alight, and
the Waz whispered his instructions. “Welcome the Jkak, my friend,” said
he. “It is our custom. Ask him to honour you by boarding your craft. Let
him bring peace and prosperity to your house by stepping across the
threshold of your boat.”
“My Jkak,” said Alan, going to the side of the state bhor, “will you
honour us all by boarding our Argenta, and bring us joy and peace?”
“You have learnt your lesson quickly and well, my son,” said the Jkak in
reply. “I will come with pleasure.” He walked aboard and was extremely
interested in the vessel. “But how do you move it?” he asked. “How does
it rise into the heights of the heavens?”
“This is the spirit,” said Alan, “but alas, it will not work in your
atmosphere. There seems no power in it. Perhaps later on, we might
experiment with your etheric current?”
The Jkak and his suite were enchanted with the fittings of the
Argenta—the electricity, the furniture, the hangings. As they made their
way toward the sleeping cabins, Masters suddenly spoke.
“Poor old Murdoch—he’s in there,” said he. “I am afraid I forgot all
about him.”
“Poor chap,” said Alan, “so did I,” and he quickly barred the way. “May
I suggest, my Jkak, that you do not go in there,” said he. “A very dear
comrade of ours risked his life for us all. He is in there—dead.”
“Dead?” asked the Jkak.
Sir John bowed his head sadly. “Dead,” he repeated, “and one of the
truest servants that man ever had.”
“But if he is in there,” said the Jkak with a puzzled frown, “why does
he not come out?” He looked at the others in turn. “Why does he not
enjoy life with you? Ah! He thinks the Argenta would not be safe without
him? That is foolish. I will enter—I will assure him he has nothing to
fear.”
“But he is dead,” urged Alan.
“Dead?”
“Yes, he died before we reached Keemar.”
“I know not the meaning of the word. The ‘gift of tongues’ fails me
here. Explain—dead.”
Alan looked at him in amazement. Death was such a common word in the
world; one met with it at every turn; it was strange that it should
remain unknown to the Jovians with their wonderful “gift of tongues.”
“His life has gone,” said Alan simply.
“But life is eternal, my son.”
“Surely you do not live for ever on Keemar?” asked Alan incredulously.
“Ah, no. We do not live for ever on Keemar it is true—but our life is
eternal.”
It was impossible to explain—they had no knowledge of death—yet they, on
their own showing, seemed to expect to leave Keemar at some time or
other. Surely death alone could remove them?
“I beg of you, do not go in there,” urged Alan, and he barred the door
of the death chamber.
“My son,” said the Jkak. “I must know all things in my country. If what
you call ‘death’ has entered—then I beg you, acquaint me with it.”
“But it is horrible—”
“Let me meet it face to face—”
“It is loathsome,” urged Alan. “I pray you, do not go inside.”
The Jkak made no reply, but raised his right hand high above his
head—palm outwards, and even as he did so, Waz-Y-Kjesta and his suite
bent low on one knee.
“The sign of the Jkak,” said the Waz. “His wishes must be honoured, his
commands obeyed.”
Alan moved away from the door, his head bowed in acquiescence, and
Marlinok turned the handle of the door, and stepped back to allow the
Jkak to enter. There was a tense silence for a moment, then from the
darkened chamber came a startled cry, a cry full of poignant horror, and
with an ashen face the Jkak appeared at the door.
“I have seen Death,” said he. “I have seen the horrors of sin. Death,
until now, has never entered Keemar. Death brings its own punishment.
Death brings horrors and adversity. Death! Oh Great, White Glory, Tower
of Help, Mitzor of our Fathers—I have seen Death in its hideousness.
Mitzor the Mighty, grant preservation to thy people—grant help to thy
faithful.” Persoph the Jkak was trembling. His face was white, his hand
was shaking as he pointed to the door.
“What will you do with—with—that?” he asked, almost inaudibly.
Alan answered him. “Bury him, poor chap.”
“Bury?”
“Yes. Do you not dig graves for your dead?”
“We have no dead, my son. I pray Mitzor, that the entrance of
this—soul—may not bring disaster on our land. But how do you bury?”
Alan explained, and as he finished the Jkak’s face was more
horror-stricken than before. “Nay, my son, bury you cannot. That would
be impossible here.” He turned to the Waz. “Does not the Sacrament of
Schlerik-itata take place within eight Kymos?”
“Yes, my Jkak,” answered Y-Kjesta. “Ak-Marn sent cards for all to attend
it. It will be the biggest feast I have ever known. His seed is mighty,
his seed is great. Five thousand and ten cards have been issued, and yet
five thousand and more still clamour for admittance.”
“Good,” answered Persoph. “This,” pointing about him, “all this must go.
Summon me Misrath, the High Priest. Bid him bring his ‘waters of purity’
and his smoke of sweet odours. Bid him bring his choir of young voices,
and bid all prepare. A sacrifice will be offered to Mitzor; the Great
White Glory must be appeased.”
Alan and Sir John were very mystified over the whole scene. These
Jovians did not seem to understand Death—yet they spoke of sacrifice!
“I am sorry, my son,” said the Jkak. “I can save nothing for you. All
must be burnt and offered to Mitzor. Come now, I will draw a ring around
the contaminated spot, and we will witness the destruction from
without.”
Sir John and Alan were both loth to have the Argenta burnt—but being
dependent on the Jovians for their entire future, they were unable to
demur. With a silent prayer for the friend who had given his life for
them, they left the ship and stood some way off. After an interminable
time of waiting, a mighty blast of music burst on their ears, and they
saw a procession of etheric bhors coming towards them. The first
stopped, and Misrath the High Priest alighted, followed by priests and
acolytes in quaint garments of ecclesiastical cut.
A procession formed—two acolytes with censers led the way, and wafted
the glorious perfume from side to side. Then followed one of the most
mystical and picturesque ceremonies it was possible to imagine. Almost
of Mosaic grandeur, it thrilled the watchers. They were unable to
understand what was being said—all was in the language of the
Keemarnians—but the meaning was plain. The High Priest offered the
Argenta and its contents to Mitzor, the Great White Glory. He offered
it, with its fine workmanship, its precious metals—and its body of sin.
He asked that through the mediation of the sacrifice, any evil might be
averted, that the entrance of Death might bring. He consecrated the
Argenta to Mitzor—he consecrated the ground it contaminated. He poured
the “waters of purity” across its bow, and named it “Meeka,” the Bringer
of Knowledge.
Then the Argenta was sprayed from stem to stern with a milky fluid that
dried like little curds all over the vessel. A torch was lighted and
applied to the ship. Little flames ran along meeting each other until
they merged into one great whole; there was a roar and a noise like
thunder, and the Argenta, the hobby of a life time, the fruit of patient
labour, was no more!
Sir John watched with a set face, but as the fire died out, and he saw
that the whole had been swallowed up, had consumed itself entirely,—he
crumpled up, and lay inert upon the ground.