HATRED ON KEEMAR
Marlinok, the Jkak’s majordomo, called on Sir John and Alan a few days
after they had witnessed the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata. “Will you be
ready,” he asked them, “when the Kymo is at the full, to start on your
journey to Hoormoori to render homage to the Rorka?”
“Are we all to go?” asked Alan.
“But one of you need go,” he answered. “The Rorka will visit Minniviar
later, and then the other strangers may make their bows.”
“I am glad of that,” said Sir John, “for I should like to stay here in
quietness and retirement for a little while. I am beginning to feel the
burden of my age, and am worn out with the strain of the last few
years.”
“I will go to Hoormoori,” announced Alan, “I can start at whatever time
the Jkak thinks best.”
“He has prepared incense and jewels for you to take as gifts from the
absent ones,” said Marlinok, “if you will now see Waz-Y-Kjesta all your
arrangements can be made.”
“I’ll go now,” said Alan.
Alan was going down a pretty lane toward where the air birds were housed
when he suddenly became aware of footsteps behind him. He
turned—immediately the footsteps ceased, and he could see no one.
Thinking he must be mistaken, and fearing nothing from the Keemarnians,
he went on his way blithely. The air was deliciously warm, and the fresh
breeze, balmy with the scent of flowers, tempered it. Still the
footsteps followed with monotonous regularity; as he hastened, so they
became quicker; as his died down, so they ceased altogether. Yet he had
no sense of fear, no feeling of impending evil; the thought of peril on
Keemar was impossible to imagine. The Keemarnians were of a breed as
different from the earth to which he belonged, as he was from Heaven! He
passed delightful homely fields, gleaming with buttercups and daisies.
Friendly cows chewed the cud in sleepy enjoyment. They did not rise as
he drew near, but only raised their sleepy heads, and looked at him out
of their liquid eyes with interest and friendliness. A pig grunted in a
corner as she suckled her squealing young; a donkey brayed; a couple of
goats were nibbling the grass while their kids frolicked near them. He
saw strange animals too. There was the gorwa of the deer family, a
beautiful creature, the colour of a Scottish stag, and its counterpart
in miniature, but with none of its brother’s timidity. All the animals
on Keemar were of a smaller build than those he had been accustomed to.
The cows were even smaller then the little fawn Jerseys so valued in
England. He had seen terriers and bull dogs, dalmatians and spaniels in
this strange world, and the bigger breeds were all represented on a
smaller scale. The Jkak had a dog—a Borzoi, Alan would have called it,
yet perhaps it was no bigger than a small Irish terrier; but strangely
enough, its beauty was not diminished by its minuteness. So Alan went
on. The way was strange to him, but he was enjoying the calmness of the
scene, and he knew his excellent bump of locality would sooner or later
lead him to Y-Kjesta. Again the footsteps beat time with his own, and
anxious for companionship, he stepped into the shadow of a tree, and
hoped to waylay a shy, but friendly stranger. A second passed. The
footsteps had ceased—then came a rustling, and the head of Kulmervan the
Student appeared over a honeysuckle bush. Silently he came forward,
alert and watchful until he was on a level with Alan.
“Hullo!” said Alan amiably. “Where are you going, Kulmervan?”
The effect was magical! Kulmervan jumped as though he had been struck,
and his face whitened. He remained silent. “I’m going to see
Waz-Y-Kjesta,” went on Alan. “Are you coming my way?”
Kulmervan did not reply, but a baleful light gleamed in his eyes, and
his mouth twitched.
“What’s the matter?” asked Alan curiously.
Suddenly Kulmervan spoke, and there was a wealth of passion in his
tones. “Why did you come here, you strangers? I was happy until you
came. I was contented. You have made me want—want the unknown. You have
stirred my heart and filled it with longings that I cannot yet fathom.
Why have you come to stir up misery among a happy and contented race?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Alan, “I have done nothing.”
“You’ve done everything. You dared to raise your eyes to the level of
Chlorie, our Ipso-Rorka. You put thoughts about her into my head. Oh—”
as Alan would have broken in—“I read your thoughts, it was easy, my
friend. You dared to think of her as a woman—even your woman. It was an
impertinence, I tell you. I love Chlorie with my whole soul, and before
Mitzor the Mighty, I’ll carry her away into some far off land, before
she can look with a favourable eye on a man, not only of another world,
but a man of a coarser nature than our own.”
Kulmervan was breathless when he finished, for his words had come thick
and fast, tumbling over themselves in his great excitement. Alan was
speechless, and looked as he felt, absolutely uncomfortable and ill at
ease. “Why your very pose proves guilt,” continued Kulmervan.
“Why should I not love Chlorie?” demanded Alan, “Why should my love for
her cause strife between us?”
“Because, my stranger, I am a Prince of the Rorka’s House. I am not only
Kulmervan the Student; but Taz-Ak of the House of Pluthoz. Why else
would Chlorie have honoured my party—why else come to the dance of a
student? There are but four Keemarnians that Chlorie can marry, and I
rank second.”
Alan wondered at the time why the Princess should come in so natural a
manner to the Student’s reception. He wondered at the time at her
familiarity with Kulmervan. She had patted his hand, smiled into his
eyes, and had honoured him more than once with a dance.
But Alan, too, was in love. Idiotically, insanely in love with a woman
who had not even troubled to raise her eyes to his, at his presentation.
His pulses throbbed at the remembrance of the touch of her fingertips as
he raised them to his lips. He loved her, and in that moment was born a
desire to overcome all obstacles, and princess or no princess, to win
her. But he knew too that in this pleasant land of Keemar an enmity had
come upon him, and wondered whether the Curse of Death had brought it.
He wondered whether the dead and decomposed body of their faithful
Murdoch had indeed brought sorrow to this fair land.
“I’ve spoken to your Ipso-Rorka only once,” said he. “The night of your
party. She has called on my uncle and Mavis. Mavis has been out driving
with her several times. But I, unfortunately, have missed her each time.
Surely you are not jealous because I—”
“Because you love her? I am,” said Kulmervan thickly, “and I say this—if
you so much as dare to raise your eyes to her, if you dare to address
her, I’ll make you suffer for it—aye, even though I also suffer
eternally for it,” and with that he turned on his heel and walked
quickly away.
Alan was very perturbed about this meeting, and felt inclined to tell
the story of it to Waz-Y-Kjesta,—yet the sacred feeling he had for
Chlorie was not to be spoken of, or bandied about from man to man. No,
he would keep it to himself, and trust to time and common sense to cure
Kulmervan of his strange hatred.
He walked quickly on, and already could see the air birds in the
distance, circling above their houses. The little lane turned quickly at
right angles—there was a steep descent, and hedges rose at either side
to a height of six or seven feet, while the overhanging branches of the
trees met in the middle and formed a leafy arch. The grassy banks were
carpeted with flowers, and the scent hung sweet on the air. Again the
narrow path turned sharply to the right, and before Alan realized it,
there almost at his feet, stretched across almost the full width of the
path, lay a lion, full grown, with his shaggy mane stirring in the
breeze. Alan stopped suddenly, and his heart beat quickly. The lion’s
eyes were closed—he was sleeping.
The Englishman was almost afraid to move lest the savage beast should
spring upon him and devour him. He looked round to the right, the bough
of a tree hung low over the path. He leapt up the bank, and with one
mighty spring caught hold of it, and swarmed up to a topmost branch.
He was safe—but the sudden sound had startled the lion, who rose up and
with a low growl prowled backward and forward beneath the tree.
It was an uncomfortable position to be in—the tree bough was very thin,
and bent and twisted and crackled ominously. Still the King of Beasts
remained sentinel underneath. Alan felt the perspiration on his face as
the limb shivered and bent, yet there was no other to which he could
move. Still the animal remained near, his quickened senses no doubt
wondering at the noise he heard, and waiting to see what had caused it.
The minutes dragged by—the branch was weakening perceptibly—he could
already see the white of the inside where the branch was gradually
tearing away from the parent trunk. There was no one in sight, and still
the lion walked restlessly to and fro.
The Kymo was sinking rapidly. It was already low down on the horizon,
and Alan knew he had been about two English hours in his perilous
position. He saw a branch above his head, and he wormed his way along to
see if he could in any way reach it. Carefully he went—slowly—suddenly
with a scream and a crash the branch gave way, and Alan felt himself
being hurled to the ground.
The distance was not great, and he landed in the centre of some
sweet-smelling, soft bushes. He was dazed, and wondered when the lion
would pounce. He knew he was powerless to help himself. He heard the
pad, pad, of its feet; he could hear the sharp intake of its breath—then
the thing was upon him. He shut his eyes and waited.—Nothing happened
but the snuffing of the wild beast, and a gentle nosing as it examined
the stranger.
Alan opened his eyes. The animal was sitting on its haunches surveying
him, and he felt there was amusement in the beast’s eyes as it watched
him. He moved slightly—still the beast watched motionless. He raised
himself up from the encircling bushes and clambered down. He knew he
would have to face the inevitable.
Suddenly a voice hailed him, and he saw Waz-Y-Kjesta coming round the
bend in the lane. “Stand back,” he cried. “There’s a lion here—he may
spring!” But the Waz came on fearlessly. Alan was petrified, his tongue
was parched, no sound came from his lips. He watched the Waz in frozen
horror.
The Keemarnian was smiling. “Where have you been, my friend? You are
late—very late. I thought you had missed your way, so I came to seek
you.” He was now within three feet of the lion. “What is the matter? Why
are you so grave? Has aught affrighted you?”
Alan pointed to the tawny beast. His hand was shaking. Surely the farce
must end soon, the lion spring, and tragedy culminate the play.
“Why Maquer,” said the Waz affectionately, “what are you doing here? You
seldom visit us, you know.”
The lion moved toward him, and rubbed his great head against the
Keemarnian’s leg, while Y-Kjesta talked to him and petted him.
“He’s tame then?” gasped Alan with a rush of relief. “You know him?”
“No, my friend. I’ve never seen this Maquer before—they generally stay
in rocky places.”
“But he is so friendly.”
“All beasts are friendly here, my Alan. What—would Maquer have hurt you
on your Earth?”
And Alan laughingly told of his fright at the lion. He had learnt one
more truth about Keemar—there were no savage animals upon it. Of a
truth, it was a perfect land!
Waz-Y-Kjesta was highly amused at his friend’s story, and together they
went toward the air birds. The Keemarnian airships were indeed wonderful
creations. White and gold, they were shaped like swans, with graceful
wings outspread, gleaming in the light. They were made of a mixture of
wood and metal, and contained accommodation for perhaps forty
passengers, as well as the Waz in command, and a staff of ten. Although
not as big as the ill-fated Argenta, the Keemarnian airship was
possessed of a speed nearly thrice as great.
“This is the Chlorie,” said Y-Kjesta, “and our fastest bird. The Jkak
has given orders that you are to choose your own vessel, so perhaps you
would like to see over some others?”
“No,” said Alan, looking at the blue hangings, and seeing in them the
reflection of his love’s eyes. “No, this one will do beautifully.” And
the Waz was impressed by the easy way in which his friend was pleased.
He little realized that it was the name of the vessel—the Chlorie—that
attracted him. And in the strangeness of it Alan tried to read his fate.
“We’ll go for a short cruise,” said the Waz, “and go back to the landing
stage Minniviar.”
There was not a cloud in the sky, and the warmth from the sun’s rays was
pleasant.
“I can’t understand how you benefit so considerably from the sun, your
Kymo,” said Alan. “Let me see, you must be at least five times further
away from the sun than we were on our earth, yet instead of your light
and heat being reduced to about one twenty-fifth of our supply, you
appear to benefit to exactly the same degree.”
“Ah, my friend, that is easy to explain. Dark clouds hover outside our
globe—”
“Yes, bands of vapour,” corrected Alan.
“Well—vapour. These bands completely encircle our world. They are
saturated with a composition of gas, sulphuric ether I think you would
call it. Well, this gas acts as a trap to the sun’s rays. It admits the
solar rays to our planet but prevents their withdrawal. Therefore it
permits the heat to enter, but prevents its escape.”
“Well?”
“Consequently we get the maximum of light, and an equable temperature.”
“Do you then, have no seasons here?”
“Seasons?”
“Yes, Spring or Winter.”
“Oh yes, it is cold at the poles—very cold, but as we get nearer to the
equator it becomes warmer, and hardly varies. You see, my Alan, our
world differs from yours. The axis of rotation is almost perpendicular
to our orbit, consequently we are not subject to seasons as you were in
Quilphis.”
“I didn’t know that before.”
“We too, are more flattened at each end—indeed, there are many
differences between our world that is, and yours that was.”
“Do you ever have rain here?”
“Yes, my Alan. How else would plants live and crops thrive? But again,
we do not suffer from excesses.”
“But don’t you have hurricanes that last from six to seven weeks? Surely
those are excesses.”
“Hurricanes? I do not know the word.”
“Hurricanes—winds—tornadoes.”
“Why they affect only the polar regions, and nothing lives there.”
“Well,” laughed Alan “I think your world is a great improvement on
ours.”
The scenery they passed on this pleasure trip was very varied, but very
similar to the world he knew at its best. Here he could imagine he was
in the highlands of Scotland with its crags and hills and torrents.
There in Southern France with its vineyards sloping to the river’s edge.
Again, the warmth of colouring suggested the tropics, and the next
moment they were flying over great inland arms of a sea, that were
reminiscent of the fjords of Norway.
They descended at last, and went to the Jkak to bid him farewell. There
a surprise awaited Alan.
“My son,” said the Jkak. “Our Ipso-Rorka has decided to travel in the
Chlorie to Hoormoori. She desires to reach her father’s side without any
more delay. Taz-Ak Kulmervan has obtained permission from his kinswoman
to attend her on her journey. But you need have no fear, my Alan. I
doubt whether you will even see the Princess. She will keep within the
precincts of her apartments, and will be attended exclusively by her
maid.”
Alan felt distressed. Should he tell the Jkak of his encounter with
Kulmervan? Had he obeyed his first impulse and confided in the kindly
old man, he would have saved both himself and Chlorie from much
suffering. As it was—well, who can tell which is always the right course
to take? Errors are made, and paid for in suffering, even in a Perfect
World.
“Is it far, my Jkak, to Hoormoori?”
“Forty Kymos will take you there.”
“Forty Kymos—about twenty of our earth days! It is quite a long way
then?”
“Ah, my friend, you have no idea of the size of our planet.”
“And yet you are all one nation—with the same customs and religion and
speech! It is hard to comprehend, my Jkak, for at home on our little
islands, we were composed of four distinct races.”
“The Ipso-Rorka will board the Chlorie immediately,” said the Jkak. “Now
Mitzor be with you. Farewell.”
There was no sign of the Princess when Alan boarded the ship, neither
was Kulmervan to be seen, but he was surprised to find Waiko lounging on
the deck. He gave Alan a cursory nod of recognition as he passed, but
did not rise or offer any greeting.
“Don’t you know Waiko?” asked Y-Kjesta in some surprise.
“Why of course. I met him at Kulmervan’s party.”
“Then why does he not rise and greet you according to Keemarnian custom?
You have broken bread with him—”
“Please, Y-Kjesta, don’t say any more. I—I think I understand, and
perhaps it’s my fault. Let it pass.”
“As you will, my Alan.” The Chlorie rose, soared gracefully over the
marble buildings of Minniviar, then tilting her nose, climbed swiftly.
The Princess remained in her cabin, her doors were closed, and the
balconies round her apartment shuttered.
“Ought I to pay my respects to the Ipso-Rorka?” asked Alan.
Waz-Y-Kjesta looked at him in horror. “Nay, my friend. It is not seemly
to address our Ipso-Rorka unless she summons you first. She has given
strict orders that she is not to be disturbed.”
So! Kulmervan had begun his work of revenge. Darkness fell, and Alan
retired to his little cabin. There were few on board, ten souls in all,
and the whole place was wrapped in stillness. All the same he felt very
restless—the four moons of Jupiter were shining brightly; they were now
passing over a sea, and the moonbeams were playing on the rippling
waters. He rose, dressed himself, and was about to leave his cabin, when
he heard a faint movement outside. His senses were quickened, he felt
for the first time since his entrance into this new world, a feeling of
impending danger.
In a second his mind was made up—quickly he placed a cushion on his
couch and covered it over with rugs: in the semi-darkness it almost
showed the curves of a living body. The door latch rattled softly, and
Alan slipped behind the folds of a heavy silken curtain. Softly the door
opened, until it was just wide enough to permit the passage of a man’s
body. Alan peered through the curtain opening and saw that it was
Kulmervan who had entered.
The Keemarnian stepped over to the couch and touched the coverlet. “He’s
asleep,” he whispered in his own language, and Waiko entered softly.
“Have you the spray?”
“Yes, my Kulmervan—but is it necessary? I’m afraid—”
“Fool,” hissed Kulmervan. “The spray.”
Waiko handed him a long piece of tubing, the end of which was fastened
to a small bulb. Kulmervan laid the nozzle end on the bed—there was a
slight hissing sound, and the room became sweet with a subtle scent.
“Quick,” whispered Kulmervan to his accomplice, “hasten, lest the fumes
overpower us,” and the two hurriedly left the chamber closing the door
tightly behind them.
The air was already heavy, and Alan felt a drowsiness coming over him.
With a mighty effort he opened the window and leant out. It was a battle
royal between the fumes and the fresh air. Alan felt his head reel and
his senses swim, but the pure night air conquered, and the little cabin
was soon free of its poison.
Silently Alan sat until the dawn broke, thinking over the strange
problem that had presented itself to him. He had made an enemy,
unwittingly it is true, but an enemy who would stop at nothing in order
to further his ends. He wondered what effect the powerful fumes would
have had upon him. In a land where there was no death, could life be
taken? What would have happened to him had he inhaled them? He was
determined to ask Waz-Y-Kjesta at the first opportunity. Suddenly from
without a cheery voice hailed him. It was the Waz.
“How did you sleep, my friend?” and he entered the cabin.
“Very well indeed,” said Alan, glibly lying.
“I slept badly, my Alan. I had evil dreams of you. I saw you
lying—serquor—oh!”
“What is serquor?”
“It is the worst thing that could befall us on Keemar, my friend. Seldom
it happens—but once in a lifetime. The body stiffens, sleep comes from
which one never awakens. Life is, to all intents and purposes, extinct.
Yet the body does not melt into nothingness, as at the Sacrament of
Schlerik-itata. It remains on earth, cut off from the living, cut off
from those already in glory,—useless, desolate, alone.”
“What causes it?” asked Alan eagerly.
“Sometimes a blow or a fall—or it can be produced artificially by
inhaling morka, a gas used in the weaving of our silks. The workers wear
shields over their mouths when using it, and are very careful. Never
have I known such an accident to occur, but it could. It was thus I
dreamt of you, my Alan.”
Alan smiled. He had come across as strange proofs of telepathy as in the
old world between kindred spirits. Whatever happened he knew
Waz-Y-Kjesta was his friend. “Perhaps I am in danger, my friend,” said
he. “If so can I count on you?”
“My Alan, I would suffer even serquor for you,” he answered fervently.
And Alan knew he spoke truly.