CHAPTER XVI

THE PERFECT WORLD

Many hundred times the Kymo rose and set, and Ak-Alan and his wife, beloved of all Keemarnians, lived in peace and happiness. A son and daughter had been born to them, and now the time had come when the Rorka had received his call, and through the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata would make his exit from the world, and enter into glory.

“My son,” said he, “the voice came in my sleep last night. My room was bathed in a wonderful whiteness when the messenger from Mitzor called me. ‘When the Kymo reaches the full for thirteen days make ready—for on the fourteenth thou shalt meet the Great White Glory.’ I must now set my house in order. You will reign jointly with Chlorie. I can safely leave my country in your hands.”

“Father,” said Alan, “must you really leave us?” He was troubled. “Oh it’s terrible.”

“But why?” said Chlorie. “I shall miss my father it is true—for I love him dearly. But how can I wish him here, when his happiness lies yonder?”

“I don’t understand,” said Alan miserably. “Death is so sad.”

“But it is not—death—” said the Rorka. “I am simply—‘going away’.”

“That’s just it. You are going away, and you are never coming back.”

“That is true, my son. _I_ am never coming back—but you will eventually come to me. Why mourn? To mourn is selfish.”

“It’s no good,” said Alan. “I suppose I am of coarser clay. I can’t believe that I could ever ‘pass yonder’ through the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata. I come from another world. Suppose I die—oh you don’t know death as I do—but suppose it comes to Keemar through me, and afterwards through my children.”

“Have no fear,” said the Rorka, “that day will never come.” And so the last few days had passed, and Alan saw him enveloped in the incense, and vanish from sight.

Alan marvelled at his wife’s fortitude. He had felt the knife of death on Terra; this glorious parting was so different. He longed to believe that he, too, one day, would vanish thus, material and earthy though he was. And so Alan the Rorka, and Chlorie his wife were crowned, and occupied joint thrones in the land of Keemar.

Their joy in their unity, in the completeness of their life, was a constant wonder to them. They renewed their joys in their children—their life was almost perfect. Sir John was growing feeble. Part of the time he spent with Mavis and Desmond, and part with Alan. But wherever he went, Masters and Zyllia always accompanied him.

Mavis’ three children and Alan’s two, grew up like brothers and sisters; indeed, their parents were all like one big family. Alan had not long been on the throne of Keemar, when an urgent message was brought him, that Waz-Mula, humbly begged an audience.

“Who is he?” asked Alan.

“He is holder of the key to the Hall of Sorrows,” answered Y-Kjesta, “and sails the air bird, that plys to and fro from Fyjipo.”

“I remember him well. Bring him in.”

“O noble Rorka, I beg a favour of you,” said Mula.

“What is it that troubles you?”

“You remember Arrack the Miserable?”

“Well?”

“He has done a most noble thing, O Rorka. A most terrible scourge has come upon the Hall of Sorrows. A fire broke out. How or where it started no one can tell, but when I reached the place, it was a raging furnace, and the poor captives were beating against the gates in their frenzy to get out. The heat was intense—their skins were blistering. I landed safely, and rushed to undo the gates. But even as I did so, great tongues of fire curled out and licked round me. See, O Rorka, my hands are burnt—my hair is scorched. Three times I essayed to unlock the padlock, but the flames drove me back. Suddenly I heard a cry, and Arrack burst through the flames. ‘Throw me the keys,’ he cried, and his tone commanded and I obeyed. I watched him as he touched the red hot metal—the flames were fiercer than before. He never trembled or grew hasty. Although his clothes were in flames, and the flesh burnt from his fingers, yet still he strove to open the prison door. At length he succeeded. Five figures fell out on to the ground, burnt and still. I called to Arrack to save himself, but his only answer was to beat his way through the avenue of fire. Minutes passed and he did not return. We looked at the poor burnt things at our feet—their souls had departed, but as we looked their mutilated bodies disappeared. Then through the smoke and grime Arrack appeared bearing in his arms a burden which he laid at my feet. He returned again and again, and yet again. Five women’s lives he saved, and he returned again to save the life of a pet animal. Then, O Rorka, he fell at my feet. His face was burnt beyond recognition; his poor hands useless; his body one mass of blisters. He, and those he saved we brought to Hoormoori. The women are now in safety, but Arrack says his call has come. Oh, my Rorka, this then is my prayer. His one wish now, is to enter into glory through the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata. Will you grant him pardon, and answer his prayer?”

Alan was much moved. “Go, return to Arrack. Tell him Misrath shall come and administer the Sacrament himself.”

“May I say that?”

“Yes. Where is he now?”

“On board the air bird. He is in great pain, but I think I could get him taken to the Temple in safety.”

“See to it at once, my Waz.”

Hurriedly Alan sent for Misrath, and told him the news.

“He has purged his sins indeed,” said he.

So, with the rites of Schlerik-itata, Arrack left Keemar. He bent and kissed the hem of Alan’s garment, and sank back exhausted in his chair. And as the incense covered him, his voice could be heard murmuring—“Great White Glory, I come—I come.”

“And so there is to be no more Hall of Sorrows,” said Chlorie softly.

“No, my darling.”

“It’s gone for ever?”

“Yes. It has served its purpose, but I don’t think its omission will bring more sin into Keemar.”

“I believe you are right, Alan. It was a terrible place, and sometimes I think the punishment was too great for the sin.”

A blue-eyed curly-haired girl ran into the room. Breathless and flushed, she clasped a doll in her arms, and hugged a pink-cheeked apple. She was followed by a bright, eager-faced boy of twelve or thereabouts.

“No, John Alan, I won’t marry you,” said she. “I am Acuci, and Ipso-Rorka, and you are only Ak.”

The children did not see the grown ups who were hidden by a curtain, and their childish chatter went on unheeded.

“You must marry me, Acuci—I love you, and papa says that love is everything.”

The little maid pouted. “I love you, John Alan, and I think I’ll marry you after all.”

The two children embraced fondly, and ran out of the room hand in hand.

“My wife,” said Alan. “Don’t ever leave me. Teach me to know the real meaning of Schlerik-itata—teach me to believe.”

Chlorie offered her beautiful lips to her husband. “Love teaches everything, my husband. Love is powerful—love is mighty. Love will teach you even that.”

He strained her to his breast. “My wife—my wife—I love you so. The terror of parting is always with me. Teach me to believe—you see, dear, even in this Perfect World, there is a grain of sadness—of earthly discontent.”

“My husband—I have no fear—listen—.” And from outside came the merry laughing voices of their children at play. “In your children you will learn belief.”

_Envoi_

The time came when Sir John himself heard the Call. Half believing, half fearing, he bade farewell. The prayers were said, the incense rose about him, and he, like the Jovians themselves, was taken to the Great White Glory and was seen no more. And in that moment, Alan believed and was content.

“My wife,” he cried, “no longer is there any sadness in my life. I believe. Jovians we have become in body and in soul, I no longer fear—death.”

And hand in hand they sat, married lovers ever, and watched their children at play.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. 2. Anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.