THE TRIUMPH OF AK-ALAN
The populace of Hoormoori were wildly excited, for the time had come
when their Princess, the Ipso-Rorka of all Keemar, was to wed. Every
place was full, the streets were thronged with visitors, for people had
come from all parts of Jupiter to witness the long ceremonies and
jubilations that preceded the actual wedding. Parties came from the
warmth of Xzor, from the heat of Paila, from the temperate breezes of
the Isles of Kalœ. Every dwelling house in Hoormoori was full; every
public guest house had used every available space for their overflowing
guests. The streets were gaily decorated; the trees were adorned with
coloured lights, and across the wide boulevards silken flags were hung.
There were festoons of flowers and leaves everywhere. Every window was
bright with silken rugs; the whole scene was gay and brilliant.
The first ceremony of interest was the admittance of Alan into the bosom
of the Rorka’s family. In a wonderful golden robe Alan stood at the foot
of the Rorka’s throne in the great white Throne Room in the palace. The
whole apartment was thronged with guests, and by the Rorka’s side sat
the Princess. She had on her face a grave, sweet smile, and in her court
robes of blue and gold she made a regal figure.
A majordomo handed the Rorka a golden fillet of beautiful workmanship
studded with diamonds. This was placed on Alan’s head by the Rorka
himself, who said—“Oh Alan, known hence forward by the Royal prefix of
Ak—I salute thee. Thou hast taken the oaths of allegiance to me, your
Rorka. Thy fidelity and love thou hast offered me. I salute thee, Oh
Ak-Alan,” and he took him by both hands, and kissed him on either cheek,
and raised him to the topmost step of the throne. Then Alan faced the
people.
“Behold him,” said the Rorka. “Ak-Alan, a noble of the House of Pluthoz.
Acclaim him as your own, for he is indeed a Prince of the House of your
Rorka.”
How the people cheered! With one accord they shouted and surged forward
to the foot of the throne, and stretched out their hands to their newly
made prince. Alan was delighted with his reception, and had an
individual word to say to nearly every one who came near him. The story
of his adventure for Chlorie had been widely told; Kulmervan’s treachery
was known; and every one welcomed the newcomer royally. But this was
only the beginning. Ak-Alan had to become a Djoh of the Outer Shelter,
and to receive the blue ribbon of his office. The Golden Circle of Unity
of Keemar was placed on his finger—The Star of Joy—The Order of Hope—all
these ceremonies took their time. But they were all picturesque and
interesting.
Many times had he looked upon Chlorie, but never had an opportunity been
given to him to speak with her alone. But at his ardent gaze, the shy
colour would mount her cheeks, and her eyes would drop in sweet
embarrassment.
Waz-Y-Kjesta had been appointed to the Royal Household of Ak-Alan, and
was delighted to have the opportunity to remain by the side of the
friend he had made. Persoph the Jkak, and Mirasu the Jkakalata had sent
handsome presents to Alan and Chlorie, and had expressed their sorrow
when Desmond had announced his intention of settling down in Hoormoori.
“We want to be near Alan,” explained Sir John.
“We shall miss you of course. We are grateful for your kindness to us
all since we arrived so strangely in your land. But we should miss the
society of our kinsman, we must stay near him.”
“We understand,” said Persoph. “But visit us, my friends, and allow us
to visit you. Your friendship is dear to us—your esteem we prize.”
Several orders had been offered Sir John, but he stuck to his prefix
throughout. “My father earned it,” he explained. “I honour him by using
it. Please allow me to keep it,” and the Rorka gave his permission.
During all this time Masters had scarcely left Sir John’s side. A
devoted friend, a loyal servant, he remained always at hand in case the
old man needed him. And when Alan had been appointed Ak of the House of
Pluthoz, Masters received the shock of his life. Suddenly the majordomo
cried out, “And I command Masters of the household of Sir John to kneel
at the foot of the Rorka’s throne.”
Masters turned dead white, and looked appealingly at Sir John.
“Go forward, my friend,” said Sir John, and Masters obeyed him.
The Rorka rose, and touched him lightly with the Silver Staff of Office
of a Waz. “I promote thee henceforward, Waz, to the house of Sir John.
Waz-Masters shalt thou be, with all that appertains thereto. Accept this
staff, Waz-Masters, for thou art a faithful friend.”
Masters was unable to express his gratitude, the honour was so
unexpected that it rendered him speechless; but a few moments later Alan
smiled as he saw him talking earnestly with Zyllia, a kinswoman of
Y-Kjesta’s. And as Alan watched the luminous eyes that smiled at
Masters, watched the parted lips and the colour that came and went in
the olive tinted cheeks of the beautiful Keemarnian, he foresaw, and
foresaw truly, that soon Masters would forsake the lonely role of
bachelor; and another love match would be made in Keemar—the land of all
good.
Then came the feasts and banquets; a pageant and procession through the
streets of Hoormoori. Bhors gaily decorated, fancifully costumed bands,
dancing children dressed like wood nymphs, fair-headed, slim youths with
pipes like the pipes of Pan, woodland fairies, ladies in court attire,
all took part in this wonderful procession.
And Alan sat on a balcony in the Royal Palace and watched it. But half
the time his eyes were feasting on the features of his bride of the
morrow. Occasionally, under cover of the cheers and the darkness, his
hand would stray out, and for a moment clasp hers in the darkness. But
no chance had he of speaking with her alone, and her nearness maddened
him with passionate longings. He longed to be alone with her, away in
the woods and fields, along the seashore, just they two together,
communing with nature in all her glory.
“May I not speak to Chlorie a moment alone?” he begged earnestly.
The Rorka smiled. “In your world, perhaps, it would be allowed. But I
cannot sanction it. To-day she belongs to me—to the people. To-morrow
she will be yours for ever. It is custom, my son. But to-morrow—” he
stopped, and looked shrewdly at Alan. “I have been converted to
your—‘honeymoon’. It is a strange idea to us of Keemar, but a beautiful
one, and will, I think, prove popular with my countrymen. To-morrow you
take her away—alone. No duenna’s guiding eye will follow you. The House
of Roses in the Wyio Forest is at your disposal. It is ready—prepared. I
have given way on many points, my son, but on this one I am firm. You
cannot speak alone to Chlorie to-night. Now I wish to speak to Sir
John.” Alan bowed his head and moved away, so that his uncle could take
his place. He was further away from his love, but sat in the shadow and
gloried in her as the light shone brightly on her profile.
“Sir John,” said the Rorka, “I have heard much about your wonderful
airship that carried you safely to our world. Would you be prepared to
build another as like it as possible? I will place men, material and
means at your disposal. You need want for nothing, and I should esteem
it a personal favour if you would at least consider my proposal.”
Sir John’s eyes shone. “O Rorka, you have put new life into me by your
suggestion. I felt I was growing old—but my heart is still young. To be
of use in your world will make my last years happy; to feel I am not
wasting my time will strengthen my life. Masters and I were planning
another Argenta on paper only to-day. He has been examining the metal
you use, and he says it is even lighter and stronger than our aluminium.
My whole time is at your disposal, and Masters’ as well.”
“Speak for yourself, Sir John,” smiled the Rorka. “But unless I am much
mistaken, Zyllia will have more to say about Waz-Masters’ affairs than
you have dreamt of.”
“Zyllia?” repeated Sir John looking puzzled.
“Look behind you,” said the Rorka. In the room behind were two
figures—Masters and a woman. The woman was delicately beautiful. Darker
than most Keemarnian women, with blue black hair and flashing eyes.
“So he has found a mate,” said Sir John softly. “I never thought of
Masters and marriage. He seemed too mature. In our world he would have
been called ‘middle-aged’ He has seen forty and three summers.”
“But Zyllia is mature,” said the Rorka. “She looks a girl, but although
her soul is young, she and Masters are not far apart in years.”
“You will not object to the match?”
“Nay. I have a great opinion of Waz-Masters, but I like not his name.”
He touched a bell. “Waz-Masters and the Lady Zyllia. I desire them here
at once.” The girl bowed, and in a moment the two were standing before
him. “My friend,” said the Rorka kindly, “I like not your name.
Waz-Masters sounds crude and harsh. In our language we have a far softer
word that means ‘Master’ Henceforward shall you be known by that.
Waz-Aemo, for now and ever.” Masters remained silent. He was embarrassed
and hardly knew what to do. “So you are going to mate with Zyllia?” said
the Rorka. Zyllia bent on one knee, her hands extended in supplication.
“Oh Rorka, most noble. Have I thy permission? Him have I promised to
wed, if I have thy permission. For I love this stranger dearly.”
“My consent was given long ago. I have watched your play with pleasure,
my child. Tell Waz-Y-Kjesta he can give you the use of an air bird for
your—your honeymoon.”
“Oh how can I thank you—”
“That is enough. See, the procession has resumed—how beautiful are the
flowers—the silks—” and taking these words as their dismissal, they bent
on one knee, and then passed from the balcony to the room beyond.
The last vehicle had passed, the last burst of music had died away,
night fell. But one more ceremony remained to conclude the time of
rejoicing—the wedding on the morrow.
Alan woke early on the morning of his wedding day. His personal
attendant had placed all his wedding clothes ready for him, and he
donned the golden robe and swung from his shoulders the blue velvet
cloak. It was lined with gold, and caught up at one corner with a
beautiful jewelled buckle. His fillet of gold was on his head, and as he
looked at himself in the long glass he saw the romantic robes fade away,
leaving in their place a worn and shabby, but nevertheless very
comfortable golf jacket. The shadowy figure was carrying a bag over his
shoulder—golf clubs. Alan sighed. It was a very long time since he had
teed up, and with a mighty drive seen a little white ball sent skimming
along at a terrific pace. He could see the ascent to the approach of his
favourite green; the green itself, smooth and velvety, resting in a
little hollow below. Well, he would get his game of golf on Jupiter. He
would plan a course, have clubs made, and he and Chlorie would—No, he
didn’t regret giving up the old and ugly garments of the earth. He
regretted nothing. He wouldn’t have altered his fate if it had been in
his power to do so. Life held nothing for him but Chlorie. Life and love
were before him, and he felt fitted for and happy in the new world.
His golden, sandal-like boots were on. The ring for Chlorie was in his
satchel purse. The Crown of Wifehood with which he would presently crown
her was in Y-Kjesta’s possession. The Waz also had taken care of the
gifts, which according to the rites of the Temple he must present to his
wife. The coins, to represent that he endowed her with his wealth. The
loaf divided in two—to denote that she would share in everything. The
fresh cut flowers, a symbol of the joys they would find in each other,
and lastly the basket of fruits that were to be laid on the Altar and
offered as a burnt offering to Mitzor the Mighty. As they were reduced
to ashes, the High Priest would waft them to the four winds of heaven,
and the nuptial pair would swear to love each other until such time
arrived as the burnt fruits regained their virgin freshness. A poetical
way of vowing their eternal fidelity each to the other.
Waz-Y-Kjesta entered. He was plainly nervous at the thought of the part
he was to play in the day’s ceremony. “The time has come, my Alan. Your
bhor awaits you.”
“I am ready,” Alan smiled at the Waz. “I don’t know how I should get on
without you to-day.” The streets were thronged with people. Alan sat
alone in the State Bhor which drove slowly down the decorated streets,
and immediately in front of the bridegroom’s equipage rode Y-Kjesta, on
a magnificent white coli.
Sixteen Keemarnians, appointed by the Rorka for his personal staff, rode
behind him. Sir John and Desmond were already in the Temple. A beautiful
blue carpet spread from the door to the street, and the whole way was
lined with flowers. Slowly Alan walked up the flowered aisle and took
his place at the altar rails. The organ was playing softly. Suddenly it
burst out into the Ipso-Rorka’s personal air—The Bride had arrived. On
the arm of the Rorka she walked up the long aisle. Her bridal gown of
blue brought out the colour of her eyes. Upon her hair was draped a thin
veil of gold, and her long train was carried by little sturdy John Alan!
At the altar rails they stopped, and the High Priest demanded—“Who
giveth permission, that this woman shall leave her home and her people,
and live in peace with the mate of her choice?”
“I do,” said the Rorka.
“You are convinced that happiness and joy will be the woman’s lot?”
“I am.”
“Thanks be to Mitzor. I am content.” Thereupon the Rorka took his seat
upon his throne, and the ceremony commenced.
Mavis, who had followed the bridal procession, now took her place on
Chlorie’s left, to assist the bride. It was a beautiful ceremony, and
the incense, the priest’s vestments, the music, all helped to make it
awe inspiring and impressive. The gifts were offered—Chlorie accepted
them—the moment was almost at hand that would make them one. Alan was
repeating softly after the priest—
“May this ring, with which I encircle thy finger, be a lasting proof of
the unity of our affection. May the circlet with which I crown thee,
prove that I honour thee as my loved one, and install thee as Queen of
my House.”
And Chlorie answered softly, “I accept this ring, and from my finger it
shall never slip. I accept the crown that thou offerest me, and in
return I pray Mitzor the Mighty, that I may rule my household wisely and
well.”
Then came the vows of love and fidelity; each repeated the words with
hands clasped.
“Before Mitzor the Mighty, the Great White Glory, I promise to let
naught come between my chosen spouse and me. I promise to love him (her)
and honour him (her), share his (her) troubles, and smooth away his
(her) griefs. Lastly, I ask Mitzor, the Tower of Strength, to crown us
both with the glory of our union.”
Then, kneeling, the High Priest blessed them.
“May Mitzor, the Great White Glory, bless you both, and keep you both in
the paths of righteousness. May he make thee, Oh Ak-Alan, a tender
husband; and thee, Chlorie, a loving wife. Thy vows are made—kneel and
pray while the sacrificial fires are lighted, and the dust of thy
offering is thrown to the winds.”
Hand in hand the newly married pair knelt. Into a tiny tabernacle the
offering of fruits was placed—the doors closed upon it. A second passed,
and by the aid of etheric heat there was nothing left but a little
powdery dust.
Slowly the priests and the acolytes walked down the aisle, the bridal
pair following. With prayers and exhortations the dust was scattered,
and wafted out of sight by the breeze. The ceremony was over—a hymn of
joy was sung, and Alan and Chlorie were led to their bhor that was
waiting.
They drove together in the open bhor, and Chlorie could not speak—her
heart was too full of emotion. The excitement, the cheering, the crowds
tired her—and yet there was still the reception to get through.
Not a word had she spoken to her newly made husband, but as they
alighted he whispered—“You don’t regret, my darling?”
She gave him a quick, shy glance, but it satisfied him. They had to wait
for the congratulations of the intimate friends and guests, but at last
Mavis whispered, “Come, dear, it is time for you to change into your
other frock.” Quietly the bride left the reception and changed into her
other gown. Tenderly she bade her father good-bye.
“Good-bye, my little one,” he murmured, “Mitzor take care of you. In
forty Kymos I shall come for you. Be happy in your new life.”
“Good-bye, my father.”
“Good-bye.”
“You will find everything in readiness at the House of Roses,” said
Waz-Y-Kjesta.
There were renewed cheers, the band played—and the comfortable equipage
drove off, bearing the happiest couple in all Keemar.
“My darling,” murmured Alan, when they were at last outside the town,
and running swiftly through quiet country roads. “Are you sure you won’t
regret this day?”
“Never, my Alan,” she replied, her eyes smiling as she nestled close to
her husband—“but Alan, I think I am a little frightened all the same.”
For answer he crushed her in his arms, and rained passionate kisses on
her unresisting lips—and it sufficed her. She was content.