I LEARN MY DOOM
Horror is a feeling that cannot last long; human nature is
incapable of supporting it. Sadness, whether from bereavement, or
disappointment, or misfortune of any kind, may linger on through life.
In my case, however, the milder and more enduring feeling of sadness
had no sufficient cause for existence. The sights which I had seen
inspired horror, and horror only. But when the first rush of this
feeling had passed there came a reaction. Calmness followed, and then
all the circumstances of my life here conspired to perpetuate that
calm. For here all on the surface was pleasant and beautiful; all the
people were amiable and courteous and most generous. I had light and
luxury and amusements. Around me there were thousands of faces, all
greeting me with cordial affection, and thousands of hands all ready
to perform my slightest wish. Above all, there was Almah. Everything
combined to make her most dear to me. My life had been such that I
never before had seen anyone whom I loved; and here Almah was the one
congenial associate in a whole world of aliens: she was beautiful
and gentle and sympathetic, and I loved her dearly, even before I
understood what my feelings were. One day I learned all, and found
that she was more precious to me than all the world.
It was one jom when she did not make her appearance as usual. On
asking after her I learned that she was ill. At this intelligence
there came over me a feeling of sickening anxiety and fear. Almah ill!
What if it should prove serious? Could I endure life here without her
sweet companionship? Of what value was life without her? And as I
asked myself these questions I learned that Almah had become dearer
to me than life itself, and that in her was all the sunshine of my
existence. While she was absent, life was nothing; all its value, all
its light, its flavor, its beauty, were gone. I felt utterly crushed.
I forgot all else save her illness, and all that I had endured seemed
as nothing when compared with this.
In the midst of my own anxiety I was surprised to find that the whole
community was most profoundly agitated. Among all classes there seemed
to be but one thought--her illness. I could overhear them talking I
could see them wait outside to hear about her. It seemed to be the one
subject of interest, beside which all others were forgotten. The Kohen
was absorbed in her case; all the physicians of the city were more or
less engaged in her behalf; and there came forward as volunteers every
woman in the place who had any knowledge of sick-duties. I was
somewhat perplexed, however, at their manner. They were certainly
agitated and intensely interested, yet not exactly sad. Indeed, from
what I heard it seemed as though this strange people regarded sickness
as rather a blessing than otherwise. This, however, did not interfere
in the slightest degree with the most intense interest in her, and the
most assiduous attention. The Kohen in particular was devoted to her.
He was absent-minded, silent, and full of care. On the whole, I felt
more than ever puzzled, and less able than ever to understand these
people. I loved them, yet loathed them; for the Kohen I had at once
affection and horror. He looked like an anxious father, full of
tenderest love for a sick child--full also of delicate sympathy with
me; and yet I knew all the time that he was quite capable of plunging
the sacrificial knife in Almah's heart and of eating her afterward.
But my own thoughts were all of Almah. I learned how dear she was.
With her the brightness of life had passed; without her existence
would be intolerable. Her sweet voice, her tender and gracious manner,
her soft touch, her tender, affectionate smile, her mournful yet
trustful look--oh, heavens! would all these be mine no more? I could
not endure the thought. At first I wandered about, seeking rest and
finding none; and at length I sat in my own room, and passed the time
in listening, in questioning the attendants, in wondering what I
should do if she should be taken from me.
At length on one blessed jom, the Kohen came to me with a bright
smile.
"Our darling Almah is better," said he. "Eat, I beseech you. She is
very dear to all of us, and we have all felt for her and for you. But
now all danger is past. The physicians say that she will soon be
well." There were tears in his eyes as he spoke. It may have been
caused by the bright light, but I attributed this to his loving heart,
and I forgot that he was a cannibal. I took his hands in mine and
pressed them in deep emotion. He looked at me with a sweet and gentle
smile.
"I see it all," said he, in a low voice--"you love her, Atam-or."
I pressed his hands harder, but said nothing. Indeed, I could not
trust myself to speak.
"I knew it," said he; "it is but natural. You are both of a different
race from us; you are both much alike, and in full sympathy with one
another. This draws you together. When I first saw you I thought that
you would be a fit companion for her here--that you would lessen her
gloom, and that she would be pleasant to you. I found out soon that I
was right, and I felt glad, for you at once showed the fullest
sympathy with one another. Never till you came was Almah happy with
us; but since you have come she has been a different being, and there
has been a joyousness in her manner that I never saw before. You have
made her forget how to weep; and as for yourself, I hope she has made
your life in this strange land seem less painful, Atam-or."
At all this I was so full of amazement that I could not say one word.
"Pardon me," continued he, "if I have said anything that may seem like
an intrusion upon your secret and most sacred feelings. I could not
have said it had it not been for the deep affection I feel for Almah
and for you, and for the reason that I am just now more moved than
usual, and have less control over my feelings."
Saying this, he pressed my hand and left me. It was not the custom
here to shake hands, but with his usual amiability he had adopted my
custom, and used it as naturally as though he had been to the manner
born.
I was encouraged now. The mild Kohen came often to cheer me. He talked
much about Almah--about her sweet and gracious disposition, the love
that all felt for her, the deep and intense interest which her illness
had aroused. In all this he seemed more like a man of my own race than
before, and in his eager desire for her recovery he failed to exhibit
that love for death which was his nature. So it seemed: yet this
desire for her recovery did not arise out of any lack of love for
death; its true cause I was to learn afterward; and I was to know that
if he desired Almah's recovery now, it was only that she might live
long enough to encounter death in a more terrific form. But just then
all this was unknown, and I judged him by myself.
At last I learned that she was much better, and would be out on the
following jom. This intelligence filled me with a fever of eager
anticipation, so great that I could think of nothing else. Sleep was
impossible. I could only wait, and try as best I might to quell my
impatience. At last the time came. I sat waiting. The curtain was
drawn aside. I sprang up, and, hurrying toward her, I caught her in my
arms and wept for joy. Ah me, how pale she looked! She bore still the
marks of her illness. She seemed deeply embarrassed and agitated at
the fervor of my greeting; while I, instead of apologizing or trying
to excuse myself, only grew more agitated still.
"Oh, Almah," I cried. "I should have died if you had not come back to
me! Oh, Almah, I love you better than life and I never knew how dearly
I loved you till I thought that I had lost you! Oh, forgive me, but I
must tell you--and don't weep, darling."
She was weeping as I spoke. She said nothing, but twined her arms
around my neck and wept on my breast. After this we had much to say
that we had never mentioned before. I cannot tell the sweet words that
she said to me; but I now learned that she had loved me from the
first--when I came to her in her loneliness, when she was homesick and
heartsick; and I came, a kindred nature, of a race more like her own;
and she saw in me the only one of all around her whom it was possible
not to detest, and therefore she loved me.
We had many things to say to one another, and long exchanges of
confidence to make. She now for the first time told me all the sorrow
that she had endured in her captivity--sorrow which she had kept
silent and shut up deep within her breast. At first her life here had
been so terrible that it had brought her down nearly to death. After
this she had sunk into dull despair; she had grown familiar with
horrors and lived in a state of unnatural calm. From this my arrival
had roused her. The display of feeling on my part had brought back
all her old self, and roused anew all those feelings which in her had
become dormant. The darkness, the bloodshed, the sacrifices, all these
affected me as they had once affected her. I had the same fear of
death which she had. When I had gone with her to the cheder nebilin,
when I had used my sepet-ram to save life, she had perceived in me
feelings and impulses to which all her own nature responded. Finally,
when I asked about the Mista Kosek, she warned me not to go. When I
did go she was with me in thought and suffered all that I felt, until
the moment when I was brought back and laid senseless at her feet.
"Then," said Almah, "I felt the full meaning of all that lies before
us."
"What do you mean by that?" I asked, anxiously. "You speak as though
there were something yet--worse than what has already been; yet
nothing can possibly be worse. We have seen the worst; let us now try
to shake off these grisly thoughts, and be happy with one another.
Your strength will soon be back, and while we have one another we can
be happy even in this gloom."
"Ah me," said Almah, "it would be better now to die. I could die happy
now, since I know that you love me."
"Death!" said I; "do not talk of it--do not mention that word. It is
more abhorrent than ever. No, Almah, let us live and love--let us
hope--let us fly."
"Impossible!" said she, in a mournful voice. "We cannot fly. There is
no hope. We must face the future, and make up our minds to bear our
fate."
"Fate!" I repeated, looking at her in wonder and in deep concern.
"What do you mean by our fate? Is there anything more which you know
and which I have not heard?"
"You have heard nothing," said she, slowly; "and all that you have
seen and heard is as nothing compared with what lies before us. For
you and for me there is a fate--inconceivable, abhorrent,
tremendous!--a fate of which I dare not speak or even think, and from
which there is no escape whatever."
As Almah said this she looked at me with an expression in which terror
and anguish were striving with love. Her cheeks, which shortly before
had flushed rosy red in sweet confusion, were now pallid, her lips
ashen; her eyes were full of a wild despair. I looked at her in
wonder, and could not say a word.
"Oh, Atam-or," said she, "I am afraid of death!"
"Almah," said I, "why will you speak of death? What is this fate which
you fear so much?"
"It is this," said she hurriedly and with a shudder, "you and I are
singled out. I have been reserved for years until one should be found
who might be joined with me. You came. I saw it all at once. I have
known it--dreaded it--tried to fight against it. But it was of no use.
Oh, Atam-or, our love means death; for the very fact that you love me
and I love you seals our doom!"
"Our doom? What doom?"
"The sacrifice!" exclaimed Almah, with another shudder. In her voice
and look there was a terrible meaning, which I could not fail to take.
I understood it now, and my blood curdled in my veins. Almah clung to
me despairingly.
"Do not leave me!" she cried--"do not leave me! I have no one but you.
The sacrifice, the sacrifice! It is our doom the great sacrifice--at
the end of the dark season. It is at the amir. We must go there to
meet our doom."
"The amir?" I asked; "what is that?"
"It is the metropolis," said she.
I was utterly overwhelmed, yet still I tried to console her; but the
attempt was vain.
"Oh!" she cried, "you will not understand. The sacrifice is but a
part--it is but the beginning. Death is terrible; yet it may be
endured--if there is only death. But oh!--oh think!--think of that
which comes after--the Mista Kosek!"
Now the full meaning flashed upon me, and I saw it all. In an instant
there arose in my mind the awful sacrifice on the pyramid and the
unutterable horror of the Mista Kosek. Oh, horror, horror,
horror! Oh, hideous abomination and deed without a name! I could not
speak. I caught her in my arms, and we both wept passionately.
The happiness of our love was now darkened by this tremendous cloud
that lowered before us. The shock of this discovery was overpowering,
and some time elapsed before I could rally from it. Though Almah's
love was sweet beyond expression, and though as the time passed I
saw that every jom she regained more and more of her former
health and strength, still I could not forget what had been revealed.
We were happy with one another, yet our happiness was clouded, and
amid the brightness of our love there was ever present the dread
spectre of our appalling doom.
These feelings, however, grew fainter. Hope is ever ready to arise;
and I began to think that these people, though given to evil ways,
were after all kind-hearted, and might listen to entreaty. Above all,
there was the Kohen, so benevolent, so self-denying, so amiable, so
sympathetic. I could not forget all that he had said during Almah's
illness, and it seemed more than probable that an appeal to his better
nature might not be without effect. I said as much to Almah.
"The Kohen," said she; "why, he can do nothing."
"Why not? He is the chief man here, and ought to have great
influence."
"You don't understand," said she, with a sigh. "The Kohen is the
lowest and least influential man in the city."
"Why, who are influential if he is not?" I asked.
"The paupers," said Almah.
"The paupers!" I exclaimed, in amazement.
"Yes," said Almah. "Here among these people the paupers form the most
honored, influential, and envied portion of the community."
This was incomprehensible. Almah tried to explain, but to no purpose,
and I determined to talk to the Kohen.