THE PERFECT WORLD
Many hundred times the Kymo rose and set, and Ak-Alan and his wife,
beloved of all Keemarnians, lived in peace and happiness. A son and
daughter had been born to them, and now the time had come when the Rorka
had received his call, and through the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata would
make his exit from the world, and enter into glory.
“My son,” said he, “the voice came in my sleep last night. My room was
bathed in a wonderful whiteness when the messenger from Mitzor called
me. ‘When the Kymo reaches the full for thirteen days make ready—for on
the fourteenth thou shalt meet the Great White Glory.’ I must now set my
house in order. You will reign jointly with Chlorie. I can safely leave
my country in your hands.”
“Father,” said Alan, “must you really leave us?” He was troubled. “Oh
it’s terrible.”
“But why?” said Chlorie. “I shall miss my father it is true—for I love
him dearly. But how can I wish him here, when his happiness lies
yonder?”
“I don’t understand,” said Alan miserably. “Death is so sad.”
“But it is not—death—” said the Rorka. “I am simply—‘going away’.”
“That’s just it. You are going away, and you are never coming back.”
“That is true, my son. _I_ am never coming back—but you will eventually
come to me. Why mourn? To mourn is selfish.”
“It’s no good,” said Alan. “I suppose I am of coarser clay. I can’t
believe that I could ever ‘pass yonder’ through the Sacrament of
Schlerik-itata. I come from another world. Suppose I die—oh you don’t
know death as I do—but suppose it comes to Keemar through me, and
afterwards through my children.”
“Have no fear,” said the Rorka, “that day will never come.” And so the
last few days had passed, and Alan saw him enveloped in the incense, and
vanish from sight.
Alan marvelled at his wife’s fortitude. He had felt the knife of death
on Terra; this glorious parting was so different. He longed to believe
that he, too, one day, would vanish thus, material and earthy though he
was. And so Alan the Rorka, and Chlorie his wife were crowned, and
occupied joint thrones in the land of Keemar.
Their joy in their unity, in the completeness of their life, was a
constant wonder to them. They renewed their joys in their children—their
life was almost perfect. Sir John was growing feeble. Part of the time
he spent with Mavis and Desmond, and part with Alan. But wherever he
went, Masters and Zyllia always accompanied him.
Mavis’ three children and Alan’s two, grew up like brothers and sisters;
indeed, their parents were all like one big family. Alan had not long
been on the throne of Keemar, when an urgent message was brought him,
that Waz-Mula, humbly begged an audience.
“Who is he?” asked Alan.
“He is holder of the key to the Hall of Sorrows,” answered Y-Kjesta,
“and sails the air bird, that plys to and fro from Fyjipo.”
“I remember him well. Bring him in.”
“O noble Rorka, I beg a favour of you,” said Mula.
“What is it that troubles you?”
“You remember Arrack the Miserable?”
“Well?”
“He has done a most noble thing, O Rorka. A most terrible scourge has
come upon the Hall of Sorrows. A fire broke out. How or where it started
no one can tell, but when I reached the place, it was a raging furnace,
and the poor captives were beating against the gates in their frenzy to
get out. The heat was intense—their skins were blistering. I landed
safely, and rushed to undo the gates. But even as I did so, great
tongues of fire curled out and licked round me. See, O Rorka, my hands
are burnt—my hair is scorched. Three times I essayed to unlock the
padlock, but the flames drove me back. Suddenly I heard a cry, and
Arrack burst through the flames. ‘Throw me the keys,’ he cried, and his
tone commanded and I obeyed. I watched him as he touched the red hot
metal—the flames were fiercer than before. He never trembled or grew
hasty. Although his clothes were in flames, and the flesh burnt from his
fingers, yet still he strove to open the prison door. At length he
succeeded. Five figures fell out on to the ground, burnt and still. I
called to Arrack to save himself, but his only answer was to beat his
way through the avenue of fire. Minutes passed and he did not return. We
looked at the poor burnt things at our feet—their souls had departed,
but as we looked their mutilated bodies disappeared. Then through the
smoke and grime Arrack appeared bearing in his arms a burden which he
laid at my feet. He returned again and again, and yet again. Five
women’s lives he saved, and he returned again to save the life of a pet
animal. Then, O Rorka, he fell at my feet. His face was burnt beyond
recognition; his poor hands useless; his body one mass of blisters. He,
and those he saved we brought to Hoormoori. The women are now in safety,
but Arrack says his call has come. Oh, my Rorka, this then is my prayer.
His one wish now, is to enter into glory through the Sacrament of
Schlerik-itata. Will you grant him pardon, and answer his prayer?”
Alan was much moved. “Go, return to Arrack. Tell him Misrath shall come
and administer the Sacrament himself.”
“May I say that?”
“Yes. Where is he now?”
“On board the air bird. He is in great pain, but I think I could get him
taken to the Temple in safety.”
“See to it at once, my Waz.”
Hurriedly Alan sent for Misrath, and told him the news.
“He has purged his sins indeed,” said he.
So, with the rites of Schlerik-itata, Arrack left Keemar. He bent and
kissed the hem of Alan’s garment, and sank back exhausted in his chair.
And as the incense covered him, his voice could be heard
murmuring—“Great White Glory, I come—I come.”
“And so there is to be no more Hall of Sorrows,” said Chlorie softly.
“No, my darling.”
“It’s gone for ever?”
“Yes. It has served its purpose, but I don’t think its omission will
bring more sin into Keemar.”
“I believe you are right, Alan. It was a terrible place, and sometimes I
think the punishment was too great for the sin.”
A blue-eyed curly-haired girl ran into the room. Breathless and flushed,
she clasped a doll in her arms, and hugged a pink-cheeked apple. She was
followed by a bright, eager-faced boy of twelve or thereabouts.
“No, John Alan, I won’t marry you,” said she. “I am Acuci, and
Ipso-Rorka, and you are only Ak.”
The children did not see the grown ups who were hidden by a curtain, and
their childish chatter went on unheeded.
“You must marry me, Acuci—I love you, and papa says that love is
everything.”
The little maid pouted. “I love you, John Alan, and I think I’ll marry
you after all.”
The two children embraced fondly, and ran out of the room hand in hand.
“My wife,” said Alan. “Don’t ever leave me. Teach me to know the real
meaning of Schlerik-itata—teach me to believe.”
Chlorie offered her beautiful lips to her husband. “Love teaches
everything, my husband. Love is powerful—love is mighty. Love will teach
you even that.”
He strained her to his breast. “My wife—my wife—I love you so. The
terror of parting is always with me. Teach me to believe—you see, dear,
even in this Perfect World, there is a grain of sadness—of earthly
discontent.”
“My husband—I have no fear—listen—.” And from outside came the merry
laughing voices of their children at play. “In your children you will
learn belief.”
_Envoi_
The time came when Sir John himself heard the Call. Half believing, half
fearing, he bade farewell. The prayers were said, the incense rose about
him, and he, like the Jovians themselves, was taken to the Great White
Glory and was seen no more. And in that moment, Alan believed and was
content.
“My wife,” he cried, “no longer is there any sadness in my life. I
believe. Jovians we have become in body and in soul, I no longer
fear—death.”
And hand in hand they sat, married lovers ever, and watched their
children at play.
THE END
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as
printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.