LOST IN THE DARK
As in the heart of man, seared, desolate, and lonely though it be, there
remains a tender spot, bearing remembrance of the tears that freshened
it long ago; so in the wildest tract of desert is hidden some green and
pleasant place where, even should the leaf be faded or the well-spring
dry, lingers a certain sense of peace, freshness, and repose, a faint
but precious echo from the drip and murmur of the drowsy waters, and the
breeze whispering through the palms.
In such a refuge, many a league from the stir and turmoil of crowded
Babylon, had Sarchedon unstrung his bow, and laid his spear aside.
Notwithstanding the promises of Assarac, and the promptings of a martial
spirit, he had yielded to the persuasions of her he loved, satisfied,
after all his perils and adventures, to have gained the one treasure he
coveted, and to keep it in his own possession for evermore.
Under the protection of his adopted brethren--for the Anakim,
overlooking comparative deficiency of stature in consideration of
courage and prowess, had received him into their tribe--and secured on
all sides by the unbroken expanse of desert that surrounded him, he felt
he had nothing to dread from the vengeance of Ninyas, nor even from
pursuit by the Great Queen. These might rule unquestioned over many a
fair and fertile province of their mighty empire, bearing absolute sway
wherever forest waved or river flowed, wherever brick was laid on brick
for human habitation, or smiling surface, tilled by human hands, grew
fat with corn, and wine, and oil; but was not their boundless waste the
heritage of the sons of Anak? and scouring it at all seasons, as in all
directions, how were they to be eluded by assailants who would penetrate
into their dominion? what tactics or what stratagems could foil those
watchful eyes, keen as the vulture's poised in their burning sky, those
matchless horses, swift and untiring as the wind that swept their desert
sands?
"We are indeed safe, my beloved," said Sarchedon, after recapitulating
the many difficulties with which an enemy who sought them would have to
contend. "Safer here than we should be in the fortress of Ascalon,
guarded by wall and rampart, bristling with bow and spear; for while the
chariots of our foes were labouring far beyond the horizon, one of our
long limbed brethren would come galloping lightly in to give us warning,
and even if they ever reached our nest, it would be cold many hours
before they found it. I should be loth to leave it too," he added,
surveying with extreme content the pleasant refuge in which they had
taken up their rest; "for in all the paradises of Babylon was never so
green and lovely a spot as this!"
Contrasted with the arid waste that stretched around them to the sky, it
seemed, indeed, a fair and peaceful retreat. Like the mirage of the
desert, it was adorned by a knot of waving palms, a glittering lake, a
breadth of verdant pasture, a thicket of tufted grass, bending reeds,
and aromatic shrubs. Like the mirage too, it was difficult to find, but
unlike the mirage, it was dotted with a goats' hair tent, at the door of
which, smiling and unveiled, she sat for whose sake Sarchedon had
abandoned friends, fame, ambition, country: his treasure, his pearl of
price, the fairest woman in all the earth--but one.
"I dread only Ninyas," said Ishtar. "For I know the young king's wilful
spirit, and the proud heart that cannot endure to be crossed or thwarted
in its desire. Only Ninyas for myself," she added, with a wistful smile,
"and--and the Great Queen for you."
"The Great Queen!" he repeated, laughing lightly. "Ere now I must surely
have had more than one successor, and doubtless I am forgotten, as
though I had never been; indeed I hope--I hope it may be so."
While he reiterated his wish, she looked sharply and inquiringly in his
face, withdrawing her eyes, however, in some confusion, when his glance
met her own. He perceived it not, and Ishtar scarce knew whether she was
vexed or gratified to mark how the jealous anxieties of love had thus
been quenched in the frank confidence of possession, but on reflection
set his blindness down to the engrossing nature of his occupation, for
he was busy shaping one of those short thick clubs used by desert
horsemen in chase of the ostrich, to be hurled at the bird's long legs,
while they rode her down.
"I shall be back at sunset," said he, putting the finishing touch to his
wooden weapon, and loosing the tether of his horse ere he sprang to the
saddle, "then shall Ishtar have at her tent-door such a tuft of plumes
as were never seen even before the pavilion of the Great King."
She was scanning the far horizon with anxious eyes. "I pray you go not
forth, beloved," she murmured. "There is a dull blurred line yonder,
where sand and sky meet. Already the whirlwind is stirring in his sleep.
Surely, he will wake up in his fury before night."
Her lord laughed and shook his bridle, waving a light farewell as he
rode away; while Ishtar turned wistfully into the tent and wondered if
he never regretted enterprise, fame, ambition, all he had foregone for
her sake; if he never let his thoughts wander back to the matchless
beauty and fatal smile of the Great Queen.
So the woman pondered, half in sadness, asking untoward questions of her
own anxious heart, and the man sped merrily over the plain, rejoicing in
the freedom of the saddle, leaving care to plod hopelessly in his
tracks, as he galloped on.
But though her eye brightened and his soul rejoiced, because of the
boundless waste and the free desert air, there was death in his right
hand. The poor ungainly ostrich lay bleeding at his feet, her legs
broken by his skill, her wings despoiled of their precious tufts, to
make a gift for the woman he loved.
The sun was yet high when he turned bridle towards his home, and peering
about him in search of those scarce perceptible inequalities on its
surface, which form the landmarks of the wilderness, he found cause to
remember Ishtar's warning, while for a moment his heart stood still,
with a sense of coming danger, such as braces the brave man for mortal
conflict, and bids the coward tremble with mortal fear.
Where the palms that nodded above his tent should have broke the level
sky-line, there was no horizon now. Only shifting misty shadows, dull,
dim, and tawny, a fusion of earth and heaven. He could bear to look on
the sun too, glowing yonder like a ball of burnished copper, and he knew
what that rim of violet foretold--a cruel portent--beautiful
exceedingly.
There was a falling glitter in the air, as if it were raining gold, and
his horse snorted violently, betraying symptoms of restlessness and
alarm. O for Merodach now! Merodach, whose bones were bleaching far
away, where the dead lay in heaps under the wall of Ardesh.
He pressed into a gallop, nevertheless; for a dun cloud-like column,
growing in height and volume as it approached, was moving steadily
towards him, in many whirls and gyrations, yet, fast as he rode, gaining
on him with every stride. The sky had darkened, and the fine particles
of sand with which the air was filled blistered his skin, choking his
nostrils and penetrating into his very lungs.
Then the mighty rush of the whirlwind roared in his ears, turning his
linen head-dress over his face, driving man and horse before it in an
opaque, impenetrable cloud of sand.
He had once dreamed of such a death. Could this be his fate, and had it
indeed overtaken him at last?
He thought of Ishtar at the tent-door, looking for one who never came;
he thought of the other woman who had loved him--his temptation, his
evil spirit, his enemy, beautiful and wicked, Semiramis the Great Queen.
Driving on, as a ship at sea drives before the tempest, he was aware of
certain phantom shapes, some few spear-lengths off, that loomed gigantic
in the fatal cloud. Were they real or but creatures of his brain,
already maddened by a sense of suffocation? Perhaps demons of the
simoon, triumphant, derisive, rejoicing in his destruction. No; they
were surely earthly forms--two or three horsemen plunging up to their
girths, and a dromedary in the midst. Were they waving to him for help,
or only struggling and gesticulating in blind perplexity, in the agony
of a fierce despair? The whirlwind drove him nearer, nearer yet. He
could distinguish the reddened eye of the dromedary, and its distended
nostril craving for a breath of air, while choked with sand.
There came another mighty rush and roar to stun him as with a blow. Half
conscious, he was aware of a face that moved before him through the
gloom like a vision of the night--a dreamy face, calm, fearless,
beautiful, smiling its sad farewell. Even at such extremity his heart
leaped up with keen guilty throbs, for in that passing vision it
recognised the face of the Great Queen.
Deeper and thicker grew the darkness; louder and fiercer roared the
storm. A gleam of white seemed to flit before his eyes ere they were
blinded by the driving sand. His horse struggled, fell, and rose again,
trembling with exhaustion and fear; but the air had cleared now, and he
could see, half a bowshot before him, a fair dove winging her flight
calmly on towards the light of day. Looking back to where his peril had
been shared by those shadowy wayfarers, he only noticed a few slight
undulations on the surface of the desert--a rolling wave or two of sand
to mark the terrible track of the simoon, and hide his buried secrets,
whatever they might be.
Following the dove, as it flitted before him, Sarchedon rode slowly on,
pondering many things in his heart, but never taking his eyes off the
bird that was guiding him home. At sunset, lighting down beneath the
palms he loved, it circled twice round his head, and disappeared within
the darkness of his tent.
Entering in, he was encircled by the arms of Ishtar, who laid her cheek
against his breast, and wept for very joy because of his safe return.
"Where is the dove," he asked, "that flew before me through the
tent-door even now?"
"There is no dove here but me," said Ishtar tenderly. "O, Sarchedon, for
you I would ever be the Bird of Love!"
He looked fondly down in those trustful pleading eyes. "The Bird of
Love," he answered, "and better, dearer still--the Bird of Peace!"
The Gresham Press,
UNWIN BROTHERS,
WOKING AND LONDON.