CHAPTER XII

THE FATE OF KULMERVAN

Hoormoori was rejoicing! Their Princess, Chlorie the Ipso-Rorka, was found. Not only was she alive and well, but she had found her mate. True he was from another world, but she loved him, and the Jovians, like the men of Terra, dearly loved a romance. The wedding day was fixed, telepathic messages had been sent to Sir John, and he and his party were coming to Hoormoori as guests of the Rorka.

The Rorka was very troubled over Kulmervan. Never, in the history of Keemar, had such a terrible tale of iniquity been told. His cunning, his audacity, his double life was a terrible blow to the proud old Keemarnian.

Waz-Y-Kjesta was thankful to welcome Alan back. Day after day he had circled over the island, and sent search parties to find the missing ones. The Isle of Waro, which was joined to the larger isle by a narrow strip of sand, they left unexplored. It was holy ground—consequently they missed the log cabin of Kulmervan. Waz-Y-Kjesta, Alan, and a staff of twenty men embarked on the Chlorie and flew to Kulmervan’s retreat. They landed close to the hut, and although firearms were unknown on Keemar, they, on Alan’s advice, protected themselves with heavy sticks and carried thick silken ropes.

They found the hut empty and signs of a hasty retreat. From the little house they crossed to the “lean-to” and descended into the subterranean passage. They ascended the steps to the Cave of Whispering Madness, and forced the door open. The Cave was empty. Alan looked behind the huge fossil animal and hoped to find the body of Waiko—but it had gone. Ominous foot prints on the sandy floor proved that his body had been found, and Kulmervan and Arrack had dragged him back to the Altar. As they reached the slab of stone Y-Kjesta gave a cry of horror.

“See, my Alan. Mitzor have mercy!”

There on the Altar were the charred remains of what had once been a man. The bones were twisted into horrible forms, as if, in their last convulsive agony, they had writhed in vain on the table of fire. One bony arm hung over the side. Every scrap of flesh had been burnt from it—even the tips of the finger bones were missing. The skull was hairless—the eyes had been scorched from their sockets. It was a horrible sight and Alan shivered.

“Who is it?” asked Y-Kjesta.

“I am afraid it was Waiko. Heaven grant he was serquor when that madman found him.”

Gentle hands attempted to move the charred remains from the bed of pain—but they fell to powder as they were touched. The whisperings in the Cave served to make the horrors more intense, and the Keemarnians turned their heads as they passed the human sacrifice.

Down the steps they all travelled, but no trace of Kulmervan could they find. They forced the outer entrance to the cave, but although they hunted through the leafy byways and hidden avenues, he continued to evade them. Again the cave was searched, and the Waz was inclined to give up the task.

“Is it possible,” asked Alan at last, “that he is hiding in the place of the Wraiths of the Rorkas?”

“No. Nothing evil could live in the presence of our holiest men.”

“Nevertheless, I’d like to go there,” suggested Alan.

The Waz shrugged his shoulders. “As you will, my Alan. Remember, of all Keemarnians, only the Rorkas can visit again the home of their life. They would not show themselves to such a thing of evil as Kulmervan has become.”

But at the entrance to the Holy Place they saw Kulmervan. Stiff he was standing, and upon his face was a frozen look of horror. Y-Kjesta fell to his knees. “The Wraiths,” he cried.

A cloud of haze had passed away, and upon the little stage was being enacted a drama. High in the air a great white cloud hovered. It was pink tipped with a golden glory shining through; at either side were lesser clouds, but all tinged with the glorious roseate hue. And in chains beneath them stood the astral figure of Kulmervan, surrounded by Keemarnians who had gone before. And as they watched, his clothes melted away, and naked and ashamed he stood before his judge—the great white glory. Gradually a dusky shadow seemed to come over the gleaming body, darker and darker it grew until it was jet black. Not the black of an African native, but a cruel black; a thick black that was horrible to look upon, so evil was its appearance. Then all the Keemarnians shrank away from the solitary evil figure standing alone before the glory. The shadowy figure of Kulmervan looked round him wildly, and threw out his hands in supplication. It was no use. His prayers were too late. A yawning pit showed up bright with flames. Yellow tongues of flame licked round the mouth—long, red flames danced together in riotous harmony. Then out of the terrible place appeared a figure, so terrible that Alan closed his eyes and strove at once to forget it. A figure that was neither man nor animal, but part of both. A creature with bloodshot eyes and a baleful smile, with teeth that looked like fangs, with arms that twisted and twirled like evil serpents. Nearer and nearer the figure drew, until, radiating with heat, it drew close to Kulmervan. There was a mighty noise—the Great White Cloud vanished leaving the scene in a pitchy darkness—only the fiery cavern gleamed and glistened. The venomous figure put a sinewy arm about the form of Kulmervan—there was a crackling noise—the hideous smell of burning flesh, and the picture vanished as the two figures disappeared into the fiery jaws. Then Y-Kjesta spoke. “The Great White Glory has judged. We cannot punish now.”

There was a fearsome shriek, and Kulmervan rushed from the cave, and fell prostrate on the ground outside. Y-Kjesta stooped over him. The body was rigid—the eyes fast closed.

“Serquor has descended upon him,” said the Waz. “Righteousness has spoken.”

With an awed feeling, Alan watched them pick up the body and carry it to the air bird, and as they did so a mighty roar filled the air. There was a sound as of thunder—a blinding flash—then silence. The Cave of Whispering Madness had gone! Shivered to atoms, there was nothing but a hillock of rocks and sand to mark the last resting place of Waiko the Unfortunate. The little passage to the Sacred Cave alone remained perfect. When the last shock of the earthquake had subsided, Arrack the servant came out from his hiding, and threw himself upon the mercy of Alan. Firmly he was bound, and taken to the Chlorie, there to await the judgment of the Rorka.

“My son,” said the Rorka, when he had been told the whole story. “Kulmervan was shown his future punishment. He may not be suffering now, for he is in the unhappy state of serquor—but some day, when he leaves this world, his time of pain will come. A case of glass shall be made to hold his cold and rigid body. In the Hall of Sorrows shall it be placed as a living testimony of the fruit that is garnered by evil. To Fyjipo the accursed shall be taken—there to remain, until he changes the state of serquor, for his lasting punishment.”