THE CITY OF THE DEAD
Nya led the way down the cave, followed by Rachel and Noie. Squatted in
its entrance, so as to be out of reach of the rays of the sun, sat
Eddo, looking like a malevolent toad, and with him were Hana and some
other priests. As Rachel approached they all rose and saluted, but to
Nya and Noie they gave no salute. Only to Nya Eddo said:
“Why art thou not within the Fence, old woman?” and he pointed with his
chin towards the place of death above. “Thy tree is down, and all last
night we were hacking off its branches that it may dry up the sooner.
It is time for thee to die.”
“I die when my tree dies, not before, Priest,” answered Nya. “I have
still some work to do before I die, also I have planted my tree again
in good soil, and it may grow.”
“I saw,” said Eddo; “it is without the wall there, but many a
generation must go by before a new Mother sits beneath its shade. Well,
die when it pleases you, it does not matter when, since thou art no
more our Mother. Moreover, learn that all have deserted thee, save a
very few, most of whom have just now passed within the Fence above that
they may attend thee amongst the ghosts.”
“I thank them,” said Nya simply, “and in that world we will rule
together.”
“The rest,” went on Eddo, “have turned against thee, having heard how
thou didst bring one of us to the Red Death yesterday by thy evil
magic, him upon whom the bough fell.”
“Who was it that strove to bring me to the Red Death before I reached
the sanctuary? Who shot the poisoned arrow, Priest?”
“I do not know,” answered Eddo, “but it seems that he shot badly for
thou art still here. Now enough of thee, old woman. For many years we
bore thy rule, which was always foolish, and sometimes bad, because we
could not help it, for the tree of her who went before thee fell at thy
feet, as thy tree has fallen at the feet of the White Virgin there. For
long thou and I have struggled for the mastery, and now thou art dead
and I have won, so be silent, old woman, and since that arrow missed
thee, go hence in peace, for none need thee any more, who hast neither
youth, nor comeliness, nor power.”
“Aye,” answered Nya, stung to fury by these insults, “I shall go hence
in peace, but thou shalt not abide in peace, thou traitor, nor those
who follow thee. When youth and comeliness fade then wisdom grows, and
wisdom is power, Eddo, true power. I tell thee that last night I looked
in my bowl and saw things concerning thee—aye, and all of our people,
that are hid from thy eyes, terrible things, things that have not
befallen since the Tree of the Tribe was a seed, and the Spirit of the
Tribe came to dwell within it.”
“Speak them, then,” said Eddo, striving to hide the fear which showed
through his round eyes.
“Nay, Priest, I speak them not. Live on and thou shalt discover them,
thou and thy traitors. Well have I served you all for many years, mercy
have I given to all, white magic have I practised and not black, none
have died that I could save, none have suffered whom I could protect,
no, not even the slave-peoples beneath our rule. All this have I done,
knowing that ye plotted against me, knowing that ye strove to kill my
tree by spells, knowing what the end must be. It has come at last, as
come it must, and I do not grieve. Fool, I knew that it would come, and
I knew the manner of its coming. It was I who sent for this virgin
queen whom ye would set up to rule over you, foreseeing that at her
feet my tree would fall. The ghost of Seyapi, who is of my blood,
Seyapi whom years ago ye drove away for no offence, to dwell in a
strange land, told me of her and of this Noie, his daughter, and of the
end of it all. So she came; thou didst not bring her as thou
thoughtest, _I_ brought her, and my tree fell at her feet as it was
doomed to fall, and she saved me from the Red Death as she was doomed
to do, giving me love, not hate, as I gave her love not hate. For the
rest ye shall see—all of you. I am finished—I am dead—but I live on
elsewhere, and ye shall see.”
Now Eddo would have answered, but the priest Hana, who appeared to be
much frightened by Nya’s words, plucked at his sleeve, whispering in
his ear, and he was silent. Presently he spoke again, but to Rachel,
bidding Noie translate:
“Thou White Maid,” he said, “who wast called Princess of the Zulus, pay
no heed to this old dotard, but listen to me. When thy Spirit wandered
yonder, even then I saw the seeds of greatness in thee, and begged thee
from the savage Dingaan. Also I and Pani, who is dead, and Hana, who
lives, read by our magic that at thy feet the tree of Nya would fall,
and that after her thou wast appointed to rule over us. All the
Ghost-people read it also, and now they have named thee their Mother,
and chosen thee a tree, a great tree, but young and strong, that shall
stand for ages. Come forth, then, and take thy seat beneath that tree,
and be our queen.”
“Why should I come?” asked Rachel. “It seems that you dwarfs bring your
queens to ill ends. Choose you another Mother.”
“Inkosazana, we cannot if we would,” answered Eddo, “for these matters
are not in our hands, but in those of our Spirit. Hearken, we will deal
well with thee; we will make thee great, and grow in thy greatness, for
thou shall give us of thy wisdom, that although thou knowest it not,
thou hast above all other women. We weary of little things, we would
rule the world. All the nations from sea to sea shall bow down before
thee, and seek thine oracle. Thou shall take their wealth, thou shalt
drive them hither and thither as the wind drives clouds. Thou shalt
make war, thou shalt ordain peace. At thy pleasure they shall rise up
in life and lie down in death. Their kings shall cower before thee,
their princes shall bring thee tribute, thou shalt reign a god.”
“Until it shall please Eddo to bring thee to thine end, Lady, as it
pleases him to bring me to mine,” muttered Nya behind her. “Be not
beguiled, Maiden; remain a woman and uncrowned, for so thou shalt find
most joy.”
“Thou meanest, Eddo,” said Rachel, “that thou wilt rule and I do thy
bidding. Noie, tell him that I will have none of it. When I came here a
great sorrow had made me mad, and I knew nothing. Now I have found my
Spirit again, and presently I go hence.”
At this answer Eddo grew very angry.
“One thing I promise thee, Zoola,” he said; “in the name of all the
Ghost-people I promise it, that thou shalt not go hence alive. In this
sanctuary thou art safe indeed, seated in the shadow of the Death-tree
that is the Tree of Life, but soon or late a way will be found to draw
thee hence, and then thou shalt learn who is the stronger—thou or
Eddo—as the old woman behind thee has learned. Fare thee well for a
while. I will tell the people that thou art weary and restest, and
meanwhile I rule in thy name. Fare thee well, Inkosazana, till we meet
without the wall,” and he rose and went, accompanied by Hana and the
other priests.
When he had gone a little way he turned, and pointing up the hill,
screamed back to Nya:
“Go and look within the Fence, old hag. There thou wilt see the best of
those that clung to thee, seeking for peace. Art thou a coward that
thou lingerest behind them?”
“Nay, Eddo,” she answered, “thou art the coward that hast driven them
to death, because they are good and thou art evil. When my hour is ripe
I join them, not before. Nor shalt thou abide here long behind me. One
short day of triumph for thee, Eddo, and then night, black night for
ever.”
Eddo heard, and his yellow face grew white with rage, or fear. He
stamped upon the ground, he shook his small fat fists, and spat out
curses as a toad spits venom. Nya did not stay to listen to them, but
walked up the cave and sat herself down upon her mat.
“Why does he hate thee so, Mother?” asked Rachel.
“Because those that are bad hate those that are good, Maiden. For many
a year Eddo has sought to rule through me, and to work evil in the
world, but I have not suffered it. He would abandon our secret, ancient
faith, and reign a king, as Dingaan the Zulu reigns. He would send the
slave-tribes out to war and conquer the nations, and build him a great
house, and have many wives. But I held him fast, so that he could do
few of these things. Therefore he plotted against me, but my magic was
greater than his, and while my tree stood he could not prevail. At
length it fell at thy feet, as he knew that it was doomed to fall, for
all these things are fore-ordained, and at once he would have slain me
by the Red Death, but thou didst protect me, and for that blessed be
thou for ever.”
“And why does he wish to make me Mother in thy place, Nya?”
“Because my tree fell at thy feet, and all the people demand it.
Because he thinks that once the bond of the priesthood is tied between
you, and his blood runs in thee, thy pure spirit will protect his
spirit from its sins, and that thy wisdom, which he sees in thee, will
make him greater than any of the Ghost-people that ever lived. Yet
consent not, for afterwards if thou dost thwart him, he will find a way
to bring down thy tree, and with it thy life, and set another to rule
in thy place. Consent not, for know that here thou art safe from him.”
“It may be so, Mother, but how can I dwell on in this dismal place?
Already my heart is broken with its sorrows, and soon, like those poor
folk, I should seek peace within the Fence.”
“Tell me of those sorrows,” said Nya gently. “Perhaps I do not know
them all, and perhaps I could help thee.”
So Rachel sat herself down also, and Noie, interpreting for her, told
all her tale up to that point when she saw the body of Richard borne
away, for after this she remembered nothing until she found herself
standing upon the fallen tree in the land of the Ghost Kings. It was a
long tale, and before ever she finished it night fell, but throughout
its telling the old dwarf-woman said never a word, only watched
Rachel’s face with her kind, soft eyes. At last it was done, and she
said:
“A sad story. Truly there is much evil in the world beyond the country
of the Trees, for here at least we shed little blood. Now, Maiden, what
is thy desire?”
“This is my desire,” said Rachel, “to be joined again to him I love,
whom Ishmael slew; yes, and to my father and mother also, whom the
Zulus slew at the command of Ishmael.”
“If they are all dead, how can that be, Maiden, unless thou seekest
them in death? Pass within the Fence yonder, and let the poison of the
Tree of the Tribe fall upon thee, and soon thou wilt find them.”
“Nay, Mother, I may not, for it would be self-murder, and my faith
knows few greater crimes.”
“Then thou must wait till death finds thee, and that road may be very
long.”
“Already it is long, Mother, so long that I know not how to travel it,
who am alone in the world without a friend save Noie here,” and she
began to weep.
“Not so. Thou hast another friend,” and she laid her hand upon Rachel’s
heart, “though it is true that I may bide with thee but a little
while.”
After this they were all silent for a space, until Nya looked up at
Rachel and asked suddenly:
“Art thou brave?”
“The Zulus and others thought so, Mother; but what can courage avail me
now?”
“Courage of the body, nothing, Maiden; courage of the spirit much,
perhaps. If thou sawest this lover of thine, and knew for certain that
he lives on beneath the world awaiting thee, would it bring thee
comfort?”
Rachel’s breast heaved and her eyes sparkled with joy, as she answered:
“Comfort! What is there that could bring so much? But how can it be,
Mother, seeing that the last gulf divides us, a gulf which mortals may
not pass and live?”
“Thou sayest it; still I have great power, and thy spirit is white and
clean. Perhaps I could despatch it across that gulf and call it back to
earth again. Yet there are dangers, dangers to me of which I reck
little, and dangers to thee. Whither I sent thee, there thou mightest
bide.”
“I care not if I bide there, Mother, if only it be with him! Oh! send
me on this journey to his side, and living or dead I will bless thee.”
Now Nya thought a while and answered:
“For thy sake I will try what I would try for none other who has
breathed, or breathes, for thou didst save me from the Red Death at the
hands of Eddo. Yes, I will try, but not yet—first thou must eat and
rest. Obey, or I do nothing.”
So Rachel ate, and afterwards, feeling drowsy, even slept a while,
perhaps because she was still weary with her journeying and her
new-found mind needed repose, or perhaps because some drug had been
mingled with her drink. When she awoke Nya led her to the mouth of the
cave. There they stood awhile studying the stars. No breath of air
stirred, and the silence was intense, only from time to time the sound
of trees falling in the forest reached their ears. Sometimes it was
quite soft, as though a fleece of wool had been dropped to the earth,
that was when the tree that died had grown miles and miles away from
them; and sometimes the crash was as that of sudden thunder, that was
when the tree which died had grown near to them.
A sense of the mystery and wonder of the place and hour sank into
Rachel’s heart. The stars above, the mighty entombing forest, in which
the trees fell unceasingly after their long centuries of life, the
encircling wall, built perhaps by hands that had ceased from their
labours hundreds of thousands of years before those trees began to
grow; the huge moss-clad cedar upon the mound beneath the shadow of
whose branches day by day its worshippers gave up their breath, that
immemorial cedar whereof, as they believed, the life was the life of
the nation; the wizened little witch-woman at her side with the seal of
doom already set upon her brow and the stare of farewell in her eyes;
the sad, spiritual face of Noie, who held her hand, the loving,
faithful Noie, who in that light seemed half a thing of air; the grey
little dwarf-mutes who squatted on their mats staring at the ground, or
now and again passed down the hill from the Fence of Death above,
bearing between them a body to its burial; all were mysterious, all
were wonderful.
As she looked and listened, a new strength stirred in Rachel’s heart.
At first she had felt afraid, but now courage flowed into her, and it
seemed to come from the old, old woman at her side, the mistress of
mysteries, the mother of magic, in whom was gathered the wisdom of a
hundred generations of this half human race.
“Look at the stars, and the night,” she was saying in her soft voice,
“for soon thou shalt be beyond them all, and perchance thou shall never
see them more. Art thou fearful? If so, speak, and we will not try this
journey in search of one whom we may not find.”
“No,” answered Rachel; “but, Mother, whither go we?”
“We go to the Land of Death. Come, then, the moment is at hand. It is
hard on midnight. See, yonder star stands above the holy Tree,” and she
pointed to a bright orb that hung almost over the topmost bough of the
cedar, “it marks thy road, and if thou wouldst pass it, now is the
hour.”
“Mother,” asked Noie, “may I come with her? I also have my dead, and
where my Sister goes I follow.”
“Aye, if thou wilt, daughter of Seyapi, the path is wide enough for
three, and if I stay on high, perchance thou that art of my blood
mayest find strength to guide her earthwards through the wandering
worlds.”
Then Nya walked up the cave and sat herself down within the circle of
the lamps with her back to the stalactite that was shaped like a tree,
bidding Rachel and Noie be seated in front of her. Two of the
dwarf-mutes appeared, women both of them, and squatted to right and
left, each gazing into a bowl of limpid dew. Nya made a sign, and still
gazing into their bowls, these dwarfs began to beat upon little drums
that gave out a curious, rolling noise, while Nya sang to the sound of
the drums a wild, low song. With her thin little hands she grasped the
right hand of Rachel and of Noie and gazed into their eyes.
Things changed to Rachel. The dwarfs to right and left vanished away,
but the low murmuring of their drums grew to a mighty music, and the
stars danced to it. The song of Nya swelled and swelled till it filled
all the space between earth and heaven; it was the rush of the gale
among the forests, it was the beating of the sea upon an illimitable
coast, it was the shout of all the armies of the world, it was the
weeping of all the women of the world. It lessened again, she seemed to
be passing away from it, she heard it far beneath her, it grew tiny in
its volume—tiny as if it were an infinite speck or point of sound which
she could still discern for millions and millions of miles, till at
length distance and vastness overcame it, and it ceased. It ceased,
this song of the earth, but a new song began, the song of the rushing
worlds. Far away she could hear it, that ineffable music, far in the
utter depths of space. Nearer it would come and nearer, a ringing,
glorious sound, a sound and yet a voice, one mighty voice that sang and
was answered by other voices as sun crossed the path of sun, and caught
up and re-echoed by the innumerable choir of the constellations.
They were falling past her, those vast, glowing suns, those rounded
planets that were now vivid with light, and now steeped in gloom, those
infinite showers of distant stars. They were gone, they and their music
together; she was far beyond them in a region where all life was
forgotten, beyond the rush of the uttermost comet, beyond the last
glimmer of the spies and outposts of the universe. One shape of light
she sped into the black bosom of fathomless space, and its solitude
shrivelled up her soul. She could not endure, she longed for some shore
on which to set her mortal feet.
Behold! far away a shore appeared, a towering, cliff-bound shore, upon
whose iron coasts all the black waves of space beat vainly and were
eternally rolled back. Here there was light, but no such light as she
had ever known; it did not fall from sun or star, but, changeful and
radiant, welled upward from that land in a thousand hues, as light
might well from a world of opal. In its dazzling, beautiful rays she
saw fantastic palaces and pyramids, she saw seas and pure white
mountains, she saw plains and new-hued flowers, she saw gulfs and
precipices, and pale lakes pregnant with wavering flame. All that she
had ever conceived of as lovely or as fearful, she beheld, far lovelier
or a thousandfold more fearful.
Like a great rose of glory that world bloomed and changed beneath her.
Petal by petal its splendours fell away and were swallowed in the sea
of space, whilst from the deep heart of the immortal rose new
splendours took their birth, and fresh-fashioned, mysterious,
wonderful, reappeared the measureless city with its columns, its
towers, and its glittering gates. It endured a moment, or a million
years, she knew not which, and lo! where it had been, stood another
city, different, utterly different, only a hundred times more glorious.
Out of the prodigal heart of the world-rose were they created, into the
black bosom of nothingness were they gathered; whilst others, ever more
perfect, pressed into their place. So, too, changed the mountains, and
so the trees, while the gulfs became a garden and the fiery lakes a
pleasant stream, and from the seed of the strange flowers grew
immemorial forests wreathed about with rosy mists and bedecked in
glimmering dew. With music they were born, on the wings of music they
fled away, and after them that sweet music wailed like memories.
A hand took hers and drew her downwards, and up to meet her leapt
myriads of points of light, in every point a tiny face. They gazed at
her with their golden eyes; they whispered together concerning her, and
the sound of their whispering was the sound of a sea at peace. They
accompanied her to the very heart of the opal rose of life whence all
these wonders welled, they set her in a great grey hall roofed in with
leaning cliffs, and there they left her desolate.
Fear came upon her, the loneliness choked her, it held her by the
throat like a thing alive. She seemed about to die of it, when she
became aware that once more she was companioned. Shapes stood about
her. She could not see the shapes, save dimly now and again as they
moved, but their eyes she could see, their great calm, pitiful eyes,
which looked down on her, as the eye of a giant might look down upon a
babe. They were terrible, but she did not fear them so much as the
loneliness, for at least they lived.
One of the shapes bent over her, for its holy eyes drew near to her,
and she heard a voice in her heart asking her for what great cause she
had dared to journey hither before the time. She answered, in her
heart, not with her lips, that she was bereaved of all she loved and
came to seek them. Then, still in her heart, she heard that voice
command:
“Let all this Rachel’s dead be brought before her.”
Instantly doors swung open at the end of that grey hall, and through
them with noiseless steps, with shadowy wings, floated a being that
bore in its arms a child. Before her it stayed, and the light of its
starry head illumined the face of the child. She knew it at once—it was
that baby brother whose bones lay by the shore of the African sea. It
awoke from its sleep, it opened its eyes, it stretched out its arms and
smiled at her. Then it was gone.
Other Shapes appeared, each of them bearing its burden—a companion who
had died at school, friends of her youth and childhood whom she had
thought yet living, a young man who once had wished to marry her and
who was drowned, the soldier whom she had killed to save the life of
Noie. At the sight of him she shrank, for his blood was on her hands,
but he only smiled like the rest, and was borne away, to be followed by
that witch-doctoress whom the Zulus had slain because of her, who
neither smiled nor frowned but passed like one who wonders.
Then another shadow swept down the hall, and in its arms her mother—her
mother with joyful eyes, who held thin hands above her as though in
blessing, and to whom she strove to speak but strove in vain. She was
borne on still blessing her, and where she had been was her father, who
blessed her also, and whose presence seemed to shed peace upon her
soul. He pointed upwards and was gone, gazing at her earnestly, and lo!
a form of darkness cast something at her feet. It was Ishmael who knelt
before her, Ishmael whose tormented face gazed up at her as though
imploring pardon.
A struggle rent her heart. Could she forgive? Oh! could she forgive him
who had slain them all? Now she was aware that the place was filled
with the points of light that were Spirits, and that every one of them
looked at her awaiting the free verdict of her heart. Rank upon rank,
also, the mighty Shapes gathered about her, and in their arms her dead,
and all of them looked and looked, awaiting the free verdict of her
heart. Then it arose within her, drawn how she knew not from every
fibre of her infinite being, it arose within her, that spirit of pity
and of pardon. As the dead had stretched out their arms above her, so
she stretched out her arms over the head of that tortured soul, and for
the first time her lips were given power to speak.
“As I hope for pardon, so I pardon,” she said. “Go in peace!”
Voices and trumpets caught up the words, and through the grey hall they
rang and echoed, proclaimed for ever and as they died away he too was
gone, and with him went the myriad points of flame, in each of which
gleamed a tiny face. She looked about her seeking another Spirit, that
Spirit she had travelled so far and dared so much to find. But there
came only a little dwarf that shambled alone down the great hall. She
knew him at once for Pani, the priest, he who had been crushed in the
tempest, Pani, the brother of Eddo. No Shape bore him, for he who on
earth had been half a ghost, could walk this ghost-world on his mortal
feet, or so her mind conceived. Past her he shuffled shamefaced, and
was gone.
Now the great doors at the end of the hall closed; from far away she
could see them roll together like lightning-severed clouds, and once
more that awful loneliness overcame her. Her knees gave way beneath
her, she sank down upon the floor, one little spot of white in its
expanse, wishing that the roof of rock would fall and hide her. She
covered her face with her golden hair, and wept behind its veil. She
looked up and saw two great eyes gazing at her—no face, only two great,
steady eyes. Then a voice speaking in her heart asked her why she wept,
whose desire had been fulfilled, and she answered that it was because
she could not find him whom she sought, Richard Darrien. Instantly the
tongues and trumpets took up the name.
“Richard Darrien!” they cried, “Richard Darrien!”
But no Shape swept in bearing the spirit of Richard in its arms.
“He is not here,” said the voice in her heart. “Go, seek him in some
other world.”
She grew angry.
“Thou mockest me,” she answered, “He is dead, and this is the home of
the dead; therefore he must be here. Shadow, thou mockest me.”
“I mock not,” came the swift answer. “Mortal, look now and learn.”
Again the doors burst open, and through them poured the infinite rout
of the dead. That hall would not hold them all, therefore it grew and
grew till her sight could scarcely reach from wall to wall. Shapes
headed and marshalled them by races and by generations, perhaps because
thus only could her human heart imagine them, but now none were borne
in their arms. They came in myriads and in millions, in billions and
tens of billions, men and women and children, kings and priests and
beggars, all wearing the garments of their age and country. They came
like an ocean-tide, and their floating hair was the foam on the tide,
and their eyes gleamed like the first shimmer of dawn above the snows.
They came for hours and days and years and centuries, they came
eternally, and as they came every finger of that host, compared to
which all the sands of all the seas were but as a handful, was pointed
at her, and every mouth shaped the words:
“Is it I whom thou seekest?”
Million by million she scanned them all, but the face of Richard
Darrien was not there.
Now the dead Zulus were marching by. Down the stream of Time they
marched in their marshalled regiments. Chaka stood over her—she knew
him by his likeness to Dingaan—and threatened her with a little,
red-handled spear, asking her how she dared to sit upon the throne of
the Spirit of his nation. She began to tell him her story, but as she
spoke the wide receding walls of that grey hall fell apart and
crumbled, and amidst a mighty laughter the great-eyed Shapes rebuilt
them to the fashion of the cave in the mound beneath the tree of the
dwarf-folk. The sound of the trumpets died away, the shrill, sweet
music of the spheres grew far and faint.
Rachel opened her eyes. There in front of her sat Nya, crooning her low
song, and there, on either side crouched the mutes tapping upon their
little drums and gazing into their bowls of water, while against her
leaned Noie, who stirred like one awaking from sleep. Ages and ages ago
when she started on that dread journey, the dwarf to her left was
stretching out her hand to steady the bowl at her feet, and now it had
but just reached the bowl. A great moth had singed its wings in the
lamp, and was fluttering to the ground—it was still in mid-air. Noie
was placing her arm about her neck, and it had but begun to fall upon
her shoulder!