CHAPTER XI

THE WRAITHS OF THE RORKAS

Alan remained motionless, watching the little craft vanish from his ken. He was thinking hard. Kulmervan had so far got the better of him, but the game was not yet won. It might be check to the King, but Alan was far from being mated. His eye searched the beach—there was nothing in sight; neither boat, nor sailing craft. He looked behind him at the many yawning cavern entrances. He was still in doubt as to the one which led to the Cave of Whispering Madness. He clenched his hands together till the knuckles showed white—there he was, alone on an island, impotent, useless—while the woman he loved was in the hands of a madman, and in danger, not of death as he knew it, but of dishonour, disgrace, and perhaps serquor itself.

There was a mist at sea, and already the little barque had been swallowed up in its grey folds—nothing was in sight on the broad expanse of water. He looked above him—he saw no air bird in the heavens, its body gleaming in the light. On the island there was no trace of humanity but himself. Hope seemed far away. Then suddenly he remembered Kulmervan’s words. “Take the most easterly path, my Waiko. Always to the East.” Unconsciously he turned to the left, and walked quickly across the sands. A great promontory of rock stood out before him, hiding from sight the next little bay. He strode towards it, and found it was impossible to get round it. Already the water was too deep, so he made up his mind to scale it. Clambering up the slippery rocks, he at length reached the top. There before him lay the whole stretch of coast line. Tiny bays; little rivulets coming down narrow valleys and emptying themselves at last in the sea; rugged headlands, and grassy slopes all took their place in the picture. None of these things, however focussed themselves upon his mind; one thing only he saw, and one thing only drew him helter skelter over the rugged rocks. A tiny boat, almost like the Rob Roy canoe he favoured in his ’varsity days, lay drawn high up on the beach, and near it, a little log cabin was built at the water’s edge.

Hurriedly he made his way to the little hut, and knocked loudly on the door. There was no reply and he tried it; it opened at his touch. He entered it—it was deserted, but he soon had proof of its owner. Upon the wall hung a beautiful painting of Chlorie—and it was signed “Kulmervan, from his kinswoman. Chlorie.” On a table by the window was a pile of books, and on the fly leaf of nearly every one was written in a strong hand, “Kulmervan, Taz-Ak of the House of Pluthoz.” Mostly the books were on Astronomy and Alan noticed with amusement one was called “Quilphis, or the most important unimportant Planet.” Quilphis—Terra! His world, once his all—now nothing.

He looked round the room, a door led on one side to the sleeping apartment, and on the other to the kitchen and offices. The whole place was tastefully furnished and showed signs of frequent use. Alan hurried to the seashore—the little craft was called the Chlorie. He sprang into it, and pushed off. In the bow he saw a tiny engine with three levers. He was already slightly acquainted with the simple Keemarnian machinery, so he pulled one down with assurance. Instantly the boat skimmed along the water at a terrific speed. Hastily he touched the second, a slower pace resulted, and the third stopped the boat altogether. With the first speed on, he ploughed out to the horizon. He could see no trace of Kulmervan. The sea was desolate and bare. He felt hopeless. Had Kulmervan swamped the boat, and were he and Chlorie now lying dead at the bottom of the sea? Death! He knew the Jovians had no death—yet surely they were not immune from drowning? Perhaps they would remain on the sea’s bed—serquor. The thought maddened him, and savagely he turned the boat first this way, then that, in his hopeless endeavour to find the fugitives. Kymo had sunk, darkness was setting in—he could see the faint outlines of the hut. Suddenly two beams of light shone out from its windows, which were as suddenly obscured. Kulmervan had doubtless returned. Quickly he turned the boat towards shore; he drew close in and beached her without a sound. Quietly he crept up to the open window and moved the heavy curtain ever so slightly.

There was Kulmervan in his easy chair, reading a book—but he was alone. A knock sounded and a man appeared.

“Do you want refreshment now, my lord?” he asked.

“Yes, Arrack. At once.”

“Shall I take refreshment to the lady, your mate?”

“No, Arrack. But stay—take her a glass of wine, and,” fumbling on his table—“melt this pellet in it. She will fall asleep. When she is asleep, carry her hither and place her in my room. ’Tis my wedding night, Arrack. I have an unwilling bride it’s true, but before Pirox the Killer, my mate shall she be this night.”

Arrack smiled evilly. “’Tis well, my lord. I will do thy bidding.”

“When you have brought her hither, stand sentinel at the rocky ledge. If Alan the Evil should appear, strike him down, bind him and acquaint me. Should that happen to him, then Pirox the Killer again will have a victim.”

Silently Arrack left the room to return almost immediately with a tray laden with food.

“Where did you go this midday, Arrack?” asked his master.

“To the Cave of Whispering Madness, my master. I built the sacrificial pyre beneath the altar. Everything is in readiness. I hardly expected you so soon. Two Kymos should have passed before you came.”

“The pyre is ready? Good! But what did you with the Chlorie?”

“’Tis on the beach as it always is.”

“Nay,” said Kulmervan, “when I landed at the covered bay, I dragged my unwilling bride by way of the beach. The Chlorie was not there, and I thought you must have sailed to the mainland for food.”

“It is there I swear, my lord.”

Kulmervan looked puzzled. “Could Alan have found it and—” he began—then—“Go quickly, Arrack, and see.”

Alan slipped round the corner of the hut, and in the darkness stood flush with the wall, completely hidden. He saw the figure of Arrack run lightly down to the beach, heard him get into the boat, and as quickly return. He reached his coign of vantage in time to hear Arrack say, “It is there, my lord. I saw and touched it. It has moved its position slightly, but the wind has been rather high to-day; otherwise it was as I left it.”

“That puling girl has taken my senses away,” grumbled Kulmervan. “I can think of naught but her. Go, Arrack, fetch her here. But remember, give her the wine first. When she awakens, she will have become my mate,” and he chuckled hoarsely.

Alan was in a quandary, he scarcely knew what to do. Was the secret way into the place where Chlorie was hidden, in the cabin or not? He wormed his way round the hut, and as he did so, he saw a door open, and in the ray of light a figure cross to a little lean-to shed, that had been built against some high ground. He gave Arrack a moment or two of grace and then followed him in. There on the floor was an open trap door with some steps leading from it into the unknown below. A length of cord was in a corner of the shed, Alan picked it up and then followed Arrack. At the foot of the steps, a subterranean passage led for some distance, and then opened out into a large cave. He remembered it—it was the one immediately under the secret exit in the Cave of Whispering Madness.

He saw Arrack in front of him—he had taken a key from his waist and had undone a heavy, metal door. Silently Alan crept nearer and nearer to him. He heard the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. He heard Chlorie’s gentle word of thanks. Now he could see the grim tragedy. Chlorie had finished the wine, and was now swaying to and fro; she tottered and fell on to a low couch in a corner of her prison. Arrack watched her until he was convinced she was fast asleep, then he put the wine bottle down and bent over the prostrate girl. He remembered no more—a mighty blow rendered him unconscious, and Alan tied up his unresisting foe, and left him helpless upon the ground.

Tenderly he raised Chlorie and bent over her—he was aching to kiss her sweet lips, but he remembered her anguished cry, “Not my lips, Kulmervan, not my lips.” No, until she offered them of her own free will, they should remain sacred to him. He knew she would sleep deeply for some time, so he examined his quarters. Chlorie’s cell was hewn out of the solid rock, with nothing in it but a chair, a table and a settee. There was the passage leading to the log cabin; the one with the glimmer of light that led he knew to the sea shore; and the one to the cave above. To the right, there was a tiny passage that looked almost like a crack in the rock. He peered through—it led on into the distance, and he was determined to try that. Arrack had carried a lamp which gave a good light. Alan picked it up, lifted Chlorie gently, and started down the passage. He wondered whether it would lead to safety, or to adventures even more horrible than many of those he had been through. He held Chlorie tightly; he was determined not to lose her again. Again the passage opened out into a cave—narrowed, and a still larger cave came into view. He saw a niche high up in the wall, and with his precious burden, he managed to reach it in safety. He found himself on a high narrow ledge, where they could rest in safety from the machinations of Kulmervan.

Chlorie woke to find her head supported by a strong arm, and her hands held between two firm ones. She looked up. “Alan,” she breathed, and made a tiny movement towards him. “My Chlorie,” he murmured, and their lips met in one warm long kiss. “Oh, my darling, you really love me?” he said brokenly at last.

“My Alan, I know not the customs of your world. In mime, it is shame to a maid who offers her lips before she is wed. Indeed, a maid would never be thus,” and she slipped from the circle of his arm—“even were she sworn to wed. I know not your customs, my Alan, but I am Ipso-Rorka, and my father’s child. I—I love you, Alan—”

“And you’ll be my wife?” he asked tenderly.

Shyly she hid her face on his breast “In truth, my Alan,—’tis sweeter far to be asked, than ask. I am glad you are of a different world—for your wooing is stronger and yet more sweet than ours. Oh, willingly, willingly, Alan, will I marry you.”

Alan had at last met and won his ideal, and he caressed and murmured sweet nothings to her, until they forgot they were fugitives—forgot that a madman would soon be on their trail—forgot aught but the joy of the present, and the hope of the future. Chlorie recovered herself first. Shyly she slipped her little hand into Alan’s. “My loved one,” said she. “My father the Rorka knows naught of Kulmervan and his sin. We must escape, reach him, and for the safety of the community, for the traditions of our dear land, we must send Kulmervan to the Hall of Sorrows.”

“My Chlorie, nothing will purge him of his sin. He is mad—quite mad.”

“But he must go away all the same. See what unhappiness he has caused already—see what he may do in the future!”

“You are right. He must be put away. He has money, position and cunning.”

“Where are we, my Alan?”

“I know not where this leads,” said Alan, “but it is the only road I dared take.”

Hungry, tired and worn, they crept on along the little narrow ledge. Suddenly a cave, lighted from without through slits in the wall, burst on their view, and Chlorie gave a startled exclamation. “The Hall of our Fathers,” she cried, “I have been here before.”

“What is it?”

“This is the place where the regalia of each reigning Rorka is placed, together with his throne, when he has left the fair land of Keemar, through the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata.” Round the cave were thrones of all descriptions—some in heavy marble—others in gold adorned with precious jewels; others just simple, wooden thrones, that showed their antiquity.

“Down, down on your knees,” cried Chlorie, and Alan realized that the cave had become alive with living figures. The thrones were occupied by men who wore crowns of gold and jewels, and who carried sceptre and orb in their hands. The cave that had been dead and cold only a minute before, was now alive. But there was no sound; all was hushed and still, and the figures were shadowy and unreal. “Oh my Mitzor,” breathed Chlorie. “The joy! To think I should have been permitted to witness this scene—to see the wraiths of my forefathers. My Alan, watch—read a meaning in this visitation, for it augurs well.”

Alan felt unable to move. He was petrified at the sight before him—at the ghostly pageant of years gone by. Slowly the Rorkas—kings of æons past—rose from their thrones and walked in single file to the end of the cave. There they ranged themselves on either side of a slightly raised platform of rock. They prostrated themselves, and Alan saw a thin vapour rise and like a curtain shut out from sight the little stage. Then it lifted, and through the shadowy film he saw strange figures disporting themselves amid the strange scenery. Then, all at once, he realized that he was watching shadowy figures of himself and Desmond and Mavis. He saw their little cottage at Arroch Head; he witnessed their hasty flight in the Argenta; once more he saw the destruction of the world, his world. But this time it was different. Like a tiny star it shone white and bright, then it shivered, turned red like a tiny ball of fire in the sky, burst into a thousand different pieces, and then disappeared from sight. And as it disappeared the scene clouded again, and the filmy curtain of haze shut out the picture from his sight. The scene changed—once more he saw himself as an actor on the stage, but this time he was a minor character in the drama. Kulmervan was the villain, and played the chief character. He witnessed their meeting in the little lane—he watched the flight of the air bird, Chlorie—the descent, and the abduction of the Ipso-Rorka. So the play went on until one more picture showed clearly before him. He saw Chlorie—Chlorie in a gown of diaphanous white with a crown of gold upon her head. By her side he stood, crowned and with orb in hand; and between them stood a child—a man child who bore traces of his mother’s beauty and his father’s strength. Then darkness came upon the scene, and Alan drew his trembling love still closer beside him.

Then the wraiths of the Rorkas became faint and misty, and when next he looked, they had vanished from sight.

“We shall win through, my Alan,” said Chlorie. “The wraiths of our Rorkas never show themselves except to the favoured few.”

“Do you know the way out from here?”

“Yes. Straight through yonder archway a passage leads to the sea. We are not far from Hoormoori. The island is Waro—the Isle of Joy. It is a safe place for Kulmervan to have chosen for his madness—no one would have sought for evil here.”

“How far is Hoormoori then?”

“From where we emerge into the light, we shall see the citadels and towers of my home. Oh Alan—the joyous moment when I can take you by the hand and lead you to my father—my chosen one—my love.”

“How shall we reach the mainland?”

“We must light a beacon on the shore. Fire is a signal, and some one will row across to us.”

In a short while they emerged through a tiny door out on to the beach. They gathered sticks and laid them crosswise upon each other until they were man high, and then set the pile ablaze. At length came a sign from the distant shore where white minarets gleamed in the light, and golden cupolas rose high in the air. There rose against the whiteness of the scene tall tongues of flame and curling smoke.

“Their answer,” said Chlorie. “Some one will soon come now.”

They watched a craft put out to sea—they saw the pale green sails grow clearer and nearer. Soon they could distinguish the crew. Chlorie ran down to the sea’s edge, and stood gaily clapping her hands.

The little launch beached with a groan and a rattle and a Waz stepped out. “We saw your signal,” he began, then a look of recognition came over his face and he fell on one knee and clasped the Princess’ hand and impressed a loyal kiss upon it. “Oh my Ipso-Rorka,” he cried. “We have mourned you as serquor. No tidings could we get of you. Mournings and tears have been in Hoormoori for ten and one Kymos. The Rorka has shut himself within the precincts of his palace, and neither eats nor drinks; but sits always alone—silent, and quiet, and drear.”

“Thank you for your welcome, my Waz. I have had strange adventures since I left my father’s house. These I will tell my people when the right moment arrives. But first lead me to my father.”

The journey to the mainland occupied a very short space of time, and Waz Okoyar obtained a bhor for the Ipso-Rorka.

“I shall not forget you, Waz Okoyar,” said Chlorie. “Reward shall be given you for your speedy assistance to me.”

“Nay, my Princess, it is a joy to have served you.”

Hoormoori proved to be even more beautiful than Minniviar—the streets were wider and the buildings more magnificent. The bhor stopped outside a marble building. “I told him to stop here,” whispered Chlorie. “It is better that I break the news to my father myself, of my safe return.” They passed through a noble courtyard into a lovely garden. “Our own private apartments. I shall be able to get to my father unnoticed.”

Through a little door, up a short flight of stairs, and down a narrow corridor. A heavy curtain of blue hung outside a doorway. Chlorie lifted it gently. Alan drew back. Much as he loved her, he could not intrude at such a sacred moment.

“Father!”

“My child! My child!”

There was the sound of kissing—a whispered conversation, and then Alan heard his name. Slowly he entered the room, and at last was face to face with the Rorka—King of all Jupiter, but above all, father of his loved one. The majesty of the Rorka overwhelmed him, and he bent his knee in homage.

“Nay, rise,” said a gentle voice, musical, benign, soothing. “Rise and greet me, oh my Alan, for Chlorie has told me you are to be my son.”