believe the planet of Meleager to be insignificant in comparison with
the Earth. Possibly I may be mistaken in stating that its whole surface
is barely equal to the area of Australia, yet that is my opinion. Its
climate is subtropical in the central zone, gradually tapering to
temperate and cold towards its poles. Roughly speaking, the "Regio
Solis," the spreading peninsula that forms the main portion of the
kingdom of the Child of the Sun, possesses the climate of Egypt or
Mexico. Its summers are long and warm, though never disagreeably
torrid; its winter is of brief duration and normally wet rather than
cold, snow rarely falling near the coast. The changes of spring and
autumn are little marked, so that the whole course of the year seems
to consist of an extended warm season followed by a spell of wet and
cold. Southward of the Region of the Sun there extends an apparently
trackless ocean, on whose waters, I am told, there is no land visible
save a few barren islets and rocky reefs. But then exploration for
exploration's sake is wholly alien to the Meleagrian outlook, and I
much doubt whether the light sailing vessels of the fishermen (who
alone tempt these southern seas) have penetrated very far in this
direction, especially in face of the storms that are apt to arise
without warning in this quarter and are consequently much dreaded
by mariners. The ensuing little sketch map according to Mercator's
projection, though very rough and imperfect, may perhaps afford the
reader some idea of the lands and seas of Meleager, as I conceive them
to exist.
[Illustration]
It will be observed that the capital lies, presumably of intention,
exactly on the line of the Equator and that it faces due east; whilst
Zapyro, the second city of the realm, is also situated in the same
latitude but looking towards the west. The whole coast-line of the
Regio Solis is much indented, and it forms a pendent peninsula to the
large partially unexplored region to the north, which I always speak
of as Barbaria, though it is commonly known merely as the North Land.
Of the size of the main kingdom I am uncertain; at times I conceive
it to be as large as Great Britain, at other times I think it can
be hardly more extensive than Ireland. The centre of the kingdom is
largely covered by mountain ranges and elevated plateaux. None of these
mountains however are of any great height, with the sole exception of
a tall isolated rocky peak in the promontory north of Tamarida, from
which it is clearly visible. This conspicuous cloven peak I have named
Mount Crystal on account of its shining crags, but it is known to the
Meleagrians as the Altar of the Sun, and it is obviously invested
in popular belief with many mystical attributes. Below the summit,
which at a mere guess I should say was about seven thousand of our
feet above sea-level, I can clearly distinguish a group of buildings
on a narrow ledge to eastward; and Hiridia has told me that these
belong to a temple of peculiar sanctity which none save the priests
and their trusted servants are ever permitted to enter, or even to
approach. Naturally I often speculate as to the uses of this lofty and
jealously guarded shrine, and I have come to the conclusion that here
are preserved the paraphernalia necessary to the due working of the
details of The Secret. Be that as it may, the solitary mountain and its
mysterious temple form a prominent feature in all the eastern portion
of the kingdom.
All round the coast the soil is intensely fertile, and produces food
in abundance for the whole population, which is nowhere very dense
save in the two large cities. These two are in fact the only towns
of any size in the whole peninsula, with the exception of Fúfani,
situated at the head of a broad inlet of the southern coast. These
southern shores are mostly rocky with huge beetling cliffs that recall
the iron-bound shores of Capri and Cornwall. Against this natural
barrier the raging billows in vain hurl themselves, and as I have stood
watching the storm-vexed waters from these heights, I have often been
reminded of the sounding seas and foam-flecked waves I once delighted
to gaze upon from the heads of Sydney harbour that oppose the whole
fury of the Pacific. The northern coasts of the Region of the Sun are
less romantic, and in many places the coastal zone is marked by long
stretches of sand with marshes behind them. Everywhere the vegetation
both of cultivated and of wild growth exhibits a close resemblance to
and an evident affinity with the flora of the Earth. In fact, there
appear such endless points of similarity between the natural features
of Meleager and of the Earth that I have often found it difficult to
realise I was not living in some hitherto undiscovered corner of my
native sphere. Appreciating the vast depths of my own ignorance in all
matters scientific, I declare with trepidation yet with a firm sense
of conviction that the geological history and development of the two
planets must have been practically identical.
Not far from Zapyro begins the long isthmus that connects the warm
subtropical Region of the Sun with the great half-explored territory
of the north, or Barbaria. This large tract of land is said to widen
out to northward, but very little is known of its interior, which at
no great distance from the coast-line is blocked by a long chain of
tall mountains, many of whose rugged peaks are covered with eternal
snow. Large lakes and swamps are commonly reported to lie beyond
these ranges, but in reality next to nothing is known of the country
sheltered behind this great natural barrier. As I have already stated,
the average Meleagrian has no taste for pioneering enterprise, so
he remains quite satisfied with the tales of more intrepid hunters
who have penetrated thus far and speak vaguely of a barren soil, of
dismal morasses and of uncouth aborigines whose manners are fully as
repellent as is the aspect of the lands they inhabit. Equally the
coasts of Barbaria have been little examined, except those of the
Great Northern Bay and the stretch of shore running north-west of
Zapyro. All this coast-line is however sprinkled with stray colonies
of South Meleagrians, some of these settlements being of a permanent
character, whilst others are merely occupied as temporary bases for
fishing or hunting. There are also a few colonies inland to the south
of the mountains, but though the whole of this district is inhabited,
no systematic occupation of this warmer portion of Barbaria has ever
been attempted. The colonists for the most part consist of emigrants
belonging to the people, but not a few of the nobles own estates
whereon they breed cattle and sheep, or utilise for growing large
timber. Some marble and stone quarries are likewise worked, but all
these mercantile projects are evidently carried on in a distinctly
haphazard style. All the permanent inhabitants of this region are
subjects of my kingdom, yet they are not all of pure blood, but must
in the remote past have intermingled with the original stock of this
territory, who may perhaps have belonged to the same race as the
yellow-skinned prognathous tribesmen who still dwell in the unexplored
and unannexed portions of Barbaria beyond the mountains. In any case,
these natives of South Barbaria are fine, strong-featured people,
though easily distinguishable from those of the Region of the Sun.
Many men of this district travel southward to enlist as soldiers, for
which their more hardy physique admirably suits them, or else to offer
themselves as indentured labourers and servants for a term of years.
Two members of the hierarchy are charged specially with the interests
of this class of temporary immigrant, and, so far as I could ascertain,
they are always treated with fairness and consideration, though they
are somewhat despised by the ruling populace of the south.
I have been informed that in times past these South Barbarians have
actually attempted to invade the Region of the Sun, and in proof of
this tradition I noted that the isthmus near Zapyro is fortified by
a military wall running across its whole breadth from sea to sea.
These old fortifications are solidly built, and are still kept in
admirable repair, whilst one of the regiments is always quartered here
in permanent barracks. There seems however, at the present time, to be
little fear or probability of a repetition of any such incursion in
spite of the constant guard maintained on the isthmus.
Of the capital I have already spoken, and of its picturesque situation
on the hillsides sloping to the waters of the broad deep harbour
whose circular form hints at a remote volcanic origin. Owing to the
absence of towers and lofty buildings the whole town wears an Oriental
aspect, for the Meleagrian style of architecture strongly inclines to
colonnades, low domes and flat roofs. The streets are dark and narrow,
a perfect labyrinth of paved lanes, but they are kept scrupulously
clean by means of an excellent system of scavenging, whilst the copious
use of disinfectant liquids renders them wholesome, so that Tamarida
is remarkably free from disease in all forms. The houses own little
external ornament, and being all white-washed recall the Arab quarters
of Algiers and Tunis. This similarity is increased by the nature of
their internal arrangements, which contain courtyards, or _patios_,
open to the sky, these spaces in the case of the richer citizens
being embellished with fountains and flower-beds. A happy combination
of the dwellings of the classical world as still visible at Rome or
Pompeii and the architecture of Islam may best describe the type of
home prevailing in Tamarida and elsewhere throughout the kingdom. The
houses of the poor are smaller and less elegant, but are of the same
character as those of their wealthier neighbours. There is an abundant
public supply of water for each house, with fountains in every garden
and open space. The instinct of family life in the two upper classes
is very strong, so that it is not easy for strangers to penetrate into
these compact, secluded homes, where usually only near relatives are
admitted except on the occasion of a wedding or a feast. Indeed, the
family itself in upper-class life offers a tiny _imperium in imperio_
throughout the country, and this attitude of aloofness is encouraged
by the hierarchy, who prefer to see all domestic suits and quarrels
settled within the walls of the family mansion rather than in the court
held daily in public.
Zapyro, which traditionally claims to be considered the ancient
metropolis of the realm, is only about half the size of Tamarida. Its
streets, though equally clean and well tended, are less animated; its
market is smaller; its houses and gardens are all on a less ambitious
scale; and this remark especially applies to the Temple of the Setting
Sun which crowns a large rock behind the town. This sacred building,
whose former ruinous condition I have lately sought to improve and have
thereby acquired considerable merit in the eyes of the Zapyriotes,
cannot compare in size and splendour with the magnificent fane at
Tamarida. Only four members of the hierarchy reside here, and though
the services connected with the hour of sunset are impressive, they are
not comparable with those held in the great Temple of Tamarida. My own
residence here consists of a block of buildings of moderate size, but
then I only spend one month in Zapyro itself, my arrival being greeted
with most flattering rejoicing on the part of the Zapyriotes, who also
exhibit much despondency at the time of my departure. One peculiarity
of this city is worth recording; and that is the circumstance that,
unlike Tamarida, it possesses a civil governor who may not belong to
the priestly caste: a fiercely cherished honour that is believed to
derive from very remote ages, when royalty resided here permanently.
A leading member of the nobility is always chosen from his peers for
this much-coveted distinction, which also includes the right to inhabit
a portion of the rather exiguous palace at Zapyro, and the duty of
holding the daily court of judgment in the absence of the King. The
hierarchy is said to view these privileges with disfavour, but has
hitherto hesitated to abolish the office in face of the pride and
jealousy the Zapyriotes display in their retention of what is after all
only a slight infringement of their universal powers of rule.
With regard to the third town, Fúfani, I gather it to be a place of
recent growth. It is a large rambling unattractive seaport built on the
marshy flats at the head of the Gulf of Fúfani. Its population consists
entirely of families of the mercantile class and the populace who are
engaged in the maritime trade of the southern ocean. The growth of
Fúfani was, I understand, very rapid, so that the sudden realisation
of this unauthorised collection of large numbers of citizens caused
much misgiving amongst the senators at Tamarida, who took measures to
scatter the community thus formed against their wishes. In this aim
however the hierarchy was unsuccessful, largely, it is rumoured, owing
to the sympathy of the reigning king, who found in the question of
Fúfani a convenient occasion for pitting his authority against that of
the priesthood. Failing to induce the inhabitants of this new-sprung
town to disperse themselves throughout the neighbouring districts, the
priests now came to consider it the lesser of two evils to recognise
Fúfani as a city, and accordingly erected a Temple of the Sun at
this spot and nominated three priests to reside there. This measure
has brought the people of Fúfani, who must evidently have shown some
fierce spirit of opposition, if not of flat rebellion against the
government, directly under the arm of the hierarchy, whose rule here
is strengthened by a garrison of soldiers. I cannot help thinking it
must have been my predecessor who thus encouraged the spirit of revolt,
not wholly without success, at Fúfani, with the ultimate result that
he "ceased to reign," as his fate is euphemistically described to me.
I have so often longed to discover what is the end of undesirable
or obnoxious monarchs; are they secretly murdered, I wonder, or are
they confined in that sinister temple on Mount Crystal or some other
retreat? Or are they merely deprived of the benefits of the Fountain
of Rejuvenation, and so allowed to fall to decrepitude and old age,
and finally death? What would I not give for some true guiding details
of these concealed tragedies, of these unequal struggles between
palace and temple! On the only occasion I have visited Fúfani I could
not detect any overt sign of disaffection among the populace, though
I did not fail to note the sour looks of the priests accompanying
me, as we rode through the rather squalid streets of the straggling
featureless town, so different in its natural setting from Tamarida or
Zapyro. There is no royal residence in Fúfani, and my visit hither was
undertaken from the country seat of a neighbouring nobleman, who spoke
of the town and its people with contemptuous dislike.
Before bringing this meagre and feeble sketch of Meleager to a close,
and before proceeding to enlarge on the more interesting subject of
the Meleagrians themselves, one final point of some importance occurs
to my mind. This is the matter of their coinage, or rather medium of
exchange. Although barter on an extensive scale and in a very sensible
manner is largely utilised amongst merchants, and wages are frequently
paid in kind, a system of coinage is in general use, the currency being
limited to three coins. These are the golden "bezant," rather larger
than our own half-sovereign; the silver "platera," about the size of a
two-franc piece; and the bronze "denar," a little bigger than a penny.
Each coin bears on its face the device of the sun, and on its reverse a
raised lozenge in the case of the bezant, a square of the platera, and
a circle of the denar, which marks can be distinguished in the dark. As
the golden bezant is worth ten silver plateras, and each silver platera
again is worth ten bronze denars, a simple system of decimal coinage
may be said to prevail.
VII
Having described some of the natural features of Meleager, I now
propose very shortly to speak of the various functionaries and
classes of the realm. These may be divided into (1) the King; (2)
the Hierarchy; (3) the Nobility; (4) the Mercantile class; (5) the
Populace; and (6) Indentured servants or slaves.
As the King is the first official in the state, as well as its resident
incarnated deity, I shall begin by speaking of my own powers and
their many limitations. I have already explained the extraordinary
genesis of the King of Meleager, how he is a native of the Earth, and
is consequently on his arrival here utterly ignorant of the laws,
traditions, polity and ideals of his new kingdom. At the end of five
years I may add it is astonishing to reflect how terribly ignorant of
all these matters I still remain, not through any fault of mine, but
owing to the fixed intention of my practical masters, the hierarchy, to
keep me in the dark concerning many affairs of importance in the realm
for which they have themselves deliberately chosen me as monarch. The
Arch-priest, whom I infinitely prefer to any of his colleagues, can
be a perfect Sphinx of the most provoking silence at times, although,
to do him justice, he does occasionally impart information, which is
invariably accurate and useful for my real guidance, whereas I cannot
trust any statements made me by other members of the college. What I
glean from Hiridia is of some general service certainly, but from the
political standpoint it is valueless. This is not surprising, seeing
that education, in the restricted meaning of that term, is practically
confined to the members of the hierarchy; still, from the social side
Hiridia has proved of great assistance to me in my relations with the
nobles and other estates of the realm.
The King here, even making full allowance for the peculiar bonds
wherein he is tied and bound to the hierarchy, wields considerable
powers. He is, as I have already shown, the judge of the people in
their courts, and to them his decisions are final and undisputed. The
belief and devotion of the populace are therefore wholly concentrated
in their resident King, who appears to them--and who can marvel at
it?--as the authentic Child of the Sun, whose father they daily worship
and praise for the light whereby they live, for the food they eat,
and for the warmth they enjoy. I can easily understand the strong
temptation that has driven one, and probably more, of my predecessors
to utilise the undoubted credulity and loyalty of the populace in
a struggle against the repressive influence of the ruling caste,
and I can also, for I am fair-minded, perceive the reasonableness
of the continual panic that animates the hierarchy with regard to
the relations existing between an alleged semi-divine monarch and a
blindly adoring multitude. Any prospective understanding or union
between these two forces of King and people is a constant source of
jealousy and alarm to the priesthood, who are ever on the watch to
prevent and stifle such intrigue should it arise. Yet, on the other
hand, if once the King were goaded by indiscreet espionage or by harsh
interference into revolt against official tutelage, then a personal
appeal by the outraged Child of the Sun to his faithful people might
very possibly result in the overthrow within a few hours of the whole
fabric of government that it has taken so many centuries to rear.
The open policy of the senators therefore must not tend to thwart or
irritate the King; it must merely keep the sharpest outlook without
awakening his suspicions; yet it must always be ready to guard against
any sudden plot or combination between an ambitious King and a
subservient populace. On the contrary, there must exist a mutual but
unspoken compact between the monarch and the priesthood, in which the
former should clearly and willingly realise his complete dependence
on the latter, and submit in all things with a good grace. He is to
be _particeps fraudis_, a sharer in the Great Imposture with its
contrivers, and if he is content to play this rôle, well and good; but
if he elects to kick against this tacit arrangement, the situation
thus created must prove equally dangerous both to King and hierarchy,
and in such a crisis the priesthood never mean the King to triumph, no
matter what measures they may be reduced to take in order to preserve
their ascendency. For my own part I have done my utmost to make the
priesthood realise that I comprehend and agree in and respect this
silent bargain. Some of the councillors are however too suspicious and
nervous by nature to appraise my attitude at its true value; and though
I am on fairly friendly terms with the majority of my masters, there
are certain members of the council whose evident hostility I can never
hope to disarm.
From the deliberations in the council chamber in the Temple of the
Sun I am invariably excluded, yet no measure within the realm is
essayed without my knowledge, the Arch-priest acting as intermediary
in all such cases. I am always permitted, and even encouraged, to work
with the hierarchy, but I could never work against them, even if I
would. The peculiar relations between our two sets of authority must
necessarily always be most precarious and delicate, and call for the
utmost exercise of patience, restraint and self-effacement on my part.
Fortunately, so long as it is realised on both sides that our mutual
powers are intermingled and interdependent, there is little fear of a
collision such as either party would naturally seek to avoid in its own
interests.
Except for the short ceremony observed on the morning of each weekly
feast-day, the King rarely visits the temple. Twice a year however,
at the seasons of mid-summer and mid-winter, prior to the great
public acts of worship before the crystal altar, I am subjected to a
lengthy course of manipulation, followed by a dipping in the Fountain
of Rejuvenation. In spite of the invigorating after-effects of this
treatment, I confess I detest these two occasions most cordially,
and their approach always fills my heart with intense bitterness at
the thought of the humiliation that awaits me; nor can I shake off
my feeling of chagrin for many days afterwards. Yet never a hint
is uttered in my presence as to my dependence on the will of the
hierarchy, nor has the Arch-priest ever alluded even in our most
confidential talks to the intricacies of our unique relationship.
To bear and forbear has therefore been the guiding note of my reign
so far, and I earnestly hope that by following a similar course of
conduct in the future I may contrive to continue thus on the throne
of Meleager, for despite its many limitations and objections I am
tolerably happy in my present situation. I have frankly accepted my
anomalous position from the first, and as time progresses I find my
perilous curiosity to peer behind the veil of The Secret grow less
persistent and irksome.
I hope I have now explained with some degree of clarity the exact
nature of the tie binding myself to the College of Seventy. The worst
feature of my own position--and perhaps the worst also from the point
of view of the hierarchy--is the haunting sense of uncertainty, or
rather the knowledge that I myself, my aims, my motives and my deeds
are continually under discussion by this mysterious band of priestly
potentates, with whom I am really unable to get into touch and to whom
I cannot explain satisfactorily any matters that may arouse their
distrust or suspicion. I often wish the members, at least of the outer
circle, of the council would decide to take me into their complete
confidence, so that we could all open our hearts freely to one another.
I feel sure in such an event all cause of misunderstanding on their
part would be speedily removed, whilst a greater feeling of security
would result to themselves from this open alliance. But I know only
too well that at present any such arrangement is utterly impossible,
so I have to abide in the same uncomfortable and strained position
which has already, I have every reason to believe, proved too onerous
and exasperating for more than one of my fore-runners on the throne of
Meleager.