THE SACRAMENT OF SCHLERIK-ITATA
Alan bent over his uncle, but the High Priest waved him away. “Touch him
not,” said he sternly, and such command rang in his tones, that Alan
stepped back involuntarily.
Again the scene was repeated—Sir John was prayed over, sprayed with the
“waters of purity,” and incensed. As the sweet fumes found their way up
his nostrils, he stirred. Alan rushed to him and embraced him. “It was
only foolishness, Alan,” said he brokenly. “But the Argenta—my ship—I
was so proud of her. Masters, you know how I felt? She was my all in my
days of sorrow. And in my days of joy, when reunited we sailed in her,
she was my joy.”
“I understand, Uncle John. But try not to mind—when one is in Rome—you
know the rest. We are in Jupiter and we must do as the Jovians wish.”
Persoph the Jkak, came up to them. “Nay, grieve not,” said he kindly.
“We have cleared this place of sin. An air bird to take the place of the
one that has gone shall be placed at your disposal. Go you home. Cards
will be brought you for the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata. I beg of you
all—attend it. Nay, I command you. We will meet again within eight
Kymos. Farewell. Farewell.”
Waz-Y-Kjesta, motioned to their bhor. “Come, my friend,” said he. “I
will drive you back another way—we will drive along the shores of the
secti, and watch the breakers roll in.” The sea shore was wonderful; the
sea was blue, a deep, deep blue, and the breakers, flecked with foam,
rolled in to a golden shore. They passed bays, promontories, caves and
rocks—and they found the drive of bewildering beauty.
Alan asked, “What is the Sacrament of Sch—”
“Schlerik-itata?” supplemented the Waz.
“Yes.”
“My friend, you must wait until you witness it. You will understand us
more fully when you have been to the home of Ak-Marn. Now to-night,
there is a small party being given by Kulmervan and his fellow students
at the Observatory. I have been asked to bring you all. Will you come?”
“With pleasure,” said Alan.
“The Jkak is sending you all a complete outfit, my friend. Your clothes
are old, travel-stained and torn—they are sombre too. If you accept his
present, wear to-night your brightest garments.”
“Will you help me to adjust them?” asked Alan.
The Waz drew himself up with a haughty air, but it as soon passed. “I
was forgetting, my friend, that you know not our customs. The serving
men will assist you. When you reach home, you will find your house fully
staffed, and Quori, a most efficient steward and adviser.”
“What about meeting to-night for the party?”
“I will call for you as the Kymo sinks. You will have bhors sufficient
for your use.”
When they reached home they found a note awaiting them from Mavis,
asking them to come over and have lunch with her and Desmond, and they
walked through the garden to the other house. Mavis was waiting for
them, her cheeks dimpling and her eyes sparkling. “It’s a wonderful
country,” said she. “I’ve nothing to do all day; the cooking and
cleaning seem to go by clockwork. Morkaba is Baby’s personal attendant
and mine; she has arranged my frock. How do you like it?” and she
twirled round on one foot showing the soft draperies of Keemarnian
dress.
It was of a soft green, embroidered with coloured silks and her hair was
left loose flowing around her shoulders, and caught above her ears by a
narrow fillet of gold that gleamed as she tossed her head.
“I like it much better than the frumpy old English fashions,” said she.
“Desmond is not quite ready yet—he will look splendid.”
“We shall change later,” said Sir John, “and I shall be glad to get out
of these stuffy and dirty garments. All the same I don’t fancy myself a
cross between an imitation gladiator and a stained glass twelfth century
saint.”
They thoroughly enjoyed their meal; eggs served in a wonderful salad of
fruit and vegetables proved to be the staple part, and this course was
followed by a baked grain, similar to barley, but of a bright green
colour, deliciously creamy and sweet. There was milk to drink, and
plenty of heavy cream.
“They seem to be almost vegetarians here,” said Mavis, “for although we
have had plenty of milk, eggs and cream, I have not seen a sign of fish
or meat.”
“All the better,” said Sir John, “after all that tinned stuff while we
were on the Argenta—ugh!”
They drove in state to the students’ party. The Waz had constituted
himself their guide, and they were very thankful for his services. The
large ground floor of the Observatory had been converted into a
veritable bower of roses. At one end, almost hidden by flowers, were the
musicians—playing dreamy music on soft-toned, stringed instruments.
The Host in Chief, Kulmervan, with Waiko, stood on a raised dais at one
end and received their guests, who were all announced by an usher who
wore a kilt-like shirt and a flowing cape. As the strangers entered he
announced from a card they gave him, first in his own language and then
in English, “Sir John, Alan, Desmond, Masters, and Mavis.” No surnames
were known on Jupiter, and so far they possessed no Keemarnian title. To
Sir John they gave his prefix, although they did not quite understand
it.
A great silence reigned when the announcement was made—Kulmervan left
the dais and advanced toward his guests, and this mark of homage was
acknowledged by clamorous cheers from all the others who were present.
“Welcome,” said he. “I witnessed your descent upon our land. Indeed, it
was I who helped to focus our ray of attraction upon your vessel and
helped to draw you into our atmosphere.”
“What are your rays?” asked Alan. “Surely you had never any cause to use
one before?”
“Indeed, yes, my friend. Some time ago, some of our Keemarnians, while
experimenting in the Heavens, found themselves outside our atmosphere.
They never returned. Across the roadway between the red planet
‘Mydot’—Mars I think you call it—and ourselves, are many rapidly moving
meteoric bodies. We fear that our gallant brothers met one of these, and
were destroyed. Many men of science went after these lost ones but none
ever returned. Through our wonderful glass, we saw one of our air birds
in space; it was unable to reach home. Then was the great magnetic ray
discovered. In the shortest space of time it was perfected, and played
on the silent air bird. Gradually it was drawn nearer and nearer to our
shores until it was within our atmosphere, and was able to land in
safety. Since that time, if air birds venture too high, we have nearly
always been able to save the adventurous spirits, and in your case, we
brought you safely here.”
“It’s a wonderful invention,” said Sir John, “and I can imagine would
have been of immense value to our airmen on earth.”
Kulmervan then presented them to Waiko, and Mavis was led to a seat of
honour on the dais.
They spent a most enjoyable time, and the whole entertainment was very
like what they were accustomed to on earth. Games were played,—games
with balls and racquets, and balls and hoops, and between the games
there was singing and dancing.
Refreshments were served in a hall adjoining, and consisted mainly of
luscious fruits and dainty cakes and pastries. The many Keemarnians they
met, invited them in turn to parties and entertainments, and they felt
they had more invitations than they could safely accept. “Never accept,”
whispered Waz-Y-Kjesta to them all, “unless you mean to honour your host
with your presence. A refusal never offends, but to accept and then to
disappoint, is unforgivable.” Suddenly in the middle of the dancing a
trumpet blew loud and clear. The band ceased and the couples stood
still. Then rang out a fanfare of royal welcome, and the guests rushed
to the entrance hall in great excitement, waving and cheering. “It must
be some one of importance who is coming,” said Desmond. “Perhaps it is
the Rorka,” suggested Mavis. There was a roll of drums, and then, on a
litter carried by six stalwart men, entered a girl of perhaps eighteen
years. The cortége stopped and Kulmervan bent low before her, and kissed
her proffered hand. She bowed ever so slightly, and he assisted her from
her cushioned throne. She stood beside him, and proved to be quite
small, not more than five feet in height, but of a beauty almost
indescribable. She was very fair and fragile. Her eyes were purple-blue
fringed with long, black lashes. Her fillet was of gold, and was
enriched with gems the colour of her eyes, while her robe of blue hung
in folds about her. Perhaps it was her lips that impressed the watchers
most. A perfect bow—they were of a vivid scarlet that contrasted
strangely with the delicate pink flush of her cheeks. Self possessed,
calm and regal she looked as she graciously acknowledged the plaudits of
the guests.
“Who is she, Alan?” asked Mavis. But he was unconscious of her question,
he could only gaze and gaze at the beautiful apparition who had come so
unexpectedly upon the scene.
Waiko bent in turn before the stranger who whispered something to him.
Immediately he came toward Mavis. “We are honoured to-night,” said he.
“The Ipso-Rorka Chlorie has journeyed from Pyrmo to welcome you. She
heard of your presence and came at once.”
“Who is she?” asked Mavis.
“Why the highest lady in the land—the only child of our Rorka.”
Mavis went toward where the girl stood, and the Ipso-Rorka held out both
her hands to the English girl. “Welcome,” said she, in a voice musical
and low. “I hear you start soon to honour the Rorka, my father, with a
visit. May I welcome you first?” In turn the others were presented to
her, but her attention was all for Mavis—it was Mavis the woman she
wanted to know.
And Alan? He had seen his ideal! Years before, he wondered whether he
would ever meet her—and now he had. And a King’s daughter! And he a
stranger in a strange world! How dare he even lift his eyes toward her.
Yet he dared—and his pulses leapt madly as his eyes feasted on her
beauty. Not once did she address him—not once did she even seem to
notice him. Chlorie put her hand lightly on Desmond’s arm. “I will dance
with you,” said she smiling, and Alan watched them lead the merry throng
of dancing couples. The demon of jealousy, earth jealousy, was in his
heart.
“Why are you looking so—how can I put it—so sad?” asked Kulmervan.
Alan laughed. “He has a wife,” he muttered. “Why does he take her from
others?”
“But she has honoured him. It is not for us to choose for the
Ipso-Rorka,” said Kulmervan.
“Yes, but she is so beautiful, so sweet, so glorious,” began Alan. Then
he stopped suddenly. “Oh,” he continued, “what do you people of Jupiter
know of love or hate? Your lives are too quiet, too humdrum to know
aught of passion—”
“Teach me! Teach me!” cried Kulmervan leaning toward him. “Your face is
drawn—your eye hard. Yet you look as if you could battle with the world.
What is it?”
“Love and hate,” said Alan grimly. Then he laughed. “What a fool I am.
Desmond is my cousin; we love each other like brothers. He has won
Mavis—why should he not dance with the Ipso-Rorka? Mavis does not mind.”
But Kulmervan turned away in silence. Knowledge had come to him in a
curious way. He saw passion, love, hatred, anger, jealousy all raging
within a human heart. Unconsciously the feelings were photographed upon
his too sensitive mind. Love that had only smouldered was now born in
all its fury for the Princess Chlorie, the fair. And with love was born
the twin, hate—hate for Alan, the man he feared might supplant him.
It seemed as if death, although burned and purified, had brought into
Keemar unrest and sin. The prayers of the High Priest himself were
unable to wash it away, until scourged and purified the earth folk
themselves became less material and more godlike and true.
The day for the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata arrived at last and the
strangers found themselves on the way to Ak-Marn’s palace.
Although the Aks had no administrative powers, as had the Jkaks, they
were held in the highest esteem, for they were princes of royal blood.
Ak-Marn greeted them warmly. They saw that his dress was different from
the usual male costume. He was in unrelieved white, and wore neither
jewel nor ornament. The material of his robe, which hung with a long
cloak to the ground, was almost like plush and there was something
almost bridal about the costume. Yet Ak-Marn was an old man, with a
beard of white, and grandchildren in plenty. Surely Schlerik-itata could
not be the same as matrimony, thought Mavis.
The guests were eight thousand in number, and all wore their brightest
jewels and their finest raiment.
There was singing and dancing and much gay chatter, and the whole scene
was one of wonderful gaiety and joy. Refreshments were brought in, and
Ak-Marn began to speak. The English people could now understand the
Keemarnian language fairly well. It was easy, its grammar simple, and
its pronunciation almost Latin.
“Friends,” said Ak-Marn. “I break bread with you. Two and ten Kymos have
sunk since I quenched my thirst or satisfied my hunger. I’ve prayed to
Mitzor, the Great White Glory and Tower of Help, to prepare me for my
journey. My call came eighty and five Kymos since—I saw the figures in
fire. I heard my call, and am prepared. I go with hope in my heart—with
joy in my breast. I am to be envied, my friends, for my days have been
long upon Keemar. I leave my loved one, Viok, and our children, and our
children’s children in your care, my friends. When I am gone, cheer her
with loving words—help her with kind counsel. I leave you with love in
my heart. I leave you with the knowledge that our parting is not for
long. Soon you will join me in the home of the Tower of Help. Remember
that the eternities of time cannot be measured.”
Then bread was broken, and there followed the “Feast of the Sacrament,”
and the most intimate friends of Ak-Marn drank to his “future”—drank to
his coming “joy.” And Alan and Sir John were no longer mystified. They
realized that what they in their materialism knew as “Death” was
nigh—but not Death, the slayer of happiness, Death, the dread reaper,
but Death in a kindly form, a death that gave life—a death that was
glorious.
“I thought at first that the Jovians were of a finer nature than ours,”
said Alan.
“If they have conquered Death, they must indeed be high,” said Sir John
thoughtfully.
“Who is Mitzor?” asked Mavis.
“The God of our Fathers, my dear. The God of Abraham and the God of the
New Testament. Whatever their religion and ritual is, they worship the
same God as we do,” said Alan.
“Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
When the feast was ended, the guests, one by one, bade farewell to their
host. It was a long tedious business, as no one was permitted to pass
without at least a few personal words from Ak-Marn who was seated on a
raised chair near the doorway. And as each woman passed out, she was
crowned with a wreath of beautiful, freshly cut flowers, from which hung
a filmy white veil, while the men were given long white cloaks with
hoods which they drew over their bare heads. Mavis bent her knee, and
held out her hands to the kindly old man. “My child,” said he. “Our
beautiful ceremony is so far meaningless to you. Go home—pray to Mitzor
the Mighty that He may refine and cleanse you, that when your time comes
you may be reincarnated to Him, through the medium of his Sacrament.
Farewell.”
To Alan he spoke long and quietly. “My son,” said he, “you are in a
strange world, you are young, you are carnal. Ah,” as Alan would have
protested, “we of Keemar, my Alan, are not as of your world. We know not
sin as you know it. Our first parents, Menlin and Jorlar, were placed in
a garden—” Alan started—“Yes, my friend, as your parents were. They
succumbed not to temptation—so they lived in happy solitude for many
years. Then Mitzor in His great kindness gave them the knowledge of
Love—Love without sin. They mated. Their love grew. Children of love
were born sinless into our world. Child bearing was a glory; motherhood
the highest estate. They knew neither sin nor sorrow, and so in love our
populace grew.”
“Do you mean to say you are sinless here?” asked Alan incredulously.
“My son, it is not an estate for us to glory in, for the merits do not
belong to us, but to our first parents. No—real sin has never entered
here, but we live in dread of its coming. In a far off country—in
Fyjipo—there is built a large palace behind high walls. If anger, or
lust, or impatience is shown by any one of us, an order is given and the
offender is taken to the Hall of Sorrows to purge away his sins. Should
a madness come upon us, for such we reckon these failings to be—we are
kept safe until it has passed, and until we can no longer contaminate
our fellow creatures.”
“It’s a wonderful country,” said Alan. “Where we come from, is all sin
and misery and—”
“Nay, tell me not. I go on a journey. I shall face my Mitzor. I charge
you, should you or your friends feel this madness coming on you, hide
yourselves, I beg, in the Hall of Sorrows. Stay there until it has
passed, and preserve the purity and happiness of this land. Farewell.”
The cloak was fastened round Alan’s shoulders, and he too left the
kindly presence.
Waz-Y-Kjesta was waiting for them at the outer hall. “Go home,” he
whispered. “Your bhor awaits you. I beg of you, eat no more this night,
but in the early dawn, while Kymo still sleeps, put on your cloaks, and
the Lady Mavis her veil, and go you to the Temple of Mitzor. Farewell.”
It was a very solemn party that retired to their rooms that night, yet
the full mystery of the Sacrament had not been unfolded to them.
It was dark when they arose, and in a dim twilight they drove to the
Temple. They had never before been inside it, and it was with much
trepidation that they waited on the threshold. It was a very beautiful
building of pale blue marble—the colour of the sky. An enormous dome
rose up in the centre of the square body of the Temple, and at the four
corners, minarets with gilded tops finished the picture. A flight of
fifty steps led up to the doors which were of a burnished metal, and
studded with precious gems. Just inside was an antechamber, where the
guests waited in silence until they were ushered to the seats that were
allotted to them. The inside was wonderful. Mosaic walls representing
allegorical tales gleamed in the dim light; the roof was of gold, and
marble pillars supported it down the long aisle. An enormous altar rose
up at the further end upon which were carved in marble cherubim and
seraphim. In the sanctuary, if such it could be called, was a small
white throne of marble, with heavy, white curtains draped at either
side. It was placed in such a position that although it did not
intercept the view of the altar, which was high above the nave, yet it
could be seen by every one in the building.
The seats allotted to Alan and his party were very near the front where
rails of gold separated the Sanctuary from the people’s part of the
Temple. Music floated on the air—soft like babbling brooks and the song
of birds; now bursting out into thunderous praise and mighty worship.
Suddenly there came a solemn hush; a bell tinkled; the organ played
softly, and there came the sound of boys’ sweet voices raised in
ecstasy: from a door at the side of the choir a dozen acolytes walked
dressed in their garments of white. The procession started down the
nave. After these boys came priests and deacons, and then Misrath, the
High Priest walked in front of a raised throne. On this sat Ak-Marn, his
eyes closed and his hands clasped in prayer. Behind him walked his wife
and their children. Their faces were radiant, it is true; yet there was
a touch of sadness in his wife’s gait. Then followed more priests and
acolytes, all singing hymns of joy.
The procession wound round the Temple, and back through the middle
aisle, and through the rails into the Sanctuary. Ak-Marn was led to the
marble throne; his wife alone of his family had followed close behind,
and now his arms were around her. Their lips met in one long kiss, then
with a bowed head she left his side, and took her place with her family
in the very front seats.
The organ thundered. Voices rang in a mighty pæan of praise. Then
silence! Misrath came forward and offered prayers to Mitzor—prayers of
offering, prayers of supplication. A mighty wreath of freshly cut
flowers was placed upon the altar. It was to be a burnt offering, and as
the smoke of the sacrifice arose on the air, the white curtains were
drawn around the figure of Ak-Marn and he was hidden from view. Then
singing rent the air; the acolytes incensed the throne, until it was
entirely covered by the perfumed smoke, covered like a pall.
Alan watched in wonder. The grandeur of the prayers, the singing, the
mystic curtains drawn around Ak-Marn appalled him. Misrath’s voice rose
above the music.
“Children of Keemar,” he intoned. “One more brother has been caught by
the mantle of Mitzor, and has left this world for ever. He has gone to
Glory, gone to Happiness—gone to Mitzor Himself. Peace be unto his
house. Peace be unto his wife. Peace be unto his seed for ever. We bid
him—farewell.”
There was a great silence. The censers were stilled. Gradually the smoke
of the incense cleared away from the marble throne, now gleaming in the
rising rays of the Kymo.
Misrath touched the cords of the enveloping curtain, and drew them back.
The little white throne was empty! Ak-Marn had returned to the bosom of
his Creator! But stay! On the floor, as if shed in the hurried flight of
its owner, lay the bridal robe of Ak-Marn. The High Priest raised it,
blessed it, sprinkled it with the waters of purity, and Ak-Marn’s wife
received it in her arms. Then the mighty congregation rose and sang one
last song of praise, and at the end, quietly left the building. And the
last view Alan had of Ak-Marn’s wife was of a solitary figure, dressed
like a bride, clasping the little white throne that was the last resting
place of her loved one.
“I don’t understand,” whispered Mavis hoarsely, as they were being
driven back to their home.
“My dear, he is dead,” said Sir John.
“Dead? If that is Death, then it is something to welcome and not to
dread,” she answered softly. There was a faraway look in her eyes. “What
a wonderful Sacrament! Death that is no sorrow—only a parting for a
little while, and then—reunion.” She clasped her husband’s hand.
“Belovèd,” she murmured, “if Death comes to us like that, then can we
have no real sorrow any more. Its shadow cannot cause us pain or grief.
What do you think, Alan?”
But Alan did not answer. He was thinking of two deep blue eyes, a
laughing mouth, wilful golden curls that flirted on two soft, pink
cheeks. He was longing to crush the lithe and sweet body close to his,
and smother her roses with kisses. The knowledge and fear of Death had
lapsed; Jupiter had eradicated it,—but with its extinction had come
love. Love, stronger a thousandfold than Death. He looked upward to
where the Sun, Kymo in all his glory, was shining. The whole world was
bathed in a glory of light. Yes, Jupiter had conquered death, and before
him lay life and love!