THE WAKING OF THE SLEEPER
Rei departed, wondering and heavy at heart, and Meriamun the Queen
passed into her bed-chamber, and there she bade the eunuchs suffer none
to enter, made fast the doors, and threw herself down upon the bed,
hiding her face in its woven cushions. Thus she lay for many hours as
one dead—till the darkness of the evening gathered in the chamber. But
though she moved not, yet in her heart there burned a fire, now white
with heat as the breath of her passion fanned it, and now waning black
and dull as the tears fell from her eyes. For now she knew all—that the
long foreboding, sometimes dreaded, sometimes desired, and again, like
a dream, half forgotten, was indeed being fulfilled. She knew of the
devouring love that must eat her life away, knew that even in the grave
she should find no rest. And her foe was no longer a face beheld in a
vision, but a living woman, the fairest and most favoured, Helen of
Troy, Argive Helen, the False Hathor, the torch that fired great
cities, the centre of all desire, whose life was the daily doom of men.
Meriamun was beautiful, but her beauty paled before the face of Helen,
as a fire is slain by the sun. Magic she had also, more than any who
were on the earth; but what would her spells avail against the magic of
those changing eyes? And it was Helen whom the Wanderer came to seek,
for _her_ he had travelled the wide lands and sailed the seas. But when
he told her of one whom he desired, one whom he sought, she had deemed
that she herself was that one, ay, and had told him all.
At that thought she laughed out, in the madness of her anger and her
shame. And he had smiled and spoken of Pharaoh her lord—and the while
he spoke he had thought not on her but of the Golden Helen. Now this at
least she swore, that if he might not be hers, never should he be
Helen’s. She would see him dead ere that hour, ay, and herself, and if
it might be, Helen would she see dead also.
To what counsel should she turn? On the morrow night these two meet; on
the morrow night they would fly together. Then on the morrow must the
Wanderer be slain. How should he be slain and leave no tale of murder?
By poison he might die, and Kurri the Sidonian should be charged to
give the cup. And then she would slay Kurri, saying that he had
poisoned the Wanderer because of his hate and the loss of his goods and
freedom; and yet how could she slay her love? If once she slew him then
she, too, must die and seek her joy in the kingdom that Osiris rules,
and there she might find little gladness.
What, then, should she do? No answer came into her heart. There was one
that must answer in her soul.
Now she rose from the bed and stood for awhile staring into the dark.
Then she groped her way to a place where there was a carven chest of
olive-wood and ivory, and drawing a key from her girdle she opened the
chest. Within were jewels, mirrors, and unguents in jars of
alabaster—ay, and poisons of deadly bane; but she touched none of
these. Thrusting her hand deep into the chest, she drew forth a casket
of dark metal that the people deemed unholy, a casket made of “Typhon’s
Bone,” for so they call grey iron. She pressed a secret spring. It
opened, and feeling within she found a smaller casket. Lifting it to
her lips she whispered over it words of no living speech, and in the
heavy and scented dark a low flame flickered and trembled on her lips,
as she murmured in the tongue of a dead people. Then slowly the lid
opened of itself, like a living mouth that opens, and as it opened, a
gleam of light stole up from the box into the dusk of the chamber.
Now Meriamun looked, and shuddered as she looked. Yet she put her hand
into the box, and muttering “Come forth—come forth, thou Ancient Evil,”
drew somewhat to her and held it out from her on the palm of her hand.
Behold, it glowed in the dusk of the chamber as a live ember glows
among the ashes of the hearth. Red it glowed and green, and white, and
livid blue, and its shape, as it lay upon her hand, was the shape of a
coiling snake, cut, as it were, in opal and in emerald.
For awhile she gazed upon it, shuddering, as one in doubt.
“Minded I am to let thee sleep, thou Horror,” she murmured. “Twice have
I looked on thee, and I would look no more. Nay, I will dare it, thou
gift of the old wisdom, thou frozen fire, thou sleeping Sin, thou
living Death of the ancient city, for thou alone hast wisdom.”
Thereon she unclasped the bosom of her robe and laid the gleaming toy,
that seemed a snake of stone, upon her ivory breast, though she
trembled at its icy touch, for it was more cold than death. With both
her hands she clasped a pillar of the chamber, and so stood, and she
was shaken with throes like the pangs of childbirth. Thus she endured
awhile till that which was a-cold grew warm, watching its brightness
that shone through her silken dress as the flame of a lamp shines
through an alabaster vase. So she stood for an hour, then swiftly put
off all her robes and ornaments of gold, and loosing the dark masses of
her hair let it fall round her like a veil. Now she bent her head down
to her breast, and breathed on that which lay upon her breast, for the
Ancient Evil can live only in the breath of human kind. Thrice she
breathed upon it, thrice she whispered, “_Awake! Awake! Awake!_”
And the first time that she breathed the Thing stirred and sparkled.
The second time that she breathed it undid its shining folds and reared
its head to hers. The third time that she breathed it slid from her
bosom to the floor, then coiled itself about her feet and slowly grew
as grows the magician’s magic tree.
Greater it grew and greater yet, and as it grew it shone like a torch
in a tomb, and wound itself about the body of Meriamun, wrapping her in
its fiery folds till it reached her middle. Then it reared its head on
high, and from its eyes there flowed a light like the light of a flame,
and lo! its face was the face of a fair woman—it was the face of
Meriamun!
Now face looked on face, and eyes glared into eyes. Still as a white
statue of the Gods stood Meriamun the Queen, and all about her form and
in and out of her dark hair twined the flaming snake.
At length the Evil spoke—spoke with a human voice, with the voice of
Meriamun, but in the dead speech of a dead people:
“Tell me my name,” it said.
“_Sin_ is thy name,” answered Meriamun the Queen.
“Tell me whence I come,” it said again.
“From the evil that is in me,” answered Meriamun.
“Tell me whither I go.”
“Where I go there thou goest, for I have warmed thee in my breast and
thou art twined about my heart.”
Then the Snake lifted up its human head and laughed horribly.
“Well art thou instructed,” it said. “So I love thee as thou lovest
me,” and it bent itself and kissed her on the lips. “I am that Ancient
Evil, that Life which endures out of the first death; I am that Death
which abides in the living life. I am that which brought on thee the
woe that is in division from the Heart’s Desire, and the name thereof
is _Hell_. From Life to Life thou hast found me at thy hand, now in
this shape, now in that. I taught thee the magic which thou knowest; I
showed thee how to win the Throne! Now, what wilt thou of me, Meriamun,
my Mother, my Sister, and my Child? From Life to Life I have been with
thee: ever thou mightest have put me from thee, ever thou fliest to the
wisdom which I have, and ever from thee I draw my strength, for though
without me thou mightest live, without thee I must die. Say now, what
is it?—tell me, and I will name my price. No more will I ask than must
be, for—ah!—I am glad to wake and live again; glad to grip thy soul
within these shining folds, to be fair with thy beauty!—to be foul with
thy sin!”
“Lay thy lips against my ear and thine ear against my lips,” said
Meriamun the Queen, “and I will say what it is that I will of thee,
thou Ancient Evil.”
So the human-headed Evil laid its ear against the lips of Meriamun, and
Meriamun laid her lips against its ear, and they whispered each to
each. There in the darkness they whispered, while the witch-light
glittered down the grey snake’s shining folds, beamed in its eyes, and
shone through the Queen’s dark hair and on her snowy breast.
At length the tale was told, and the Snake lifted its woman’s head high
in the air and again it laughed.
“He seeks the Good,” it said, “and he shall find the Ill! He looks for
Light, and in Darkness shall he wander! To Love he turns, in Lust he
shall be lost! He would win the Golden Helen, whom he has sought
through many a way, whom he has followed o’er many a sea, but first
shall he find thee, Meriamun, and through thee Death! For he shall
swear by the Snake who should have sworn by the Star. Far hath he
wandered—further shall he wander yet, for thy sin shall be his sin!
Darkness shall wear the face of Light—Evil shall shine like Good. I
will give him to thee, Meriamun, but, hearken to my price. No more must
I be laid cold in the gloom while thou walkest in the sunshine—nay, I
must be twined about thy body. Fear not, fear not, I shall seem but a
jewel in the eyes of men, a girdle fashioned cunningly for the body of
a queen. But with thee henceforth I must ever go—and when thou diest,
with thee must I die, and with thee pass where thou dost pass—with thee
to sleep, with thee to awake again—and so, on and on, till in the end I
win or thou winnest, or she wins who is our foe!”
“I give thee thy price,” said Meriamun the Queen.
“So once before thou didst give it,” answered the Evil; “ay, far, far
away, beneath a golden sky and in another clime. Happy wast thou then
with him thou dost desire, but I twined myself about thy heart and of
twain came three and all the sorrow that has been. So woman thou hast
worked, so woman it is ordained. For thou art she in whom all woes are
gathered, in whom all love is fulfilled. And I have dragged thy glory
down, woman, and I have loosed thee from thy gentleness, and set it
free upon the earth, and Beauty is she named. By beauty doth _she_ work
who is the Golden Helen, and for her beauty’s sake, that all men strive
to win, are wars and woes, are hopes and prayers, and longings without
end. But by Evil dost _thou_ work who art divorced from Innocence, and
evil shalt thou ever bring on him whom thou desireth. A riddle! A
riddle! Read it who may—read it if thou canst, thou who art named
Meriamun the Queen, but who art less than Queen and more. Who art thou?
Who is she they named the Helen? Who is that Wanderer who seeks her
from afar, and who, who am _I_? A riddle! a riddle! that thou mayst not
read. Yet is the answer written on earth and sky and sea, and in the
hearts of men.
“Now hearken! To-morrow night thou shalt take me and twine me about thy
body, doing as I bid thee, and behold! for a while thy shape shall wear
the shape of the Golden Helen, and thy face shall be as her face, and
thine eyes as her eyes, and thy voice as her voice. Then I leave the
rest to thee, for as Helen’s self thou shalt beguile the Wanderer, and
once, if once only, be a wife to him whom thou desireth. Naught can I
tell thee of the future, I who am but a counsellor, but hereafter it
may be that woes will come, woes and wars and death. But what matter
these when thou hast had thy desire, when he hath sinned, and hath
sworn by the Snake who should have sworn by the Star, and when he is
bound to thee by ties that may not be loosed? Choose, Meriamun, choose!
Put my counsel from thee and to-morrow this man thou lovest shall be
lost to thee, lost in the arms of Helen; and alone for many years shalt
thou bear the burden of thy lonely love. Take it, and he shall at least
be thine, let come what may come. Think on it and choose!”
Thus spake the Ancient Evil, tempting her who was named Meriamun, while
she hearkened to the tempting.
“I have chosen,” she said; “I will wear the shape of Helen, and be a
wife to him I love, and then let ruin fall. Sleep, thou Ancient Evil.
Sleep, for no more may I endure thy face of fear that is my face, nor
the light of those flaming eyes that are my eyes made mad.”
Again the Thing reared its human head and laughed out in triumph. Then
slowly it unloosed its gleaming coils: slowly it slid to the earth and
shrank and withered like a flaming scroll, till at length it seemed
once more but a shining jewel of opal and of amethyst.
The Wanderer, when he left the inner secret shrine, saw no more the
guardian of the gates, nor heard the clash of the swords unseen, for
the Gods had given the beauty of Helen to Odysseus of Ithaca, as it was
foretold.
Without the curtains the priests of the temple were gathered
wondering—little could they understand how it came to pass that the
hero who was called Eperitus had vanished through the curtains and had
not been smitten down by the unseen swords. And when they saw him come
forth glorious and unharmed they cried aloud with fear.
But he laughed and said, “Fear not. Victory is to him whom the Gods
appoint. I have done battle with the wardens of the shrine, and passed
them, and methinks that they are gone. I have looked upon the Hathor
also, and more than that seek ye not to know. Now give me food, for I
am weary.”
So they bowed before him, and leading him thence to their chamber of
banquets gave him of their best, and watched him while he ate and drank
and put from him the desire of food.
Then he rose and went from the temple, and again the priests bowed
before him. Moreover, they gave him freedom of the temple, and keys
whereby all the doors might be opened, though little, as they thought,
had he any need of keys.
Now the Wanderer, walking gladly and light of heart, came to his own
lodging in the courts of the Palace. At the door of the lodging stood
Rei the Priest, who, when he saw him, ran to him and embraced him, so
glad was he that the Wanderer had escaped alive.
“Little did I think to look upon thee again, Eperitus,” he said. “Had
it not been for that which the Queen——” and he bethought himself and
stayed his speech.
“Nevertheless, here I am unhurt, of ghost or men,” the Wanderer
answered, laughing, as he passed into the lodging. “But what of the
Queen?”
“Naught, Eperitus, naught, save that she was grieved when she learned
that thou hadst gone up to the Temple of the Hathor, there, as she
thought, to perish. Hearken, thou Eperitus, I know not if thou art God
or man, but oaths are binding both on men and Gods, and thou didst
swear an oath to Pharaoh—is it not so?”
“Ay, Rei. I swore an oath that I would guard the Queen well till
Pharaoh came again.”
“Art thou minded to keep that oath, Eperitus?” asked Rei, looking on
him strangely. “Art thou minded to guard the fair fame of Pharaoh’s
Queen, that is more precious than her life? Methinks thou dost
understand my meaning, Eperitus?”
“Perchance I understand,” answered the Wanderer. “Know, Rei, that I am
so minded.”
Then Rei spake again, darkly. “Methinks some sickness hath smitten
Meriamun the Queen, and she craves thee for her physician. Now things
come about as they were foreshown in the portent of that vision whereof
I spoke to thee. But if thou dost break thy oath to him whose salt thou
eatest, then, Eperitus, God or man, thou art a dastard.”
“Have I not said that I have no mind so to break mine oath?” he
answered, then sank his head upon his breast and communed with his
crafty heart while Rei watched him. Presently he lifted up his head and
spoke:
“Rei,” he said, “I am minded to tell thee a strange story and a true,
for this I see, that our will runs one way, and thou canst help me,
and, in helping me, thyself and Pharaoh to whom I swore an oath, and
her whose honour thou holdest dear. But this I warn thee, Rei, that if
thou dost betray me, not thine age, not thy office, nor the friendship
thou hast shown me, shall save thee.”
“Speak on, Odysseus, Laertes’ son, Odysseus of Ithaca,” said Rei; “may
my life be forfeit if I betray thy counsel, if it harm not those I
serve.”
Now the Wanderer started to his feet, crying:
“How knowest thou that name?”
“I know it,” said Rei, “and I tell thee that I know it, thou most
crafty of men, to show this, that with me thy guile will not avail
thee.” For he would not tell him that he had it from the lips of the
Queen.
“Thou hast heard a name that has been in the mouths of many,” said the
Wanderer; “perchance it is mine, perchance it is the name of another.
It matters not. Now know this: I fear this Queen of thine. Hither I
came to seek a woman, but the Queen I came not to seek. Yet I have not
come in vain, for yonder, Rei, yonder, in the Temple of the Hathor, I
found her on whose quest I came, and who awaited me there well guarded
till I should come to take her. On the morrow night I go forth to the
temple, and there, by the gates of the temple, I shall find her whom
all men desire, but who loves me alone among men, for so it has been
fated of the Gods. Thence I bring her hither that here we may be wed.
Now this is my mind: if thou wilt aid me with a ship and men, that at
the first light of dawn we should flee this land of thine, and that
thou shouldest keep my going secret for awhile till I have gained the
sea. True it is that I swore to guard the Queen till Pharaoh come
again; but as thou knowest, things are so that I can best guard her by
my flight, and if Pharaoh thinks ill of me—so it must be. Moreover I
ask thee to meet me by the pylon of the Temple of Hathor to-morrow at
one hour before midnight. There will we talk with her who is called the
Hathor, and prepare our flight, and thence thou shalt go to that ship
which thou hast made ready.”
Now Rei thought for awhile and answered:
“Somewhat I fear to look upon this Goddess, yet I will dare it. Tell
me, then, how shall I know her at the temple’s gate?”
“Thou shalt know her, Rei, by the red star which burns upon her breast.
But fear not, for I will be there. Say, wilt thou make the ship ready?”
“The ship shall be ready, Eperitus, and though I love thee well, I say
this, that I would it rode the waves which roll around the shores of
Khem and thou wert with it, and with thee she who is called the Hathor,
that Goddess whom thou desirest.”