“Down, my son; down, my Baboon; down on to thy hands and knees. We enter the presence of She, and, if thou art not humble, of a surety she will blast thee where thou standest.”
I halted, and felt frightened. Indeed, my knees began to give way of their own mere motion; but reflection came to my aid. I am an Englishman, and why, I asked myself, should I creep into the presence of some savage woman as though I were a monkey in fact as well as in name? I would not and could not do it, that is, unless I was absolutely sure that my life or comfort depended thereon. If once I began to creep upon my knees I should always have to creep, which would be a patent acknowledgment of inferiority. So, fortified by an insular prejudice against “kootooing” that, like most of our so-called prejudices, has a good deal of common sense to recommend it, I marched in boldly. Presently I found myself in another apartment, considerably smaller than the anteroom, of which the walls were hung about with rich-looking curtains of the same make as those over the door, the work, I discovered subsequently, of the mutes who sat in the antechamber and wove them in strips, that were afterwards sewn together. Also, here and there about the room stood settees of a beautiful black wood of the ebony species, inlaid with ivory, and spread upon the floor were other tapestries, or rather rugs. At the top end of this apartment was what appeared to be a recess, also draped with curtains, through which shone rays of light. For the rest the place was empty and untenanted.
Painfully and slowly old Billali crept up the length of the cave, and with the most dignified stride which I could command I followed after him. But I felt that it was more or less of a failure. To begin with, it is not possible to appear dignified when you are following in the wake of an old man writhing along on his stomach like a snake. Thus, in order to walk sufficiently slowly, either I had to wave my leg for some seconds in the air at every step, or else to advance with a full stop between each stride, like Mary, Queen of Scots, going to execution in a play. Billali was not expert at crawling—I suppose his years stood in the way—and our progress up that apartment was a very long affair. I was immediately behind him, and on several occasions was sorely tempted to help him forward with a kick. It seemed absurd to advance into the presence of savage royalty after the fashion of an Irishman driving a pig to market. That is what we looked like, and the idea nearly made me laugh aloud. Indeed, I was obliged to work off the tendency to unseemly merriment by blowing my nose, a proceeding which filled old Billali with horror, for he looked over his shoulder and, making a ghastly face at me, murmured, “Oh, my poor Baboon!”
At last we reached the curtains, where Billali collapsed flat on to his breast, with his hands stretched out before him as though he were dead, and I, not knowing what to do, began to stare about the chamber. Presently I became aware that somebody was looking at me from behind the curtains. I could not see the person, but I could distinctly feel his or her gaze, and, what is more, it produced a very odd effect upon my nerves. I was frightened, I do not know why. The place was a strange one, it is true, and looked lonely, notwithstanding its rich hangings and the soft glow of the lamps—indeed, these accessories added to, rather than detracted from, its loneliness, just as an empty lighted street at night has always a more solitary appearance than one that is dark. It was so silent, and there lay Billali like a corpse before the heavy curtains, through which the odour of perfumes seemed to float up towards the gloom of the arched roof above. Minute grew into minute, and still there was no sign of life, nor did the hangings move; but I felt the gaze of a watching being sink through and through me, filling me with a nameless terror, till the perspiration stood in beads upon my brow.
At length the curtain began to stir. Who could be behind it?—some naked savage queen, a languishing Oriental beauty, or a nineteenth-century young lady, drinking afternoon tea? I had not the slightest idea, and should not have been astonished at seeing any of the three. Indeed, I was beyond astonishment. Presently the hanging agitated itself, then from between its folds there appeared a most beautiful white hand, white as snow, and with long tapering fingers, ending in the pinkest nails. This hand grasped the curtain, drawing it aside, and a voice spoke, I think the softest and yet most silvery voice that I ever heard. It reminded me of the murmur of a brook.
“Stranger,” said the voice in Arabic, but much purer and more classical Arabic than the Amahagger talk—“stranger, wherefore art thou so much afraid?”
Now I flattered myself that, in spite of my inward terrors, I had kept a complete command of my countenance, and was therefore a little astonished at this question. Before I had made up my mind how to answer it, however, the curtain was drawn, and a tall figure stood before us. I say a figure, for not only the body, but also the face, was wrapped with a soft white and gauzy material in such a way as at first sight to remind me most forcibly of a corpse in its grave-clothes. And yet I do not know why it should have given me this idea, seeing that the wrappings were so thin that I could distinctly see the gleam of the pink flesh beneath them. I suppose it was owing to the way in which they were arranged, either accidentally, or more probably by design. Anyhow, I felt more frightened than ever at this ghost-like apparition, and the hair began to rise upon my head as a certainty crept over me that I was in the presence of something that was not canny. I could clearly distinguish, however, that the swathed mummy-like form before me was that of a tall and lovely woman, instinct with beauty in every part, and also with a certain snake-like grace which heretofore I had never seen anything to equal. When she moved a hand or foot her entire frame seemed to undulate, and the neck did not bend, it curved.
“Why art thou so frightened, stranger?” asked the sweet voice again—a voice which, like the strains of softest music, seemed to draw the heart out of me. “Is there that about me which should affright a man? Then surely are men changed from what they used to be!” And with a little coquettish movement she turned herself, holding up one arm, so as to reveal all its loveliness and the rich hair of raven blackness that streamed in soft ripples down the snowy robes, almost to her sandalled feet.
“It is thy beauty that makes me fear, O Queen,” I answered humbly, scarcely knowing what to say, and I thought that as I spoke I heard old Billali, who was still lying prostrate on the floor, mutter, “Good, my Baboon, good!”
“I see that men still know how to beguile us women with false words,” she answered, with a laugh which sounded like distant silver bells. “Ah, stranger, thou wast afraid because mine eyes were searching out thine heart; therefore wast thou afraid. Yet, being but a woman, I will forgive thee the lie, for it was courteously said. And now tell me how came ye hither to this land of the dwellers among caves—a land of swamps and evil things and dead old shadows of the dead? What came ye for to see? How is it that ye hold your lives so cheap as to place them in the hollow of the hand of Hiya, into the hand of ‘She-who-must-be-obeyed’? Tell me also how comest thou to know the tongue I talk. It is an ancient tongue, that sweet child of the old Syriac. Liveth it yet in the world? Thou seest that I dwell among caves and the dead, and naught know I of the affairs of men, nor have I cared to know. I have lived, O stranger, with my memories, and my memories are in a grave which mine hands hollowed, for it hath been truly said that the child of man maketh his own path evil;” and her beautiful voice quivered, and broke in a note as soft as any wood-bird’s. Suddenly her eye fell upon the sprawling frame of Billali, and she seemed to recollect herself.
“Ah! thou art there, old man. Tell me how it is that things have gone wrong in thine household. Forsooth, it seems that these my guests were set upon. Ay, and one was nigh to being slain by the ‘hot-pot,’ to be eaten of those brutes, thy children, and had not the others fought gallantly they too had been slain, and not even I could have called back the life which once was loosed from the body. What means it, old man? What hast thou to say that I should not give thee over to those who execute my vengeance?”
The woman’s voice had risen in her anger till it rang clear and cold against the rocky w
alls and I thought that I could see her eyes flash through the gauze which hid them. Poor Billali, whom I had believed to be a very fearless person, positively quivered with terror at her words.
“O ‘Hiya!’ O She!” he said, without lifting his white head from the floor. “O She, as thou art great, be merciful, for I am now as ever thy servant to obey. It was no plan or fault of mine, O She; it was those wicked ones who are called my children. Led on by a woman whom thy guest the Pig had scorned, they would have followed the ancient custom of the land, and eaten the fat black stranger who came hither with these thy guests the Baboon and the Lion who is sick, thinking that no word had come from thee about the Black One. But when the Baboon and the Lion saw what they would do, they slew the woman, and slew also their servant to save him from the horror of the pot. Then those evil ones, ay, those children of the Wicked One who lives in the Pit, they went mad with the lust of blood, and flew at the throats of the Lion and the Baboon and the Pig. But gallantly they fought. O Hiya! they fought like very men, and killed many, and held their own, and then I came and saved them, and the evildoers have I sent on hither to Kôr to be judged of thy greatness, O She! and here they are.”
“Ay, old man, I know it, and to-morrow I will sit in the great hall and do justice upon them, fear not. And for thee, I forgive thee, though hardly. See that thou dost keep thine household better. Go!”
Billali rose upon his knees with astonishing alacrity, bowed his head thrice, and, his white beard sweeping the ground, crawled down the apartment as he had crawled up it, till finally he vanished through the curtains, leaving me, not a little to my alarm, alone with this terrible but most fascinating woman.
XIII
AYESHA UNVEILS
“There,” said She, “he has gone, the white-bearded old fool! Ah! how little knowledge does a man acquire in his life. He gathers it up like water, but like water it runs between his fingers, and yet, if his hands be but wet as though with dew, behold a generation of fools call out, ‘See, he is a wise man!’ Is it not so? But how call they thee? ‘Baboon,’ he says,” and she laughed; “but that is the way of these savages, who lack imagination, and fly to the beasts they are kin to for a name. How do they call thee in thine own country, stranger?”
“They call me Holly, O Queen,” I answered.
“Holly,” she said, speaking the word with difficulty, and yet with a most charming accent; “and what is ‘Holly’?”
“ ‘Holly’ is a prickly tree,” I replied.
“So. Well, thou hast a prickly and yet a tree-like look. Strong art thou, and ugly, but, if my wisdom be not at fault, honest at the core, and a staff to lean on; also one who thinks. But stay, thou Holly, stand not there; enter with me and be seated by me. I would not see thee crawl before me like those slaves. I am aweary of their worship and their terror; sometimes when they vex me I could blast them for very sport, and to see the rest turn white, even to the heart.” And she held the curtain aside with her ivory hand that I might pass in.
I entered, shuddering. This woman was very terrible. Within the curtains was a recess measuring about twelve feet by ten, and in it a couch, and a table on which were fruit and sparkling water. By it, at its end, stood a vessel like a font cut in carved stone, also full of pure water. The place was softly lit with lamps formed out of the beautiful vessels of which I have spoken, and the air and curtains were laden with a subtle perfume. Perfume too seemed to emanate from the glorious hair and white clinging vestments of She herself. I entered the little room, and stood there uncertain.
“Sit,” said She, pointing to the couch. “As yet thou hast no cause to fear me. If thou hast cause, thou shalt not fear for long, for I shall slay thee. Therefore let thy heart be light.”
I sat down on the foot of the couch near to the font-like basin of water, and She sank down slowly on to its other end.
“Now, Holly,” she said, “how comest thou to speak Arabic? It is my own dear tongue, for Arabian am I by my birth, even ‘al Arab al Ariba,’ an Arab of the Arabs, and of the race of our father Yárab, the son of Kâhtan, for in that fair and ancient city Ozal I was born, in the province of Yaman the Happy. Yet thou dost not speak it as we used to speak. Thy talk lacks the music of the sweet tongue of the tribes of Hamyar which I was wont to hear. Some of the words, too, seemed changed, even as among these Amahagger, who have debased and defiled its purity, so that I must speak with them in what is to me another tongue.”*
“I have studied it,” I answered, “for many years. Also the language is spoken in Egypt and elsewhere.”
“So it is still spoken, and there is yet an Egypt? And what Pharaoh sits upon the throne? Still one of the spawn of the Persian Ochus, or are the Achæmenians gone, for it is far to the days of Ochus?”
“The Persians have been gone from Egypt for nigh two thousand years, and since then the Ptolemies, the Romans, and many others have flourished and held sway upon the Nile, to fall when their time was ripe,” I said, aghast. “What canst thou know of the Persian Artaxerxes?”
She laughed, making no answer, and again a cold chill went through me. “And Greece,” she said; “is there still a Greece? Ah, I loved the Greeks. They were beautiful as the day, and clever, but fierce at heart and fickle, notwithstanding.”
“Yes,” I said, “there is a Greece; and, just now, it is once more a people. Yet the Greeks of to-day are not what the Greeks of the old time were, and Greece herself is but a mockery of the Greece that was.”
“So! The Hebrews, are they yet at Jerusalem? And does the Temple stand that the Wise King built, and if so, what God do they worship there? Is that Messiah come, of whom they preached so much and prophesied so loudly, and doth He rule the earth?”
“The Jews are broken and gone; the fragments of their people strew the world, and Jerusalem is no more. As for the temple that Herod built——”
“Herod!” she said. “I know not Herod. But tell on.”
“The Romans burnt it, and the Roman eagles flew across its ruins, and now Judæa is a desert.”
“So, so! They were a great people, those Romans, and went straight to their end—ay, they sped to it like Fate, or like their own eagles on the prey!—and left peace behind them.”
“Solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant,” I suggested.
“Ah, thou canst speak the Latin tongue, too!” she said, in surprise. “It has a strange ring in my ears after all these days, and I doubt me that thy accent does not fall as the Romans put it. Who was it wrote that? I know not the saying, but it is a true one of this great people. It seems that I have found a learned man—one whose hands have held the water of the world’s knowledge. Knowest thou Greek also?”
“Yes, O Queen, and something of Hebrew, but not to speak them well. They are all dead languages now.”
She clapped her hands in childish glee. “Of a truth, ugly tree that thou art, thou growest the fruits of wisdom, O Holly,” she said; “but of those Jews whom I hated, for they called me ‘Gentile’ and ‘heathen’ when I would have taught them my philosophy—did their Messiah come, and doth He rule the world?”
“Their Messiah came,” I answered with reverence; “but He came poor and lowly, and they would have none of Him. They scourged Him, and crucified Him upon a tree, but yet His words and His works live on, for He was the Son of God, and now of a truth He doth rule half the world, but not with an empire of the world.”
“Ah, the fierce-hearted wolves,” she said, “the followers of Sense and many gods—greedy of gain and faction-torn. I can see their dark faces yet. So they crucified their Messiah? Well can I believe it. That He was a Son of the Living Spirit would be naught to them, if indeed He was so, and of that we will talk afterwards. They would care little for any God if He came not with pomp and power. They, a chosen people, a vessel of Him they call Jehovah, ay, and a vessel of Baal, and a vessel of Astoreth, and a vessel of the gods of the Egyptians—a high-stomached people, eager of aught that brought them wealth and power. So they crucified their Mess
iah because He came in lowly guise—and now they are scattered about the earth? Why, if I remember, so said one of their prophets that it should be. Well, let them go—they broke my heart, those Jews, and made me look with evil eyes across the world, ay, and drove me to this wilderness, this place of a nation that was before them. When I would have taught them wisdom in Jerusalem they stoned me, yes, at the Gate of the Temple those white-bearded hypocrites and Rabbis hounded the people on to stone me! See, here is the mark of it to this day!” and with a sudden movement she rolled back the gauzy wrapping on her rounded arm, and pointed to a little scar that showed red against its milky beauty.
I shrank back horrified.
“Pardon me, O Queen,” I said, “but I am bewildered. Nigh upon two thousand years have rolled across the earth since the Jewish Messiah hung upon His cross at Golgotha. How, then, canst thou have taught thy philosophy to the Jews before He was? Thou art a woman, and no spirit. How can a woman live two thousand years? Why dost thou befool me, O Queen?”
She leaned back on the couch, and once more I felt her hidden eyes playing upon me and searching out my heart.
“O man!” she said at last, speaking very slowly and deliberately, “it seems that there remain secrets upon the earth of which thou knowest little. Dost thou still believe that all creations die, even as those very Jews believed? I tell thee that naught dies. There is no such thing as Death, although there be a thing called Change. See,” and she pointed to some sculptures on the rocky wall. “Three times two thousand years have passed since the last of the great race that hewed those pictures fell before the breath of the pestilence which destroyed them, yet they are not dead. Even now they live; perchance their spirits are drawn toward us at this very hour,” and she glanced round. “Of a surety it sometimes seems to me that my eyes can see them.”
She: A History of Adventure Page 16
