THE BALEFUL SACRIFICE
I resolved to go on no more sacred hunts. I was sickened at the
horrible cruelty, the needless slaughter, the mad self-sacrifice which
distinguished them. I was overwhelmed with horror at the merciless
destruction of brave comrades, whose wounds, so gallantly received,
should have been enough to inspire pity even in a heart of stone. The
gentleness, the incessant kindness, the matchless generosity of these
people seemed all a mockery. What availed it all when the same hand
that heaped favors upon me, the guest, could deal death without
compunction upon friends and relatives? It seemed quite possible for
the Kohen to kill his own child, or cut the throat of his wife, if the
humor seized him. And how long could I hope to be spared among a
people who had this insane thirst for blood?
Some more joms had passed, and the light season had almost ended.
The sun had been sinking lower and lower. The time had at last come
when only a portion of his disk would be visible for a little while
above the hills, and then he would be seen no more for six months of
our time. This was the dark season, and, as I had already learned, its
advent was always hailed with joy and celebrated with solemn services,
for the dark season freed them from their long confinement, permitted
them to go abroad, to travel by sea and land, to carry on their great
works, to indulge in all their most important labors and favorite
amusements. The Kohen asked me to be present at the great festival,
and I gladly consented. There seemed to be nothing in this that
could be repellent. As I was anxious to witness some of their purely
religious ceremonies, I wished to go. When I told Almah, she looked
sad, but said nothing. I wondered at this, and asked her if she was
going. She informed me that she would have to go, whereupon I assured
her that this was an additional reason why I should go.
I went with Almah. The Kohen attended us with his usual kind and
gracious consideration. It seemed almost as though he was our servant.
He took us to a place where we could be seated, although all the
others were standing. Almah wished to refuse, but I prevailed upon her
to sit down, and she did so.
The scene was upon the semicircular terrace in front of the cavern,
and we were seated upon a stone platform beside the chief portal. A
vast crowd was gathered in front. Before us arose the half-pyramid of
which I have already spoken. The light was faint. It came from the
disk of the sun, which was partly visible over the icy crest of the
distant mountains. Far away the sea was visible, rising high over the
tops of the trees, while overhead the brighter stars were plainly
discernible.
The Kohen ascended the pyramid, and others followed. At the base
there was a crowd of men, with emaciated forms and faces, and coarse,
squalid attire, who looked like the most abject paupers, and seemed
the lowest in the land. As the Kohen reached the summit there arose a
strange sound--a mournful, plaintive chant, which seemed to be sung
chiefly by the paupers at the base of the pyramid. The words of this
chant I could not make out, but the melancholy strain affected me
in spite of myself. There was no particular tune, and nothing like
harmony; but the effect of so many voices uniting in this strain was
very powerful and altogether indescribable. In the midst of this I saw
the crowd parting asunder so as to make way for something; and through
the passage thus formed I saw a number of youths in long robes, who
advanced to the pyramid, singing as they went. Then they ascended the
steps, two by two, still singing, and at length reached the summit,
where they arranged themselves in order. There were thirty of them and
they arranged themselves in three rows of ten each, and as they stood
they never ceased to sing, while the paupers below joined in the
strain.
And now the sun was almost hidden, and there was only the faintest
line from the upper edge of his disk perceptible over the icy
mountain-tops. The light was a softened twilight glow. It was to be
the last sight of the sun for six months, and this was the spectacle
upon which he threw his parting beam. So the sun passed away, and then
there came the beginning of the long dark season. At first, however,
there was rather twilight than darkness, and this twilight continued
long. All this only served to heighten the effect of this striking
scene; and as the light faded away, I looked with increasing curiosity
upon the group at the top of the pyramid. Almah was silent. I half
turned, and said something to her about the beauty of the view. She
said nothing, but looked at me with such an expression that I was
filled with amazement. I saw in her face something like a dreadful
anticipation--something that spoke of coming evil. The feeling was
communicated to me, and I turned my eyes back to the group on the
pyramid with vague fears in my soul.
Those fears were but too well founded, for now the dread ceremony
began. The Kohen drew his knife, and placed himself at the head of the
stone table. One of the youths came forward, stepped upon it, and lay
down on his back with his head toward the Kohen. The mournful chant
still went on. Then the Kohen raised his knife and plunged it into the
heart of the youth. I sat for a moment rooted to the spot; then a
groan burst from me in spite of myself. Almah caught my hands in hers,
which were as cold as ice.
"Be firm," she said, "or we are both lost. Be firm, Atam-or!"
"I must go," said I, and I tried to rise.
"Don't move," she said, "for your life! We are lost if you move. Keep
still--restrain yourself--shut your eyes."
I tried to do so, but could not. There was a horrible fascination
about the scene which forced me to look and see all. The Kohen took
the victim, and drawing it from the altar, threw it over the precipice
to the ground beneath. Then a loud shout burst forth from the great
crowd. "Sibgu Sibgin! Ranenu! Hodu lecosck!" which means, "Sacrifice
the victims! Rejoice! Give thanks to darkness!"
Then another of the youths went forward amid the singing, and laid
himself down to meet the same fate; and again the corpse was flung
from the top of the pyramid, and again the shout arose. All the others
came forward in the same manner. Oh, horrible, horrible, thrice
horrible spectacle! I do not remember how I endured it. I sat there
with Almah, trying to restrain myself as she had entreated me, more
for her sake than for my own, a prey to every feeling of horror,
anguish, and despair. How it all ended I do not know, nor do I know
how I got away from the place; for I only remember coming back to my
senses in the lighted grotto, with Almah bending anxiously over me.
After this there remained a dark mystery and an ever-present horror. I
found myself among a people who were at once the gentlest of the human
race and the most blood-thirsty--the kindest and the most cruel. This
mild, amiable, and self-sacrificing Kohen, how was it possible that
he should transform himself to a fiend incarnate? And for me and for
Almah, what possible hope could there be? What fate might they have
in reserve for us? Of what avail was all this profound respect, this
incessant desire to please, this attention to our slightest wish, this
comfort and luxury and splendor, this freedom of speech and action?
Was it anything better than a mockery? Might it not be the shallow
kindness of the priest to the victim reserved for the sacrifice? Was
it, after all, in any degree better than the kindness of the cannibal
savages on those drear outer shores who received us with such
hospitality, but only that they might destroy us at last? Might they
not all belong to the same race, dwelling as they did in caverns,
shunning the sunlight, and blending kindness with cruelty? It was an
awful thought!
Yet I had one consolation. Almah was with me, and so long as she was
spared to me I could endure this life. I tried for her sake to resist
the feelings that were coming over me. I saw that she too was a prey
to ever-deepening sadness. She felt as I did, and this despair of soul
might wreck her young life if there were no alleviation. And so I
sought to alleviate her distress and to banish her sadness. The songs
of these people had much impressed me; and one day, as I talked about
this with Almah, she brought forth a musical instrument of peculiar
shape, which was not unlike a guitar, though the shape was square and
there were a dozen strings. Upon this she played, singing at the same
time some songs of a plaintive character. An idea now occurred to me
to have an instrument made according to my own plans, which should be
nothing less than a violin. Almah was delighted at the proposal, and
at once found a very clever workman, who under my direction succeeded
in producing one which served my purpose well. I was a good violinist,
and in this I was able to find solace for myself and for Almah for
many a long hour.
The first time that I played was memorable. As the tones floated
through the air they caught the ears of those outside, and soon great
numbers came into the apartment, listening in amazement and in rapt
attention. Even the painful light was disregarded in the pleasure of
this most novel sensation, and I perceived that if the sense of sight
was deficient among them, that of hearing was sufficiently acute.
I played many times, and sometimes sang from among the songs of
different nations; but those which these people liked best were the
Irish and Scottish melodies--those matchless strains created by the
genius of the Celtic race, and handed down from immemorial ages
through long generations. In these there was nothing artificial,
nothing transient. They were the utterance of the human heart, and in
them there was that touch of nature which makes all men kin. These
were the immortal passions which shall never cease to affect the soul
of man, and which had power even here; the strains of love, of
sadness, and of pathos were sweet and enticing to this gentle race;
for in their mild manners and their outburst of cruelty they seemed to
be not unlike the very race which had created this music, since the
Celt is at once gentle and blood-thirsty.
I played "Tara," "Bonnie Doon," "The Last Rose of Summer," "The Land
of the Leal," "Auld Lang Syne," "Lochaber." They stood entranced,
listening with all their souls. They seemed to hunger and thirst after
this music, and the strains of the inspired Celtic race seemed to come
to them like the revelation of the glory of heaven. Then I played more
lively airs. Some I played a second time, singing the words. They
seemed eager to have the same one played often. At last a grisly
thought came to me: it was that they would learn these sweet strains,
and put their own words to them so as to use them at the awful
sacrifices. After that I would play no more.
It is a land of tender love and remorseless cruelty. Music is
all-powerful to awaken the one, but powerless to abate the other; and
the eyes that weep over the pathetic strains of "Lochaber" can gaze
without a tear upon the death-agonies of a slaughtered friend.