and torches wavered and flickered, until they began dancing in rhythm
with the chant. A cold wind came wheezing from the dark corridors
beyond the water, leaving a plaintive echo in its trail. Then a sort
of nebulous vapor, seeming to ooze from the rocky ground and walls,
gathered about the Shaman and the boy. Around the latter the aura was
silvery and transparent, but the cloud which enveloped the former was
red and sinister. Approaching nearer to the platform the magician beat
a louder roll upon the drum, and this time the echo caught it up with
terrific effect! It reverberated near and far in incessant peals; one
wail followed another, louder and louder, until the thundering roar
seemed the chorus of a thousand demon voices rising from the fathomless
depths of the lake. The water itself, whose surface, illuminated by
many lights, had previously been smooth as a sheet of glass, became
suddenly agitated, as if a powerful gust of wind had swept over its
unruffled face.
Another chant, and a roll of the drum, and the mountain trembled to its
foundation with the cannon-like peals which rolled through the dark
and distant corridors. The Shaman’s body rose two yards in the air,
and nodding and swaying, sat, self-suspended like an apparition. But
the transformation which now occurred in the boy chilled everyone, as
they speechlessly watched the scene. The silvery cloud about the boy
now seemed to lift him, too, into the air; but, unlike the Shaman, his
feet never left the ground. The child began to grow, as though the work
of years was miraculously accomplished in a few seconds. He became
tall and large, and his senile features grew older with the ageing
of his body. A few more seconds, and the youthful form had entirely
disappeared. It was totally absorbed in another individuality, and to
the horror of those present who had been familiar with his appearance,
this individuality was that of old Mr. Izvertzoff, and on his temple
was a large gaping wound, from which trickled great drops of blood.
This phantom moved towards Nicolas, till it stood directly in front
of him, while he, with his hair standing erect, with the look of a
madman gazed at his own son, transformed into his uncle. The sepulchral
silence was broken by the Hungarian, who, addressing the child phantom,
asked him in solemn voice:
“In the name of the great Master, of him who has all power, answer the
truth, and nothing but the truth. Restless spirit, hast thou been lost
by accident, or foully murdered?”
The specter’s lips moved, but it was the echo which answered for them
in lugubrious shouts: “Murdered! murdered!! mur-der-ed!!!”
“Where? How? By whom?” asked the conjuror.
The apparition pointed a finger at Nicolas and, without removing its
gaze or lowering its arm, retreated backwards slowly towards the lake.
At every step it took, the younger Izvertzoff, as if compelled by some
irresistible fascination, advanced a step towards it, until the phantom
reached the lake, and the next moment was seen gliding on its surface.
It was a fearful, ghostly scene!
When he had come within two steps of the brink of the watery abyss, a
violent convulsion ran through the frame of the guilty man. Flinging
himself upon his knees, he clung to one of the rustic seats with a
desperate clutch, and staring wildly, uttered a long piercing cry of
agony. The phantom now remained motionless on the water, and bending
its extended finger, slowly beckoned him to come. Crouched in abject
terror, the wretched man shrieked until the cavern rang again and
again: “I did not.... No, I did not murder you!”
Then came a splash, and now it was the boy who was in the dark water,
struggling for his life, in the middle of the lake, with the same
motionless stern apparition brooding over him.
“Papa! papa! Save me.... I am drowning!” ... cried a piteous little
voice amid the uproar of the mocking echoes.
“My boy!” shrieked Nicolas, in the accents of a maniac, springing to
his feet. “My boy! Save him! Oh, save him!... Yes, I confess.... I am
the murderer.... It is I who killed him!”
Another splash, and the phantom disappeared. With a cry of horror the
company rushed towards the platform; but their feet were suddenly
rooted to the ground, as they saw amid the swirling eddies a whitish
shapeless mass holding the murderer and the boy in tight embrace, and
slowly sinking into the bottomless lake.
On the morning after these occurrences, when, after a sleepless night,
some of the party visited the residence of the Hungarian gentleman,
they found it closed and deserted. He and the Shaman had disappeared.
Many are among the old inhabitants of P—— who remember him; the Police
Inspector, Col. S——, dying a few years ago in the full assurance that
the noble traveler was the devil. To add to the general consternation
the Izvertzoff mansion took fire on that same night and was completely
destroyed. The Archbishop performed the ceremony of exorcism, but
the locality is considered accursed to this day. The Government
investigated the facts, and—ordered silence.
THE LUMINOUS SHIELD
We were a small and select party of light-hearted travelers. We had
arrived at Constantinople a week before from Greece, and had devoted
fourteen hours a day ever since to toiling up and down the steep
heights of Pera, visiting bazaars, climbing to the tops of minarets and
fighting our way through armies of hungry dogs, the traditional masters
of the streets of Stamboul. Nomadic life is infectious, they say, and
no civilization is strong enough to destroy the charm of unrestrained
freedom when it has once been tasted. The gipsy cannot be tempted
from his tent, and even the common tramp finds a fascination in his
comfortless and precarious existence, that prevents him taking to any
fixed abode and occupation. To guard my spaniel Ralph from falling a
victim to this infection, and joining the canine Bedouins that infested
the streets, was my chief care during our stay in Constantinople. He
was a fine fellow, my constant companion and cherished friend. Afraid
of losing him, I kept a strict watch over his movements; for the
first three days, however, he behaved like a tolerably well-educated
quadruped, and remained faithfully at my heels. At every impudent
attack from his Mahomedan cousins, whether intended as a hostile
demonstration or an overture of friendship, his only reply would be to
draw in his tail between his legs, and with an air of dignified modesty
seek protection under the wing of one or other of our party.
As he had thus from the first shown so decided an aversion to bad
company, I began to feel assured of his discretion, and by the end
of the third day I had considerably relaxed my vigilance. This
carelessness on my part, however, was soon punished, and I was made to
regret my misplaced confidence. In an unguarded moment he listened to
the voice of some four-footed syren, and the last I saw of him was the
end of his bushy tail, vanishing round the corner of a dirty, winding
little back street.
Greatly annoyed, I passed the remainder of the day in a vain search
after my dumb companion. I offered twenty, thirty, forty francs reward
for him. About as many vagabond Maltese began a regular chase, and
towards evening we were invaded in our hotel by the whole troop, every
man of them with a more or less mangy cur in his arms, which he tried
to persuade me was my lost dog. The more I denied, the more solemnly
they insisted, one of them actually going down on his knees, snatching
from his bosom an old corroded metal image of the Virgin, and swearing
a solemn oath that the Queen of Heaven herself had kindly appeared to
him to point out the right animal. The tumult had increased to such
an extent that it looked as if Ralph’s disappearance was going to be
the cause of a small riot, and finally our landlord had to send for
a couple of Kavasses from the nearest police station, and have this
regiment of bipeds and quadrupeds expelled by main force. I began to
be convinced that I should never see my dog again, and I was the
more despondent since the porter of the hotel, a semi-respectable
old brigand, who, to judge by appearances, had not passed more than
half-a-dozen years at the galleys, gravely assured me that all my pains
were useless, as my spaniel was undoubtedly dead and devoured too by
this time, the Turkish dogs being very fond of their more toothsome
English brothers.
All this discussion had taken place in the street at the door of the
hotel, and I was about to give up the search for that night at least,
and enter the hotel, when an old Greek lady, a Phanariote who had been
hearing the fracas from the steps of a door close by, approached our
disconsolate group and suggested to Miss H——, one of our party, that we
should inquire of the dervishes concerning the fate of Ralph.
“And what can the dervishes know about my dog?” said I, in no mood to
joke, ridiculous as the proposition appeared.
“The holy men know all, Kyrea (Madam),” said she, somewhat
mysteriously. “Last week I was robbed of my new satin pelisse, that
my son had just brought me from Broussa, and, as you all see, I have
recovered it and have it on my back now.”
“Indeed? Then the holy men have also managed to metamorphose your new
pelisse into an old one by all appearances,” said one of the gentlemen
who accompanied us, pointing as he spoke to a large rent in the back,
which had been clumsily repaired with pins.
“And that is just the most wonderful part of the whole story,” quietly
answered the Phanariote, not in the least disconcerted. “They showed me
in the shining circle the quarter of the town, the house, and even the
room in which the Jew who had stolen my pelisse was just about to rip
it up and cut it into pieces. My son and I had barely time to run over
to the Kalindjikoulosek quarter, and to save my property. We caught the
thief in the very act, and we both recognized him as the man shown to
us by the dervishes in the magic moon. He confessed the theft and is
now in prison.”
Although none of us had the least comprehension of what she meant
by the magic moon and the shining circle, and were all thoroughly
mystified by her account of the divining powers of the “holy men,” we
still felt somehow satisfied from her manner that the story was not
altogether a fabrication, and since she had at all events apparently
succeeded in recovering her property through being somehow assisted by
the dervishes, we determined to go the following morning and see for
ourselves, for what had helped her might help us likewise.
The monotonous cry of the Muezzins from the tops of the minarets had
just proclaimed the hour of noon as we, descending from the heights
of Pera to the port of Galata, with difficulty managed to elbow our
way through the unsavory crowds of the commercial quarter of the town.
Before we reached the docks we had been half deafened by the shouts and
incessant ear-piercing cries and the Babel-like confusion of tongues.
In this part of the city it is useless to expect to be guided by either
house numbers, or names of streets. The location of any desired place
is indicated by its proximity to some other more conspicuous building,
such as a mosque, bath or European shop; for the rest, one has to trust
to Allah and his prophet.
It was with the greatest difficulty, therefore, that we finally
discovered the British ship-chandler’s store, at the rear of which
we were to find the place of our destination. Our hotel guide was as
ignorant of the dervishes’ abode as we were ourselves; but at last a
small Greek, in all the simplicity of primitive undress, consented for
a modest copper backsheesh to lead us to the dancers.
When we arrived we were shown into a vast and gloomy hall that looked
like a deserted stable. It was long and narrow, the floor was thickly
strewn with sand as in a riding school, and it was lighted only by
small windows placed at some height from the ground. The dervishes had
finished their morning performances, and were evidently resting from
their exhausting labors. They looked completely prostrated, some lying
about in corners, others sitting on their heels staring vacantly into
space, engaged, as we were informed, in meditation on their invisible
deity. They appeared to have lost all power of sight and hearing, for
none of them responded to our questions until a great gaunt figure,
wearing a tall cap that made him look at least seven feet high, emerged
from an obscure corner. Informing us that he was their chief, the giant
gave us to understand that the saintly brethren, being in the habit of
receiving orders for additional ceremonies from Allah himself, must
on no account be disturbed. But when our interpreter had explained to
him the object of our visit, which concerned himself alone, as he was
the sole custodian of the “divining rod,” his objections vanished and
he extended his hand for alms. Upon being gratified, he intimated that
only two of our party could be admitted at one time into the confidence
of the future, and led the way, followed by Miss H—— and myself.
Plunging after him into what seemed to be a half subterranean passage,
we were led to the foot of a tall ladder leading to a chamber under
the roof. We scrambled up after our guide, and at the top we found
ourselves in a wretched garret of moderate size, with bare walls and
destitute of furniture. The floor was carpeted with a thick layer of
dust, and cobwebs festooned the walls in neglected confusion. In the
corner we saw something that I at first mistook for a bundle of old
rags; but the heap presently moved and got on its legs, advanced to the
middle of the room and stood before us, the most extraordinary looking
creature that I ever beheld. Its sex was female, but whether she was a
woman or child it was impossible to decide. She was a hideous-looking
dwarf, with an enormous head, the shoulders of a grenadier, with
a waist in proportion; the whole supported by two short, lean,
spider-like legs that seemed unequal to the task of bearing the weight
of the monstrous body. She had a grinning countenance like the face of
a satyr, and it was ornamented with letters and signs from the Koran
painted in bright yellow. On her forehead was a blood-red crescent;
her head was crowned with a dusty tarbouche, or fez; her legs were
arrayed in large Turkish trousers, and some dirty white muslin wrapped
round her body barely sufficed to conceal its hideous deformities. This
creature rather let herself drop than sat down in the middle of the
floor, and as her weight descended on the rickety boards it sent up a
cloud of dust that set us coughing and sneezing. This was the famous
Tatmos known as the Damascus oracle!
Without losing time in idle talk, the dervish produced a piece of
chalk, and traced around the girl a circle about six feet in diameter.
Fetching from behind the door twelve small copper lamps which he filled
with some dark liquid from a small bottle which he drew from his bosom,
he placed them symmetrically around the magic circle. He then broke a
chip of wood from a panel of the half ruined door, which bore the marks
of many a similar depredation, and, holding the chip between his thumb
and finger he began blowing on it at regular intervals, alternating
the blowing with mutterings of some kind of weird incantation, till
suddenly, and without any apparent cause for its ignition, there
appeared a spark on the chip and it blazed up like a dry match. The
dervish then lit the twelve lamps at this self-generated flame.
During this process, Tatmos, who had sat till then altogether
unconcerned and motionless, removed her yellow slippers from her naked
feet, and throwing them into a corner, disclosed as an additional
beauty, a sixth toe on each deformed foot. The dervish now reached over
into the circle and seizing the dwarf’s ankles gave her a jerk, as if
he had been lifting a bag of corn, and raised her clear off the ground,
then, stepping back a pace, held her head downward. He shook her as
one might a sack to pack its contents, the motion being regular and
easy. He then swung her to and fro like a pendulum until the necessary
momentum was acquired, when letting go one foot, and seizing the other
with both hands, he made a powerful muscular effort and whirled her
round in the air as if she had been an Indian club.
My companion had shrunk back in alarm to the farthest corner. Round
and round the dervish swung his living burden, she remaining perfectly
passive. The motion increased in rapidity until the eye could hardly
follow the body in its circuit. This continued for perhaps two or three
minutes, until, gradually slackening the motion, he at length stopped
it altogether, and in an instant had landed the girl on her knees
in the middle of the lamp-lit circle. Such was the Eastern mode of
mesmerization as practised among the dervishes.
And now the dwarf seemed entirely oblivious of external objects and in
a deep trance. Her head and jaw dropped on her chest, her eyes were
glazed and staring, and altogether her appearance was even more hideous
than before. The dervish then carefully closed the shutters of the only
window, and we should have been in total obscurity, but that there was
a hole bored in it, through which entered a bright ray of sunlight that
shot through the darkened room and shone upon the girl. He arranged her
drooping head so that the ray should fall upon the crown, after which
motioning us to remain silent, he folded his arms upon his bosom, and,
fixing his gaze upon the bright spot, became as motionless as a stone
image. I, too, riveted my eyes on the same spot, wondering what was to
happen next, and how all this strange ceremony was to help me to find
Ralph.
By degrees, the bright patch, as if it had drawn through the sunbeam
a greater splendor from without and condensed it within its own
area, shaped itself into a brilliant star, sending out rays in every
direction as from a focus.
A curious optical effect then occurred: the room, which had been
previously partially lighted by the sunbeam, grew darker and darker as
the star increased in radiance, until we found ourselves in an Egyptian
gloom. The star twinkled, trembled and turned, at first with a slow
gyratory motion, then faster and faster, increasing its circumference
at every rotation until it formed a brilliant disk, and we no longer
saw the dwarf, who seemed absorbed into its light. Having gradually
attained an extremely rapid velocity, as the girl had done when whirled
by the dervish, the motion began to decrease and finally merged into
a feeble vibration, like the shimmer of moonbeams on rippling water.
Then it flickered for a moment longer, emitted a few last flashes, and
assuming the density and iridescence of an immense opal, it remained
motionless. The disk now radiated a moon-like luster, soft and silvery,
but instead of illuminating the garret, it seemed only to intensify
the darkness. The edge of the circle was not penumbrous, but on the
contrary sharply defined like that of a silver shield.
All being now ready, the dervish without uttering a word, or removing
his gaze from the disk, stretched out a hand, and taking hold of mine,
he drew me to his side and pointed to the luminous shield. Looking at
the place indicated, we saw large patches appear like those on the
moon. These gradually formed themselves into figures that began moving
about in high relief in their natural colors. They neither appeared
like a photograph nor an engraving; still less like the reflection of
images on a mirror, but as if the disk were a cameo, and they were
raised above its surface and then endowed with life and motion. To my
astonishment and my friend’s consternation, we recognized the bridge
leading from Galata to Stamboul spanning the Golden Horn from the new
to the old city. There were the people hurrying to and fro, steamers
and gay caiques gliding on the blue Bosphorus, the many colored
buildings, villas and palaces reflected in the water; and the whole
picture illuminated by the noon-day sun. It passed like a panorama,
but so vivid was the impression that we could not tell whether it or
ourselves were in motion. All was bustle and life, but not a sound
broke the oppressive stillness. It was noiseless as a dream. It was
a phantom picture. Street after street and quarter after quarter
succeeded one another; there was the bazaar, with its narrow, roofed
passages, the small shops on either side, the coffee houses with
gravely smoking Turks; and as either they glided past us or we past
them, one of the smokers upset the narghilé and coffee of another,
and a volley of soundless invectives caused us great amusement. So
we traveled with the picture until we came to a large building that I
recognized as the palace of the Minister of Finance. In a ditch behind
the house, and close to a mosque, lying in a pool of mud with his
silken coat all bedraggled, lay my poor Ralph! Panting and crouching
down as if exhausted, he seemed to be in a dying condition; and near
him were gathered some sorry-looking curs who lay blinking in the sun
and snapping at the flies!
I had seen all that I desired, although I had not breathed a word about
the dog to the dervish, and had come more out of curiosity than with
the idea of any success. I was impatient to leave at once and recover
Ralph, but as my companion besought me to remain a little while longer,
I reluctantly consented. The scene faded away and Miss H—— placed
herself in turn by the side of the dervish.
“I will think of _him_,” she whispered in my ear with the eager tone
that young ladies generally assume when talking of the worshipped _him_.
There is a long stretch of sand and a blue sea with white waves dancing
in the sun, and a great steamer is ploughing her way along past a
desolate shore, leaving a milky track behind her. The deck is full
of life, the men are busy forward, the cook with white cap and apron
is coming out of the galley, uniformed officers are moving about,
passengers fill the quarter-deck, lounging, flirting or reading, and a
young man we both recognize comes forward and leans over the taffrail.
It is—_him_.
Miss H—— gives a little gasp, blushes and smiles, and concentrates her
thoughts again. The picture of the steamer vanishes; the magic moon
remains for a few moments blank. But new spots appear on its luminous
face, we see a library slowly emerging from its depths—a library with
green carpet and hangings, and book-shelves round the sides of the
room. Seated in an arm-chair at a table under a hanging lamp, is an old
gentleman writing. His gray hair is brushed back from his forehead,
his face is smooth-shaven and his countenance has an expression of
benignity.
The dervish made an hasty motion to enjoin silence; the light on the
disk quivers, but resumes its steady brilliancy, and again its surface
is imageless for a second.
We are back in Constantinople now and out of the pearly depths of the
shield forms our own apartment in the hotel. There are our papers and
books on the bureau, my friend’s traveling hat in a corner, her ribbons
hanging on the glass, and lying on the bed the very dress she had
changed when starting out on our expedition. No detail was lacking to
make the identification complete; and as if to prove that we were not
seeing something conjured up in our own imagination, there lay upon
the dressing-table two unopened letters, the handwriting on which was
clearly recognized by my friend. They were from a very dear relative
of hers, from whom she had expected to hear when in Athens, but had
been disappointed. The scene faded away and we now saw her brother’s
room with himself lying upon the lounge, and a servant bathing his
head, whence, to our horror, blood was trickling. We had left the boy
in perfect health but an hour before; and upon seeing this picture my
companion uttered a cry of alarm, and seizing me by the hand dragged
me to the door. We rejoined our guide and friends in the long hall and
hurried back to the hotel.