CHAPTER VII

ON THE WAY TO THE TOMB OF KORAH

Time passed—time that had no measure—time that seemed an eternity. They had all recovered from their encounter with the Sacred Serpent, but the adventure had left them nervous and irritable. There was food in plenty, and the luscious roots gave them both meat and drink. Always upward they mounted—and as they saw the mountainous paths rise before them, hope held out her encouraging hand, and whispered that one day they might even see the stars. Jez-Riah still led them on, through untold paths and a labyrinthine maze. She always maintained that she knew the right path to take.

Sometimes they had to crawl on their hands and knees through narrow and low passages that seemed to have no end. At other times they found themselves in wide, airy byways with a height almost beyond computation, for far above their heads they could just catch the faintest glimmer of light on the purple growth that covered the roof. Now and again springs bubbled up from the earth and ran along beside them, burying themselves as suddenly as they had appeared. The atmosphere was very sultry and fetid—very different from the air on the other side of the underground river that separated the underworld people from the desolate region they were now in. “How long, Jez-Riah?” they asked her over and over again. “How long before we reach the Tomb of Korah?” And her answer was the same each time. “Oh Men of the World Above, I do not tarry, I am leading you to the Tomb as fast as I can. Be content with that.” So the days passed—so the nights came round again. Days which had no night, nights which had no day. Time was measured by sleep. When they were all weary they lay down to rest and sleep. This they called night—when they awoke they called it day. But they had lost count of the times they had slept since Jez-Riah had come to them, they had lost count of everything. They had only one object before them—to reach the Tomb of Korah. Their plans ended there; they had no idea what their next move would be after they reached it. They had grown accustomed to their strange, purple companion—in fact she had become almost a necessity to them both. It was she who passed many weary hours for them, by recounting stories of the life of her people since they had lived below. It was she who told them even more fully than Har-Barim had done, how her people’s forefathers had risen up against Musereah, and Har-Raeon, and how they had consequently suffered throughout the ages. And both the boys translated Musereah as Moses, and Har-Raeon as Aaron, and were more than ever convinced that strange as the story was, this new race was indeed descended from the Israelites of the Old Testament and could claim Korah, Abiram and Dathan as its progenitors.

It was Jez-Riah who told them that behind a barred gate was built a golden tomb wherein had been deposited the remains of their first priests—“Har-Barim and Kartharn.” It was at their shrine that the ceremonies attached to the feast of Meherut were performed. It was their Holy of Holies, and it was over the bones of Har-Barim and Kartharn that the priests made their vows.

They asked Jez-Riah about the fire and she grew solemn as she answered them—“Ah, Men from Above, Our Fire is sacred—it is Holy. It is the symbol of our Jovah.—It is almost our God. The God of our forefathers took on one occasion the form of fire, so fire is sacred to us.”

“The Burning Bush,” said Alan in an undertone.

“But,” she added sorrowfully, “the power of the Fire is waning. According to one of our prophecies, when the Fire shall die, then, also shall all the seed of Korah die too. In all the ages that have passed since the earth closed against us, no fuel was needed for the Fire—it burnt of itself and never grew less. Then one day noises were heard in the earth—our land shook and trembled, and men fell on their faces in fear. From that day we knew the Fire was growing less. Our priests knew it—all our people knew it and terror was in all our hearts. Then our high priest looked up all the old laws and in the fourth book of Rabez-ka, Queebenhah the Seer writes—

‘When the Fire shall shrink, then is the time ripe for the people of Kalvar to rise. Live sacrifices must be offered to appease the God of Anger. Send forth a Light to the world above, and let it bring back men and animals and birds to feed the furnace of Light. Live sacrifices alone will keep the fire quickened—live sacrifices alone will prevent calamities falling on the Children of Kalvar.’

“So our wise men gathered together,” she continued, “and by the wisdom of all, the Light was made. The wise men of the temple and Kaweeka alone could handle it—for they were possessed of Holiness, and the Light was made from the Fire itself. Chemicals were drawn from the recesses of the earth, and in secret the Light was made.”

“How did they use it, Jez-Riah?”

“When it was sent out into the earth above, it was sensitive only to life. When any warm living thing of the world was near, it swooped down, and coiled round and carried its prey back to us.”

“I understand better,” said Alan to his cousin. “The Light is some magnetic electrical current with abnormal power. Ugh! It’s horrible.”

“But why did they stop sending out the Light for fodder to feed the flames?” asked Desmond.

“Because we realized that our time is short. Nothing will keep the Fire alive. The end is near.”

So they travelled—and then depression overtook them as their journey seemed endless and they got no nearer to their goal. Even Jez-Riah herself seemed to lose hope, and with tears in her eyes she would say pathetically “O Ar-lane, my senses seem dimmed—the way is dark. Surely we must come there soon!”

The monotony of the way drove the white men nearly mad. The monotony of the food sickened them. They felt half dazed; they forgot the reason of their march; they forgot, even, what the goal was toward which they were going. They knew only that some power within them urged them to go on and on and always on.

At last Jez-Riah’s eyes grew bright and her step alert. “Don’t speak,” she urged, “don’t speak!” So they went, until all the passages merged into one long tunnel—darker than the others through which they had come. The natural light shed from the earth itself, grew still more feeble, and they found it difficult to walk for fear of hidden pitfalls. Suddenly the passage ended and Jez-Riah gave a glad cry. “Behold, O Men of the Sun, this is the entrance to the Tomb of Korah.”

“Are you sure?” asked Alan.

“Quite, O Ar-lane. The paths we have been traversing were made by our forefathers long æons ago. After they had fastened Korah and all that appertained to him fast within the bowels of the earth, they had to fight their way through to make a place of habitation. They cut paths as they marched along, and when they found the Fire—there they made their home. I knew that when all paths merged into one, the way was near to Korah’s tomb.”

The place in which they found themselves was very disappointing. Their way just ended—it did not widen out at all, and the end was piled with stones and earth that had fallen through the ages. Their quest was over at last, and they took their first untroubled rest. They slept long and quietly, and it was Jez-Riah who awakened them and placed before them the food they were so heartily sick of. “Nay, eat,” she commanded, “your strength is needed more than before,” and feeling the truth of her words, they ate until they were satisfied and felt all the better for the food.

“The earth has fallen,” said Jez-Riah. “If we are to find the entrance to the tomb we must clear away all that rubble.”

Feverishly they set to work tearing their hands to pieces on the jagged stones until the passage behind them was nearly closed with the mass of rock and earth that they had displaced. Twice they slept, and then success came to them, for a solid slab of rock appeared in the wall—a rock that had been made smooth and upon which were carven hieroglyphics.

“I cannot read it,” said Jez-Riah, but Alan was already translating, for it was the Hebrew he knew, and not the corruption that had come down through the ages to the purple people.

“Read it aloud,” said Desmond, and Alan spoke the words of the inscription reverently.

“BY THE WILL OF THE EXILED CHILDREN OF ISRAEL.

“Korah, son of Izhar, the son of Kohath, the son of Levi, and his wives and his children and all that appertains unto him and to them, lie buried in this cave. For the wrath of Jehovah fell on his people who sinned against the Lord, tempted by the Evil one—Korah. This is his Tomb—cursed be the ones who open it before the day appointed is at hand.

“Dathan and Abiram, sons of Eliab, the son of Peleth, son of Reuben; Shedur, son of Helon, son of Abira, the son of Simeon. Priests, chosen by the banished Children of Israel in their new land of Kalvar—in the bowels of the earth.”

The cousins did little else but talk about the discovery until the time came for them to rest. Their labours had been rewarded; the Tomb of Korah had been revealed to them.

They worked hard when they awoke to move the massive block of stone. There was no secret spring to assist them—the stone had been placed in position some three thousand years before, and now seemed to defy all the efforts they made to move it. With rocks and stones used lever-wise they worked until after many “days” they succeeded in forcing the solid block of stone to the ground, but behind it was a wall closely built of stones and earth bound together with a rude cement. Their fingers were torn and bleeding in their attempt to pull the stones apart. “At last,” cried Alan in delight. For as he worked his hand had gone into space—the tomb was laid open before him.