“Diana was installed again in her temple, and the people rejoiced.”
“But surely you had the right to fight him for the kingship?”
There was no mistaking Ronald’s meaning, and a flush spread over the face of Carstairs.
“You doubt my courage?” he said proudly. “You are wrong there — the hell I undergo would make death a joyful release. The priests had foreseen that. While I was away they had made me the high-priest of Diana — Virbius, as you rightly guessed — and it is forbidden for the priest to challenge the ruler — a stranger in the old days was usually the challenger. A bold and valiant man.” He looked queerly at Ronald.
“You mean that I . . .?”
“Exactly. That is why I brought you here. There is a legend with us — I suppose you can find it in any old national tradition — that strangers should come who would bring back prosperity to the land. That is why you are welcome.”
“When the time comes — it is not yet — you must win your way through to the oak, unarmed, and pluck a sprig from the Golden Bough. Then you must slay the monster, and become King of the Woods. You wonder why I have told you all this? You will neither of you ever leave this place.”
Calm conviction and assurance was in the voice.
Only one thought was in Ronald’s mind, blotting out everything else. “Then if I win Diana — we can get married, if she is willing?”
“Marriage — if you want it. You will, according to ancient custom, become the father of her children.”
“If she is willing to marry me — there is no obstacle?”
“Her willingness does not enter in — it is the custom.”
Ronald looked at the man. Beneath his outward calm he saw his face was deadly pale and beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. Something like pity for the half-pagan, whose life had been ruined through laws which he would not break, filled Ronald’s mind; but there was a matter to be cleared up.
“Virbius, you must answer one question. Did you murder, or cause my father to be murdered?”
“I am no murderer.” He drew himself up proudly. “I swear it by the sacred grove, and by Diana and her temple.”
“You know nothing of the death of my uncle? Did Ganzani?”
“I swear it. Ganzani hasn’t the pluck to kill a fly.”
Ralph had remained huddled up in his chair, listening to the story, which was half Greek to him.
“My sister?” he said. “What have you done with her?”
Virbius turned to him as though talking to an inferior being.
“You and your sister came here of your own free will. No one asked you — you must take the consequences. Your sister is reserved for a purpose, and you will not see her till the spring celebrations next week. They will interest you.”
He rose abruptly and beat on a small bell-like gong which gave out a silvery sound. Priests entered and stood rigid at the curtain.
“Conduct these guests back to their dwelling-place,” Virbius said in Greek. Then in English he added:
“You will remain there till you receive instructions.”
They passed down the marble stairs, bathed in moonlight, to the edge of the lake. Suddenly, as they took their seats in the boat, out of the night, from the dark woods behind, came an awful sound, like the howling of a beast in pain. It quivered in the air — a mournful tide of sound. The boatmen quailed, and looked on one another with frightened eyes.
“Orestes,” Ronald whispered.
The lights were burning dim in their room, as though the oil were exhausted. Ralph stole over to Ronald and knelt beside the couch.
In a quick whisper he said:
“Look over there — do you see that curtain moving? I swear I saw something.”
“Nonsense. Your nerve is going; it’s imagination.”
“There!” Ralph gripped Ronald’s arm tightly. “See him — he’s coming round the corner. Have you got your knife handy? — it’s our only weapon.”
A hand had grasped the edge of the curtain, a claw-like hand which gradually drew the curtains apart. The two gazed, fascinated, at the moving curtain. What strange creature was stealing upon them?
A face showed ghastly in the moonlight and the dim lamplight, a dreadful, bearded face, with a terrible scar showing white across the cheek.
“Andrieff — the brigand!” Ralph whispered.
The man heard the words in the dead stillness, and came forward into the room. The tension had been too much. Ronald sprang to his feet, his precious knife in his hand.
The figure stood with folded arms, looking at them.
“What do you want?” Ronald asked, in a thin cracked voice.
A sort of grunt was the only answer, and then a familiar voice asked in English: “Haven’t you rather ruined everything by not obeying my instructions?”
“Sinclair!” Ralph exclaimed. “By the gods, it’s Sinclair!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE VALLEY OF DEATH
Bitter amazement held them spellbound. To Ronald’s mind there came the thought that he had gone mad, and that all that was happening around him was the outcome of a disordered brain. An awful thought presented itself to his mind: that he was really in that dreadful place in the old monastery, and would wake up and find himself dying there in darkness and horror.
Sinclair’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“I have much to tell you, but it is dangerous here — we must be quick. I have taken grave risks to come at all. Sit down; we must talk in whispers.”
He took a seat by the couch on which Ronald had flung himself, and Ralph sat on the floor, the three making a huddled group in the dark. Sinclair spoke sharply:
“I can’t tell you all my story now — it’s too long, and not very interesting. You see me now a Bulgarian brigand, and trusted by these people in so far as they trust anyone. We fetch the tribute which is levied on them, and guard their valley from strangers.
“It took all my knowledge of things and long experience to get this post; and much bribing. If only you had waited, as I told you, things would have been so different. Now? I really see little hope — you have played right into their hands.”
“It’s all my fault,” Ronald began. “I couldn’t wait. I simply had to search for her.”
Sinclair interrupted with impatience. It was seldom that any of his colleagues had ever seen him angry — his equable temper had been proverbial at the Yard. He was now as near losing his temper as he had ever been in his life.
“I know — you simply couldn’t wait — that’s the trouble. You couldn’t trust to me from the very beginning. You must go to Scotland Yard — you must broadcast the story and drag the Gorringes into it, and do far worse mischief than you can possibly realise. But, enough. Time is too precious. You’ve seen Carstairs — the pinchbeck priest. The old priest who took you to the temple is in my pay — partly from greed and partly fright. He dare not betray me now. I’ll tell you all about that some day, if we win through. Now tell me as concisely as you can exactly what Carstairs told you.”
Ronald recounted the whole interview faithfully, Ralph supplying details from time to time, while Sinclair listened without a word. He dared not smoke, and this fretted his nerves.
At the end of the narrative he waited so long that Ronald asked if he had made himself clear.
“Perfectly. I am debating in my own mind whether to tell you any more, or leave you in ignorance. You deserve it.”
“It is quite just,” Ronald said humbly. “Do what you think best. We will follow your guidance.”
Sinclair gave a hard laugh. “Yes — I think you will, now. I had everything ready. I sent a messenger — a Bulgar — to England with full instructions. He would have brought you here — the way was prepared and your sprig of mistletoe, which you have carelessly lost, would have brought you to me. I had arranged it all, and Carstairs would have been taken by surprise. Don’t you see? We should have been the attacking party. I had planned for
you to appear, with the document you have seen, boldly before the priests and claim the right of combat for Diana. Carstairs could have done nothing against the priests, and you would have been a national hero, married Diana, and — I had other plans then, which have been completely upset. There would have been no complication of Ralph and his sister.”
“But, surely, Sir Arthur,” Ralph broke in, not in the least abashed by any sense of remorse, “these people are about as poor a lot as I have ever seen. They haven’t a bit of spirit; they are a wretched crew. Why can’t we bring the Bulgars here, or even tell our Foreign Office, and send a few planes over?”
“You talk like a child. What hold have we over Diana? Besides, the mischief is done. You don’t understand. Carstairs has told you only what he wanted to — truth as far as it goes, but only a half- truth. Peace-loving people? They are fiends — Didn’t I tell you in London I had seen things? Never mind; listen to me. They go about their work quietly and sing their songs — you haven’t seen them in frenzy, blind, fanatical frenzy — you will. Why do you suppose they stay here at all?”
“Haven’t they taken a vow, or something?” Ronald asked.
“Rubbish. They can’t leave. Have you been offered a drink, colourless and bitter? “There was a note of grave anxiety in his voice.
“Yes, last night — we didn’t touch it.”
“At last I see some sense in you. That was the beginning — the first dose, which would have done you no great harm.
“Have you ever heard of a race in the Austrian Tyrol who live on arsenic? They are brought up from their earliest years and take every day doses which would kill any grown man stone-dead. They have wonderful complexions, and take no harm, as they are inured to the poison. Well, these people are the same. For generations they have drunk a liquor distilled from a mountain plant containing arsenic, with the same results. But they could not live outside the valley unless they got the drug. That — and not a vow — is what keeps them here. Only Carstairs’ father must have gradually ceased his doses, or perhaps he never took the stuff, and so was able to get away without harm; and of course Carstairs was not brought up to it, for special reasons. Don’t touch that liquid, but pour it away secretly. It has this effect. The people become docile and dreamy — like the fabled Lotus-Eaters, but on two occasions in the year they are compelled to go without it, and then their passions are roused — as you will see. They drink wine and a sort of haschisch which makes them mad. The spring festival next week and the ceremonies of Diana, which are held in August.”
“But where do we come in?” Ralph asked, rather bored with all this.
“You? — I’ll tell you,” Sinclair answered in an angry whisper. “A stranger is sacrificed at the spring festival, to ensure a blessing on the land, in such a manner that it revolts one even to describe it. You are to be that stranger next week. Carstairs took care not to tell you that, didn’t he?”
“Ralph!” Ronald exclaimed. “What do you mean?”
“Hush! Not so loud. Oh, yes; Carstairs has it all planned out nicely. You would have gone on comfortably, thinking they were a nice, kind people — till it was too late. It sounded very fine — all that about fighting the King of the Woods. He would have used you for that purpose, because he is not allowed to contest. Either you would be killed, or you would kill the Priest-King, in which case your own death would not have been long delayed.”
“I don’t understand. If I win I shall be the King of the Woods, and he could not fight me.”
“Did anyone fight with your father?” was the crushing reply.
“We can’t allow Ralph to come to harm. What’s to be done?” Ronald asked.
“At last you come to me for advice, I see! Never mind. There is only one chance — a slender one. They will not sacrifice a sick man. It would bring evil luck instead of good on the fields. Ralph must fall ill — genuinely ill. Then a substitute will be found.”
“What substitute?” Ralph gasped. “Not my sister?”
“Do you think I would try and save you at the expense of your sister? No. Someone else.” He evaded the direct answer.
“But what about Doris?” Ronald asked, still puzzled.
“She was to have been the virgin tribute which is offered each year, but there is a prophetess, or some such creature, called Mgira — an hereditary post. By much trouble I have bribed the priest to have her dedicated, for that position, as the old one is dying. Carstairs does not know at present. She cannot be touched, and is safe for the moment. But Carstairs will stick at nothing.”
“What is the matter with my sister? Has she been drugged or mesmerised?” Ralph enquired.
“No, boy.” The voice was contemptuous. “How could she fall on your neck, with the priest watching? — or even shake hands? Her only chance, and yours, too, was for her merely to identify you. I instructed her myself.”
Realisation of what this man had done came to Ronald with sudden force, and a sense of his own incompetence. He vowed to follow Sinclair’s advice in future blindly.
“What’s happened to Smart?” Ralph asked. “In all that’s happened so quickly we’ve forgotten him. He saved my sister’s life.”
“I wondered whether you were going to remember your friends. Smart is safe enough — being a doctor; they’re glad enough to have him, and he’s kept pretty busy with these people.”
“You seem to know everything that has happened. You knew that I had been robbed of the mistletoe. How did that affect us?”
“Never mind now. If we live through this time, I have much to tell you that will astonish you. I cannot stay longer.”
He pulled a flask from beneath his rough coat. “Give Ralph a dose of that in a wine-glass.” He pointed to the table. “It will cause his temperature to go up, and make him delirious. You must keep on with the medicine, whatever you may feel about it — it will not kill him, though it is a deadly poison in a diluted form. Give him a dose when necessary; that is, when he shows signs of recovering. He will be violently sick and have a rotten time of it, but it’s that or his death, and perhaps his sister’s as well. It’s your fault, for bringing him.”
“How long will this last?” Ralph asked, with apprehension — he did not appreciate the calm way Sinclair described his coming sickness.
“For a week — he must not recover till the orgies come on. It will be better for him to be here than watching what takes place, I assure you.”
Sinclair rose stiffly from his seat. He seemed to hesitate for a minute; then he said slowly:
“I had not meant to tell you, Ronald. Diana’s fate is coming close. Before the summer festival in her honour — her honour, mark you! — she is to be given to the King of the Woods. Such is the custom. Carstairs did not tell you that. There is a mock marriage, I believe. It is the fate from which the mother fled. When a child is born — a female child — the mother is sacrificed on the black stone in the temple, and the infant becomes the new Diana. That is what she has to suffer for your sake.”
Cold horror seized Ronald. He trembled with the dread of it.
“God!” he said. “Never! Sinclair, we must stop this.”
“It is all in God’s hands,” Sinclair remarked gravely.
“One thing more.” Sinclair passed his hand inside his rough tunic, and produced a small parcel. “Here is the ‘receipt’ I showed you in London, and which you signed, and your ring. You must have them now and produce them at the right time, when you make your challenge. Even Carstairs could not harm you then, as it is the oldest custom of the people, the very foundation of their religion. Guard it carefully.”
He thrust the packet into Ronald’s hands, and left them as silently as he had come. The curtain fell back as he passed through, and they were alone.
“Hell!” Ralph said expressively. “We’re in a pretty mess.”
“Nothing like so bad as if Sinclair hadn’t been here. It’s wonderful the way he’s looked after us. All our misfortunes are our own doing. You remember, he sai
d he must go abroad. He knew of this place somehow and saw the only way was to fight it out here. I don’t see any daylight anywhere, but if anyone can save us, it’s Sinclair.”
“Meanwhile I have to go through a bad attack of sea-sickness! And I don’t see why he should be so grumpy to us, hang it all!”
“He’s got good cause, and I think a lot of it is put on, to make us do what he tells us. Come along; take your medicine like a good chap.”
Ronald poured out the required dose, and brought it to Ralph, who smelt the concoction and swallowed it with the same feeling as Socrates must have felt when he took the fatal cup.
“Ugh! Beastly,” he said.
“Better lie down.” Ronald made him comfortable on his couch and took a seat by his side — there was no thought of sleep now.
Thoughts raced through his head. The whole mysterious drama had unfolded itself with lightning swiftness before them. First Carstairs’ story, and then the sudden appearance of Sinclair, and his dreadful revelations with regard to Diana and her awful fate. He clenched his fists and swore that if no other way showed itself, he would go to the dismal grove and face this monster at once.
Ralph was tossing about. Presently he spoke. “Ronald, old man, I feel rotten bad. I’m cold all over and sick and giddy. I believe Sinclair’s poisoned me.”
Ronald gently covered him with a rug and put his hand on his hot forehead. It seemed unfair that this boy should suffer, and he be well and strong. All night he watched by the faint rays of moonlight which filtered through the curtains.
Dawn found him there. He hadn’t the heart to give Ralph another dose, for already he was delirious and babbling of London, and then of the horrors of the monastery.
The two girls who attended them entered without ceremony.
The Yellow Mistletoe Page 19
