THE SENTENCE UPON ARRACK
Sir John, with Masters, Desmond and Mavis arrived at Hoormoori in time
for the trial. They were much interested in Alan’s adventures, and were
looking forward to witnessing the spectacle of Jovian justice. Mavis and
Chlorie were already warm friends, and the Rorka insisted on the
strangers occupying suites of apartments in his palace. Baby John Alan
had grown into a fine boy. Now nearly four, he toddled about the palace
and chattered away in a quaint mixture of Keemarnian and English. The
grown-ups seldom used English now—their past life seemed to be fading
away entirely; they were already acclimatized to Jupiter and looked upon
it as their home. Mavis at the bottom of her heart, however, did not
forget all the pretty customs in which she had been brought up from
childhood and she it was who introduced a trousseau as a necessary
adjunct to a wedding. Chlorie took up the idea with fervour, and in
future all society weddings had trousseaux, cakes and honeymoons as
essential parts of their festivities.
Chlorie’s mother had heard the call of Schlerik-itata when she was but a
small child, and possessing no near feminine relatives, the Keemarnian
Princess was glad to have Mavis helping her at the happiest time of her
life. All was bustle and rush at the palace. The wedding was to be a
grand affair, but before it took place, Arrack had to answer publicly
the charges that were brought against him. In the large Justice Hall, on
the day appointed, the Rorka took his seat wearing his purple robes of
Justice.
A fanfare of trumpets announced his arrival, with his postillions and
servants and attachés. All wore full court dress, and the whole scene
was picturesquely brilliant. Alan had not yet been admitted to the
highest circles in Jovian society; his honour was to come on his wedding
day—so to meet the exigencies of the case, a special raised seat had
been placed at the right hand of the Rorka, and there Alan sat in state
and watched the proceedings. There were neither lawyers nor barristers
in this wonderful land of harmony. The case for the defence, if so it
could be called, was taken by the High Priest—and for the prosecution by
the highest Djoh in the whole of Keemar.
The Rorka listened to the statements made on both sides, and gave his
sentence as he thought fairest. No appeal could be made afterwards; his
judgment was final. Never had there been such a case as this one. Arrack
had broken the traditions of his land. If the Rorka adjudged him guilty,
he would take his punishment stoically. The Rorka rose, and the silence
in the court was profound. “Bring in Arrack the Miserable,” he cried,
and Arrack appeared in the prisoner’s garb of an ugly neutral tint. This
garment of shame was worn only by prisoners, when charged with some
heinous offence. It was something of the shape of a Jewish gaberdine.
About his waist the prisoner wore a hempen rope; his head was covered
with a hood, and there were sandals upon his feet. “O Arrack,” said the
Rorka, “take your seat upon the Penitent’s Chair, for you are accused by
this court of most grievous dealings. If you are found guilty, a
terrible fate awaits you. Speak first, Lamii, Djoh of all Keemar, read
your charge first.” And Djoh Lamii, a dignified old greybeard, stepped
forward and read from a parchment.
“Rorka, most mighty, by the grace of Mitzor, Keemarnians one and all, I
charge Arrack the Miserable with grievous sins. Whether he alone is
responsible or whether responsibility rests with another—unnamed, but
now in a state of serquor—remains to be proved. First, I charge Arrack
with idolatry and devil worship,—nay more, I charge him with the
greatest offence of all against Mitzor—the offence of offering black
sacrifices, the sacrifice of living bodies, to Pirox the Killer, a
graven image of hideous aspect. I charge him with acting as assistant in
that Temple of Sin and Death. I charge him as a heretic and a heathen.
He, a born believer in the one and only Creator, is a deserter from his
faith. I charge him with aiding the unnamed, now serquor, in his
horrible, nefarious practices. All these charges are with regard to his
sins against Mitzor. Now I charge him with attempting to lay hands on
the precious person of our loved Princess; with offering her wine that
was drugged, and being a party to keeping her a captive against her
will. Above all, I charge him with trying to aid the unnamed, now
serquor, to soil her purity, and thus to cause her to wed one she did
not love. These, O Rorka, are the sins in brief, and a more hideous
category of evil, I have never before had to repeat. Although I am old,
and my call must come soon, this is the saddest day of my life to think
I have to utter such things against a true Keemarnian.”
He sat down, and then rose up Misrath the High Priest. “O Rorka, the
mighty and the just. I cannot deny the charges that Lamii has brought.
Long have I talked with Arrack the Miserable, and it is hard to offer
even a word in his favour. Yet because of thy justice I beg of you to
hear me out, and I will tell the tale of sorrow and shame. Arrack and
the unnamed, now serquor, were foster brothers. The mother of the
unnamed received her call while her babe was yet a suckling, and these
two babes, suckled from the same breast, drew the food of life from the
same woman. As toddling mites they flew their kites together, and threw
their balls. Then the sire of Arrack, Meol, now serquor, took these
suckling babes to the Temple of Pirox the Killer. It is he I blame, not
the innocent ones. He, with two others, lived a life of lies. Respected
Keemarnians, wise fathers, loving husbands, they lived unsuspected of
their evil practices; for they were all devil worshippers and offered up
the black sacrifice. But serquor took them all into his bosom. These
tender nurslings grew in the ways of sin. He, the unnamed, possessed
brains and cunning. He was the leader. He it was who took Arrack the
Miserable on to our Isle of Holiness—made him build him a hut, and left
him there, a tool to work his will and prepare his heathen rites. Since
he was of tender years he has led this life—hating it, yet loving it;
fearing it, yet welcoming it. Then the time came when he, the unnamed,
whispered words that affrighted even Arrack the Miserable. Whispered
words of passion for a Princess. The Ipso-Rorka was named—and even to
that length of degradation would Arrack have assisted, so deep was he in
the toils of sin. Then the day of reckoning came. Mighty thunders shook
the Cave of Darkness. The wrath of Mitzor tore it asunder; no more shall
these perfidious practices be handed down from father to son. No longer
shall sin creep out unseen in Keemar. The Great White Glory has spoken.
The Temple of Sin is in ruins, and under the mass of rock and stones
lies the tortured body of Waiko. Whether he, too, had practised the sins
of the unnamed also, we know not. But we do know his character was weak.
We pray that his suffering on the Black Altar may have purged his soul
and that soon he will be sitting in the warmth of the Tower of Help.”
Misrath sat down, and the Rorka rose. “I have heard your case, O Arrack,
in silence. I have listened to your tale of shame. One thing only is in
your favour. You sought not an evil life, but sin and its sorrows were
taught you when you were yet a child. But—” he paused. “You lived the
life of Keemar. You attended our services of joy that were offered to
Mitzor. You knew sin was abhorrent to us. From the time when our first
parents populated our world, we have fought to keep Keemar perfect.
Thanks to Mitzor we nearly succeeded. It is to prevent the occurrence of
sins like yours that I pronounce sentence. Misrath, High Priest of our
Temples—our Mediator on earth between Mitzor and man, robe the sinner in
the garments of shame.”
Immediately the grey tinted gaberdine was torn from Arrack, and in its
place was put a long robe of black. The covering was taken from his
head, and the sandals from his feet. His head was bowed in shame, and in
shame he was led to the Sentence Bar, there to hear his fate.
“Through the streets of Hoormoori shalt thou be led,” said the Rorka. “A
rope round thy middle shall direct thee the way to go. Neither man nor
woman shall speak to thee. Neither beast nor bird shall be permitted to
fawn upon thee. Alone and an outcast shalt thou be sent upon thy way.
Lonely shalt thy days be. Lonely shalt thou be taken to the Hall of
Sorrows at Fyjipo. There thou shalt live until thy beard grows and turns
white with age. Should thy call come early, alone wilt thou have to meet
the Great White Glory. No Sacrament shall help thee on thy way. Neither
incense nor prayers shall assist thee in thy last moments here. Alone
and wretched thou shalt leave this world. But should thy call not come
soon, then shalt thou stay in the Hall of Sorrows until thy beard covers
thy face and thy middle, then—when that time arrives, shalt thou be free
to leave the place of sorrow. But thy life will be lonely all thy days
for the sins thou hast committed.”
Misrath rose. “Oh my Rorka, thy wisdom is sound, thy judgment just. May
I ask but one favour for the guilty Arrack? During his time of sorrows,
should he perform two noble deeds wouldst thou reconsider thy verdict
and allow him freedom?”
“Yes, Misrath. Should he perform two noble deeds, deeds that mark him as
a true son of Keemar, then publicly shall his punishment be remitted
him, and once more shall he take his place among the people he has
wronged. I have spoken.”
The Rorka rose from his seat of justice, and with another fanfare of
trumpets took his place in his state bhor and drove to the palace. Alan
waited to see the end. The wretched Arrack was led from his place, and
taken through a side entrance out on to the highway. There a rope was
twisted round his waist, a rope that had six ends. Six men took hold of
each end, and dragging it taut, led him through the streets. On he went,
a misery to himself, and to those that saw him.
An air bird was made ready for the journey to Fyjipo. Alan begged that
he might accompany it. He wanted to see for himself what the Hall of
Sorrows was really like. He had no conception of it. Was it like a
Pentonville or Portland in England, or did it possess some horror that
no ordinary human mind could conceive?
“Go then,” said the Rorka to Alan. “Swift be thy journey there, and as
swift return. Just time shalt thou have before the day arrives when
Misrath shall make my child and thee—one. One on earth and one in
Heaven.”
“Farewell,” said Chlorie, when Alan told her of the journey he was to
make. “’Tis customary in Keemar for a bride to withdraw herself from all
for twelve Kymos before her wedding day. During that time she thinks and
meditates on her future state. I go into silence to-morrow, Alan, and my
prayers will be all for you. May you return to me in safety. Farewell.”