CHAPTER VII

HATRED ON KEEMAR

Marlinok, the Jkak’s majordomo, called on Sir John and Alan a few days after they had witnessed the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata. “Will you be ready,” he asked them, “when the Kymo is at the full, to start on your journey to Hoormoori to render homage to the Rorka?”

“Are we all to go?” asked Alan.

“But one of you need go,” he answered. “The Rorka will visit Minniviar later, and then the other strangers may make their bows.”

“I am glad of that,” said Sir John, “for I should like to stay here in quietness and retirement for a little while. I am beginning to feel the burden of my age, and am worn out with the strain of the last few years.”

“I will go to Hoormoori,” announced Alan, “I can start at whatever time the Jkak thinks best.”

“He has prepared incense and jewels for you to take as gifts from the absent ones,” said Marlinok, “if you will now see Waz-Y-Kjesta all your arrangements can be made.”

“I’ll go now,” said Alan.

Alan was going down a pretty lane toward where the air birds were housed when he suddenly became aware of footsteps behind him. He turned—immediately the footsteps ceased, and he could see no one. Thinking he must be mistaken, and fearing nothing from the Keemarnians, he went on his way blithely. The air was deliciously warm, and the fresh breeze, balmy with the scent of flowers, tempered it. Still the footsteps followed with monotonous regularity; as he hastened, so they became quicker; as his died down, so they ceased altogether. Yet he had no sense of fear, no feeling of impending evil; the thought of peril on Keemar was impossible to imagine. The Keemarnians were of a breed as different from the earth to which he belonged, as he was from Heaven! He passed delightful homely fields, gleaming with buttercups and daisies. Friendly cows chewed the cud in sleepy enjoyment. They did not rise as he drew near, but only raised their sleepy heads, and looked at him out of their liquid eyes with interest and friendliness. A pig grunted in a corner as she suckled her squealing young; a donkey brayed; a couple of goats were nibbling the grass while their kids frolicked near them. He saw strange animals too. There was the gorwa of the deer family, a beautiful creature, the colour of a Scottish stag, and its counterpart in miniature, but with none of its brother’s timidity. All the animals on Keemar were of a smaller build than those he had been accustomed to. The cows were even smaller then the little fawn Jerseys so valued in England. He had seen terriers and bull dogs, dalmatians and spaniels in this strange world, and the bigger breeds were all represented on a smaller scale. The Jkak had a dog—a Borzoi, Alan would have called it, yet perhaps it was no bigger than a small Irish terrier; but strangely enough, its beauty was not diminished by its minuteness. So Alan went on. The way was strange to him, but he was enjoying the calmness of the scene, and he knew his excellent bump of locality would sooner or later lead him to Y-Kjesta. Again the footsteps beat time with his own, and anxious for companionship, he stepped into the shadow of a tree, and hoped to waylay a shy, but friendly stranger. A second passed. The footsteps had ceased—then came a rustling, and the head of Kulmervan the Student appeared over a honeysuckle bush. Silently he came forward, alert and watchful until he was on a level with Alan.

“Hullo!” said Alan amiably. “Where are you going, Kulmervan?”

The effect was magical! Kulmervan jumped as though he had been struck, and his face whitened. He remained silent. “I’m going to see Waz-Y-Kjesta,” went on Alan. “Are you coming my way?”

Kulmervan did not reply, but a baleful light gleamed in his eyes, and his mouth twitched.

“What’s the matter?” asked Alan curiously.

Suddenly Kulmervan spoke, and there was a wealth of passion in his tones. “Why did you come here, you strangers? I was happy until you came. I was contented. You have made me want—want the unknown. You have stirred my heart and filled it with longings that I cannot yet fathom. Why have you come to stir up misery among a happy and contented race?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Alan, “I have done nothing.”

“You’ve done everything. You dared to raise your eyes to the level of Chlorie, our Ipso-Rorka. You put thoughts about her into my head. Oh—” as Alan would have broken in—“I read your thoughts, it was easy, my friend. You dared to think of her as a woman—even your woman. It was an impertinence, I tell you. I love Chlorie with my whole soul, and before Mitzor the Mighty, I’ll carry her away into some far off land, before she can look with a favourable eye on a man, not only of another world, but a man of a coarser nature than our own.”

Kulmervan was breathless when he finished, for his words had come thick and fast, tumbling over themselves in his great excitement. Alan was speechless, and looked as he felt, absolutely uncomfortable and ill at ease. “Why your very pose proves guilt,” continued Kulmervan.

“Why should I not love Chlorie?” demanded Alan, “Why should my love for her cause strife between us?”

“Because, my stranger, I am a Prince of the Rorka’s House. I am not only Kulmervan the Student; but Taz-Ak of the House of Pluthoz. Why else would Chlorie have honoured my party—why else come to the dance of a student? There are but four Keemarnians that Chlorie can marry, and I rank second.”

Alan wondered at the time why the Princess should come in so natural a manner to the Student’s reception. He wondered at the time at her familiarity with Kulmervan. She had patted his hand, smiled into his eyes, and had honoured him more than once with a dance.

But Alan, too, was in love. Idiotically, insanely in love with a woman who had not even troubled to raise her eyes to his, at his presentation. His pulses throbbed at the remembrance of the touch of her fingertips as he raised them to his lips. He loved her, and in that moment was born a desire to overcome all obstacles, and princess or no princess, to win her. But he knew too that in this pleasant land of Keemar an enmity had come upon him, and wondered whether the Curse of Death had brought it. He wondered whether the dead and decomposed body of their faithful Murdoch had indeed brought sorrow to this fair land.

“I’ve spoken to your Ipso-Rorka only once,” said he. “The night of your party. She has called on my uncle and Mavis. Mavis has been out driving with her several times. But I, unfortunately, have missed her each time. Surely you are not jealous because I—”

“Because you love her? I am,” said Kulmervan thickly, “and I say this—if you so much as dare to raise your eyes to her, if you dare to address her, I’ll make you suffer for it—aye, even though I also suffer eternally for it,” and with that he turned on his heel and walked quickly away.

Alan was very perturbed about this meeting, and felt inclined to tell the story of it to Waz-Y-Kjesta,—yet the sacred feeling he had for Chlorie was not to be spoken of, or bandied about from man to man. No, he would keep it to himself, and trust to time and common sense to cure Kulmervan of his strange hatred.

He walked quickly on, and already could see the air birds in the distance, circling above their houses. The little lane turned quickly at right angles—there was a steep descent, and hedges rose at either side to a height of six or seven feet, while the overhanging branches of the trees met in the middle and formed a leafy arch. The grassy banks were carpeted with flowers, and the scent hung sweet on the air. Again the narrow path turned sharply to the right, and before Alan realized it, there almost at his feet, stretched across almost the full width of the path, lay a lion, full grown, with his shaggy mane stirring in the breeze. Alan stopped suddenly, and his heart beat quickly. The lion’s eyes were closed—he was sleeping.

The Englishman was almost afraid to move lest the savage beast should spring upon him and devour him. He looked round to the right, the bough of a tree hung low over the path. He leapt up the bank, and with one mighty spring caught hold of it, and swarmed up to a topmost branch.

He was safe—but the sudden sound had startled the lion, who rose up and with a low growl prowled backward and forward beneath the tree.

It was an uncomfortable position to be in—the tree bough was very thin, and bent and twisted and crackled ominously. Still the King of Beasts remained sentinel underneath. Alan felt the perspiration on his face as the limb shivered and bent, yet there was no other to which he could move. Still the animal remained near, his quickened senses no doubt wondering at the noise he heard, and waiting to see what had caused it.

The minutes dragged by—the branch was weakening perceptibly—he could already see the white of the inside where the branch was gradually tearing away from the parent trunk. There was no one in sight, and still the lion walked restlessly to and fro.

The Kymo was sinking rapidly. It was already low down on the horizon, and Alan knew he had been about two English hours in his perilous position. He saw a branch above his head, and he wormed his way along to see if he could in any way reach it. Carefully he went—slowly—suddenly with a scream and a crash the branch gave way, and Alan felt himself being hurled to the ground.

The distance was not great, and he landed in the centre of some sweet-smelling, soft bushes. He was dazed, and wondered when the lion would pounce. He knew he was powerless to help himself. He heard the pad, pad, of its feet; he could hear the sharp intake of its breath—then the thing was upon him. He shut his eyes and waited.—Nothing happened but the snuffing of the wild beast, and a gentle nosing as it examined the stranger.

Alan opened his eyes. The animal was sitting on its haunches surveying him, and he felt there was amusement in the beast’s eyes as it watched him. He moved slightly—still the beast watched motionless. He raised himself up from the encircling bushes and clambered down. He knew he would have to face the inevitable.

Suddenly a voice hailed him, and he saw Waz-Y-Kjesta coming round the bend in the lane. “Stand back,” he cried. “There’s a lion here—he may spring!” But the Waz came on fearlessly. Alan was petrified, his tongue was parched, no sound came from his lips. He watched the Waz in frozen horror.

The Keemarnian was smiling. “Where have you been, my friend? You are late—very late. I thought you had missed your way, so I came to seek you.” He was now within three feet of the lion. “What is the matter? Why are you so grave? Has aught affrighted you?”

Alan pointed to the tawny beast. His hand was shaking. Surely the farce must end soon, the lion spring, and tragedy culminate the play.

“Why Maquer,” said the Waz affectionately, “what are you doing here? You seldom visit us, you know.”

The lion moved toward him, and rubbed his great head against the Keemarnian’s leg, while Y-Kjesta talked to him and petted him.

“He’s tame then?” gasped Alan with a rush of relief. “You know him?”

“No, my friend. I’ve never seen this Maquer before—they generally stay in rocky places.”

“But he is so friendly.”

“All beasts are friendly here, my Alan. What—would Maquer have hurt you on your Earth?”

And Alan laughingly told of his fright at the lion. He had learnt one more truth about Keemar—there were no savage animals upon it. Of a truth, it was a perfect land!

Waz-Y-Kjesta was highly amused at his friend’s story, and together they went toward the air birds. The Keemarnian airships were indeed wonderful creations. White and gold, they were shaped like swans, with graceful wings outspread, gleaming in the light. They were made of a mixture of wood and metal, and contained accommodation for perhaps forty passengers, as well as the Waz in command, and a staff of ten. Although not as big as the ill-fated Argenta, the Keemarnian airship was possessed of a speed nearly thrice as great.

“This is the Chlorie,” said Y-Kjesta, “and our fastest bird. The Jkak has given orders that you are to choose your own vessel, so perhaps you would like to see over some others?”

“No,” said Alan, looking at the blue hangings, and seeing in them the reflection of his love’s eyes. “No, this one will do beautifully.” And the Waz was impressed by the easy way in which his friend was pleased. He little realized that it was the name of the vessel—the Chlorie—that attracted him. And in the strangeness of it Alan tried to read his fate.

“We’ll go for a short cruise,” said the Waz, “and go back to the landing stage Minniviar.”

There was not a cloud in the sky, and the warmth from the sun’s rays was pleasant.

“I can’t understand how you benefit so considerably from the sun, your Kymo,” said Alan. “Let me see, you must be at least five times further away from the sun than we were on our earth, yet instead of your light and heat being reduced to about one twenty-fifth of our supply, you appear to benefit to exactly the same degree.”

“Ah, my friend, that is easy to explain. Dark clouds hover outside our globe—”

“Yes, bands of vapour,” corrected Alan.

“Well—vapour. These bands completely encircle our world. They are saturated with a composition of gas, sulphuric ether I think you would call it. Well, this gas acts as a trap to the sun’s rays. It admits the solar rays to our planet but prevents their withdrawal. Therefore it permits the heat to enter, but prevents its escape.”

“Well?”

“Consequently we get the maximum of light, and an equable temperature.”

“Do you then, have no seasons here?”

“Seasons?”

“Yes, Spring or Winter.”

“Oh yes, it is cold at the poles—very cold, but as we get nearer to the equator it becomes warmer, and hardly varies. You see, my Alan, our world differs from yours. The axis of rotation is almost perpendicular to our orbit, consequently we are not subject to seasons as you were in Quilphis.”

“I didn’t know that before.”

“We too, are more flattened at each end—indeed, there are many differences between our world that is, and yours that was.”

“Do you ever have rain here?”

“Yes, my Alan. How else would plants live and crops thrive? But again, we do not suffer from excesses.”

“But don’t you have hurricanes that last from six to seven weeks? Surely those are excesses.”

“Hurricanes? I do not know the word.”

“Hurricanes—winds—tornadoes.”

“Why they affect only the polar regions, and nothing lives there.”

“Well,” laughed Alan “I think your world is a great improvement on ours.”

The scenery they passed on this pleasure trip was very varied, but very similar to the world he knew at its best. Here he could imagine he was in the highlands of Scotland with its crags and hills and torrents. There in Southern France with its vineyards sloping to the river’s edge. Again, the warmth of colouring suggested the tropics, and the next moment they were flying over great inland arms of a sea, that were reminiscent of the fjords of Norway.

They descended at last, and went to the Jkak to bid him farewell. There a surprise awaited Alan.

“My son,” said the Jkak. “Our Ipso-Rorka has decided to travel in the Chlorie to Hoormoori. She desires to reach her father’s side without any more delay. Taz-Ak Kulmervan has obtained permission from his kinswoman to attend her on her journey. But you need have no fear, my Alan. I doubt whether you will even see the Princess. She will keep within the precincts of her apartments, and will be attended exclusively by her maid.”

Alan felt distressed. Should he tell the Jkak of his encounter with Kulmervan? Had he obeyed his first impulse and confided in the kindly old man, he would have saved both himself and Chlorie from much suffering. As it was—well, who can tell which is always the right course to take? Errors are made, and paid for in suffering, even in a Perfect World.

“Is it far, my Jkak, to Hoormoori?”

“Forty Kymos will take you there.”

“Forty Kymos—about twenty of our earth days! It is quite a long way then?”

“Ah, my friend, you have no idea of the size of our planet.”

“And yet you are all one nation—with the same customs and religion and speech! It is hard to comprehend, my Jkak, for at home on our little islands, we were composed of four distinct races.”

“The Ipso-Rorka will board the Chlorie immediately,” said the Jkak. “Now Mitzor be with you. Farewell.”

There was no sign of the Princess when Alan boarded the ship, neither was Kulmervan to be seen, but he was surprised to find Waiko lounging on the deck. He gave Alan a cursory nod of recognition as he passed, but did not rise or offer any greeting.

“Don’t you know Waiko?” asked Y-Kjesta in some surprise.

“Why of course. I met him at Kulmervan’s party.”

“Then why does he not rise and greet you according to Keemarnian custom? You have broken bread with him—”

“Please, Y-Kjesta, don’t say any more. I—I think I understand, and perhaps it’s my fault. Let it pass.”

“As you will, my Alan.” The Chlorie rose, soared gracefully over the marble buildings of Minniviar, then tilting her nose, climbed swiftly.

The Princess remained in her cabin, her doors were closed, and the balconies round her apartment shuttered.

“Ought I to pay my respects to the Ipso-Rorka?” asked Alan.

Waz-Y-Kjesta looked at him in horror. “Nay, my friend. It is not seemly to address our Ipso-Rorka unless she summons you first. She has given strict orders that she is not to be disturbed.”

So! Kulmervan had begun his work of revenge. Darkness fell, and Alan retired to his little cabin. There were few on board, ten souls in all, and the whole place was wrapped in stillness. All the same he felt very restless—the four moons of Jupiter were shining brightly; they were now passing over a sea, and the moonbeams were playing on the rippling waters. He rose, dressed himself, and was about to leave his cabin, when he heard a faint movement outside. His senses were quickened, he felt for the first time since his entrance into this new world, a feeling of impending danger.

In a second his mind was made up—quickly he placed a cushion on his couch and covered it over with rugs: in the semi-darkness it almost showed the curves of a living body. The door latch rattled softly, and Alan slipped behind the folds of a heavy silken curtain. Softly the door opened, until it was just wide enough to permit the passage of a man’s body. Alan peered through the curtain opening and saw that it was Kulmervan who had entered.

The Keemarnian stepped over to the couch and touched the coverlet. “He’s asleep,” he whispered in his own language, and Waiko entered softly. “Have you the spray?”

“Yes, my Kulmervan—but is it necessary? I’m afraid—”

“Fool,” hissed Kulmervan. “The spray.”

Waiko handed him a long piece of tubing, the end of which was fastened to a small bulb. Kulmervan laid the nozzle end on the bed—there was a slight hissing sound, and the room became sweet with a subtle scent.

“Quick,” whispered Kulmervan to his accomplice, “hasten, lest the fumes overpower us,” and the two hurriedly left the chamber closing the door tightly behind them.

The air was already heavy, and Alan felt a drowsiness coming over him. With a mighty effort he opened the window and leant out. It was a battle royal between the fumes and the fresh air. Alan felt his head reel and his senses swim, but the pure night air conquered, and the little cabin was soon free of its poison.

Silently Alan sat until the dawn broke, thinking over the strange problem that had presented itself to him. He had made an enemy, unwittingly it is true, but an enemy who would stop at nothing in order to further his ends. He wondered what effect the powerful fumes would have had upon him. In a land where there was no death, could life be taken? What would have happened to him had he inhaled them? He was determined to ask Waz-Y-Kjesta at the first opportunity. Suddenly from without a cheery voice hailed him. It was the Waz.

“How did you sleep, my friend?” and he entered the cabin.

“Very well indeed,” said Alan, glibly lying.

“I slept badly, my Alan. I had evil dreams of you. I saw you lying—serquor—oh!”

“What is serquor?”

“It is the worst thing that could befall us on Keemar, my friend. Seldom it happens—but once in a lifetime. The body stiffens, sleep comes from which one never awakens. Life is, to all intents and purposes, extinct. Yet the body does not melt into nothingness, as at the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata. It remains on earth, cut off from the living, cut off from those already in glory,—useless, desolate, alone.”

“What causes it?” asked Alan eagerly.

“Sometimes a blow or a fall—or it can be produced artificially by inhaling morka, a gas used in the weaving of our silks. The workers wear shields over their mouths when using it, and are very careful. Never have I known such an accident to occur, but it could. It was thus I dreamt of you, my Alan.”

Alan smiled. He had come across as strange proofs of telepathy as in the old world between kindred spirits. Whatever happened he knew Waz-Y-Kjesta was his friend. “Perhaps I am in danger, my friend,” said he. “If so can I count on you?”

“My Alan, I would suffer even serquor for you,” he answered fervently. And Alan knew he spoke truly.