The Yellow Mistletoe

by Walter S. Masterman

  The people were filing out of the temple, and the lamps were burning dimly in their silver globes. Only the heavy, sickly smell of the incense wrapped them round like a mystery.

  Ralph laid his hand on Ronald’s arm. “It’s all very beautiful, though. They are a quiet people, loving flowers and music.”

  Ronald turned fiercely on him.

  “You don’t understand. It’s worse — far worse than I feared.”

  The place was empty now, except for the priests who had conducted them to the temple. The old man had gone and the others were evidently awaiting instructions. At length he came from behind the curtains and beckoned them to follow him.

  Instead of taking them out by the way they had come, he led them past the black stone, and to the inner sanctuary. A sense of impending doom filled Ronald, more instructed than his companion. The priest drew aside a curtain at the corner of the dais, and they entered a chamber decorated with priceless rugs and statues. A fountain sparkled in the middle, and lamps of gold lit the place. The inevitable curtains surrounded the room, woven with pictures of gods and men. Artemis, the great huntress, was shown, and Orestes slaying Thoas King of the Chersonese, and the sacrifice of Iphigenia, priestess of Diana — and the face was the face of the Diana they knew.

  Seated on a throne-like chair, and still vested in his robes of office, Carstairs awaited them alone. He made a motion with his hand to the priests, who withdrew, leaving the two friends to face the one-time friend — now priest in the Kingdom of Nemi.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CARSTAIRS REVEALS HIMSELF

  “So you have come — as I decreed that you should.” Carstairs spoke with quiet dignity, as befitted his appearance, but Ralph was not to be overawed by what he considered his comic-opera costume.

  “Look here, Carstairs,” he broke out, advancing to the throne, “what have you done with my sister?”

  The man they had known as Carstairs held up his golden sickle.

  “Stop!” he said in a voice of command, at variance with the pleasant accent they had known in England. “I have sent for you to tell you of things which you have to know, but you must forget the Carstairs of Cambridge and London. He no longer exists — his work is done.” A smile of arrogant contempt showed itself on his beautiful face for a moment, transforming it to that of a satyr.

  “Sit down.” He beckoned them to the richly decorated chairs of stone. “You must listen, and not interrupt — otherwise I shall have you dismissed.”

  Ralph was about to protest; and even Ronald, anxious as he was to hear the story, resented the insolence of the man. Carstairs saw something of this in his face. A look of anger showed for one instant, and was gone.

  He leant forward and spoke to Ronald fiercely.

  “You think you have your grievances and sufferings — that you have been wronged. Weigh your petty sorrows with mine when I have finished my story, and be a man.” He sat up and proceeded in a calmer voice:

  “I must remind you both that you came here of your own accord. You were determined to search for her who was not for you, and never belonged to you, and that in spite of the fact that she expressly told you not to follow her.”

  “You forced her to write that,” Ronald flashed at him.

  “I must remind you that you are not to interrupt. I did not force her to write that, and I do not lie.” There was an air of crushing sincerity about the man which reduced Ronald to silence. They seated themselves to listen.

  “You have been instructed in the history of the old times,” — he addressed Ronald, ignoring Ralph altogether. “Your father was a learned man, and you, too, have read much, as I know. In the dim past my ancestors worshipped at Nemi — at the grove and temple of Artemis, whom the Romans called Diana. The Priest-King of Nemi held his sway as King of the Woods, guarding the sacred oak until he was slain himself by a stronger, who ruled in his stead. Such was the custom — it is common knowledge to educated men.

  “But when the Christian heresy spread to Rome — a worship for sick women and slaves — the Romans, to their undoing, adopted this base cult, and were overwhelmed by stronger nations, as our King himself was always conquered by a stronger. It is the law of Life.

  “Repentance — forgiveness — the worship of an executed criminal Jew — Not so were our splendid gods!” The light of fanaticism shone in his eyes.

  Ronald rose to his feet.

  “Look here, Carstairs, I want to hear your story — badly; but leave my religion out of the argument, or we’ll go. We each have our own beliefs — leave it at that.’ ”

  For a moment Carstairs looked his anger; then he spoke.

  “You are right — I beg your pardon. I have you at a disadvantage. But please refrain from calling me by that hideous name, which only reminds me of the time I spent in Hell — in your England.”

  “Thank you,” Ronald answered quietly, seating himself again. “I know your name — it is not Carstairs, as you say. It is Virbius, High Priest of Diana and Minister to the King of the Woods.”

  Carstairs nodded. “You are well instructed. But to my tale — for it is long, I fear. When the Romans became soft and effeminate — never mind the cause — it was no longer possible to worship in the ancient ways. The gods of beauty and humanity were insulted and their shrines desecrated. The worship was proscribed.”

  “Human sacrifice, for example,” Ronald burst out.

  “Yes — human sacrifice. Why not? Is not the whole world based on human sacrifice, and what greater honour can we do the gods than by offering our best? But let us not discuss theology. My people had to leave the beautiful lake and grove where for centuries they had dwelt apart. For years we made search for some secluded spot where we could be at peace. A traveller told us of wild tribes in the mountains in the country of the great Alexander, a wild land in which even the Roman eagle had never flown. Here was a hidden lake among mountains.

  “On an appointed day we moved away — the whole tribe: splendid men and women, pure Greeks. With mourning and lamenting we turned our backs on perfidious Italy.

  “We came here. I need not tell you of all that happened on the way — the fightings and the privations and the deaths by sickness. It is all recorded in our chronicles. The savages thought us gods who had come among them — they soon held us in awe and guarded our valley from all intruders. Would that it had been always so.

  “We were strong and a warlike people then, and we had arts and mysteries which the barbarian feared. Also we had learned writers and poets and workers in marble, who made the temple and the statues and the houses you have seen, through the centuries that have passed. An awful vow was laid on each generation that they should never leave the valley, and strangers never came, since the savages who guarded our mountains killed them, as a rule; but some were brought to us . . .”

  “And murdered?” Ronald interrupted.

  “They were sacrifices to the gods — it is our custom. Only as you know — since you have been instructed — if a slave or a stranger could but get through and break from the sacred oak a sprig of the golden bough, he was safe from harm and could challenge the King of the Woods to mortal combat.”

  “What’s all this?” Ralph asked. “I never heard — ”

  “Because you have never read,” Carstairs answered. “Shepherd knows all about that.”

  “Yes, that’s quite correct — it’s ancient history,” Ronald said impatiently. “Go on, please.”

  “In course of time, the race became other than they were,” he said sadly. “They retained their beauty, by a means I cannot reveal to you, but they lost their fighting qualities, and their art became debased. They turned to strange vices, and from inbreeding they became as you see them. They no longer have large families, and in each there is an idiot or a sufferer from goitre — as I learnt in England.

  “No longer do we hold our position from the majesty of our men and the greatness of our art, but the Bulgar brigands still keep our valley inviolate, for the
ir own interests — we pay them a heavy toll in goods and metals and precious stones. We are serfs, slaves, cattle.” There was bitterness in his tone — the bitterness of despair.

  “For generations now the old custom had been in abeyance. No one came forward to challenge the Priest-King to battle. They were content to vegetate, to sing songs and play in the sunlight. The right to rule passed from father to son in my family without challenge — it had become an hereditary title.

  “Now listen, for we come to our own times. Picture the country, beautiful as a. dream, as you see it, but dying — dying . . .

  “The representation of Diana also had become hereditary. It passed from mother to daughter.”

  “One moment — forgive the interruption. You say ‘representation,’ yet the old priest told us it was Diana herself.”

  Carstairs remained silent for a moment.

  “Yes — that is what the people believe,” he said slowly. “We of the sacred family know otherwise. It was said that the goddess was re-born, and dwelt among us.”

  “When the old Diana died the daughter took her place, you mean?”

  Carstairs looked at Ronald with moody, sombre eyes.

  “Yes. You may put it like that — when the goddess died, her daughter took her place. My mother was the Diana — you probably guessed that. She lived with my father, who was King of the Woods. She would not fulfill her duty. She fled across the mountains, with the help of some brigands whom she had bribed to help her. The punishment was death. We dared not leave this place to search for her, for fear of revealing it to the world. The priests met in conclave to decide what was best to do. There was no Diana — they dared not tell the people — and no hope of an heir. My mother was with child when she fled. It was the gravest crisis in our history.

  “And then a terrible thunderstorm burst over the valley, such as had never been known. The lake rose, and there was a great flood — hundreds perished, and the sacred oak was struck, and shattered. It was more than a thousand years old, and there had been no acorns for centuries. It had ceased to bear, and there were no other oaks. We had brought the first from Nemi, but in those days they did not think of planting other oaks — the one only was sacred. There were no others to renew the stock. They did not understand botany in those days.

  “The people were frightened. There was talk of the gods having forsaken us, and even of migrating to another place. Strange tales had been told of an outside world, by the brigands, though they were never supposed to speak to any but the priests.

  “There was only one thing to be done. My father was a brave man, and learned beyond these — cattle. He offered to go and look for his wife, and fetch from Nemi acorns which should be planted here, and grow other oaks. He went across the mountains with the permission of the priests.”

  “Why did your mother flee?” Ronald asked, fearful of the answer.

  “She was frightened. There are certain customs here — I cannot tell you more. Suffice it that she forsook her gods and her people. She deserved her death.”

  Ronald, shuddered at the cold cruelty in the voice of the man speaking of his own mother. He remained silent.

  “I will pass on. She who was my mother had gone to Nemi from a curious homing instinct — it was the only place of which she had ever heard — the cradle of the race. There I was born — as I once told you.” He smiled like a fiend at them.

  “On purpose?”

  “On purpose — my own purpose. There she met your father, in an evil hour for both. They fled to England. He would have married her, the fool, but she told him her story and implored him to protect her, and he yielded.

  “But Nemesis pursued her. She had no peace in that strange land of yours. She had committed sacrilege and was haunted by her sin. She dared not come here — she knew what would be in store for her. But she ran away from your father and came to Nemi, haunting the woods and longing for death.

  “There my father found her.

  “What happened then I never knew. Whether he tried to make her return, or she by her prayers entreated him to spare her — he never told me. In our religion there must be a Diana. I was the only child . . . A daughter was born . . . the Diana you knew. My sister . . .” The stern voice assumed a gentler tone when he mentioned the name.

  “But my mother could not keep faith. She implored my father to let her go once to take farewell of her ‘husband’ — your father, vowing by the most sacred oaths that she would return with the child who should be Diana. Everything was arranged — my father weakly yielded, and he returned here, bringing me with him. Only he knew of what had happened — he dared not tell the priests — they would have killed him.

  “At that time a child was born to one of the women of the city. She had secretly married a Bulgar brigand who came from time to time to fetch the tribute which we were forced to pay. She hid the child away, and no one suspected till he became a boy about my age. He was a monster — vast shoulders, and deformed, and hairy. His strength was prodigious, and the people feared him. The priests would have slain him, but were afraid. They thought it was a portent. My father was unpopular, because he had left the valley on his mission, and the priests feared he would reveal something of what he had seen in the outside world, and perhaps try and change the customs of the people.

  “There was unrest everywhere. The sacred oak was dying, and on its dying carcase the golden mistletoe was growing in profusion, though for centuries there had been but one bough each year. Unknown to us, they hatched a plot. The monster — like Caliban in your Shakespeare — was an earth man wallowing in the soil, foul and misshapen. They trained him for a purpose you shall hear.

  “They schemed to revive the ancient custom. He should slay my father and become King of the Woods. But the people murmured — Diana had forsaken her shrine. I was a youth when the crisis came. My father told me his story, hiding only some parts, as I have told you. I must go to England and fetch my sister. We talked long and earnestly about it. It would be necessary for me to learn the language, and use guile. One unguarded hint, and our valley would be discovered. I must not reveal myself. We have an ancient custom that he who would wed the goddess must purchase her from the gods. It had grown up when the trial by combat had ceased. Each generation, my ancestor, the King of the Woods, had so bought his bride.

  “The custom must be carried out.

  “I will not weary you with all that happened — part of it you know. We had to take the priests into our confidence. They readily agreed that Diana must be fetched, but would only consent if the monster — whom they had dared to call Orestes, after the founder of our sacred race — should accompany me. They would not trust me alone. Him I was compelled to bring.

  “I lived in Italy first, and learnt the language and English, too. There I met a half-starved Italian whom I hired as a servant. You know him. His name is Ganzani. Money I had in abundance, but naturally I shunned any notoriety. Orestes had been stoned by boys in the towns we visited, and we dared not show him in public. Ganzani looked after him. His temper when roused was terrible, and I feared he would commit some fatal act which would ruin my plans.

  “I came to England, and by patient searching learnt that you were living in Derbyshire. You were just going to Cambridge, and I entered the University to make friends with you, and so get to know your family. It was tedious work — I had to proceed slowly. I bought the Athens Restaurant for Ganzani, to disguise his movements. It was necessary to keep in touch with my father, so we arranged that anyone showing a sprig of the golden bough should be passed through the secret way to the valley of Nemi here.”

  “Just one question,” Ronald spoke. “What frightened Diana?”

  “In the woods? I will tell you. When first we came to England, we went to Derbyshire — I had a mind to see your father straight away. I learnt that my mother was dead. She had killed herself.”

  “What? How do you know that?” Ronald asked suspiciously.

  “I do not know — but from th
e flower of the mistletoe we distil a deadly poison, unknown to your men of science. We of the House have always carried it with us. I think the horror and remorse from which she suffered had become unbearable. That is what I think. But to return. I told you I went to your vicarage, but while I was wondering what to do, Orestes had slipped away, and gone to the woods. All of our race take to woods naturally — Diana had the same instinct. She must have seen him, and I do not wonder that she was frightened. I had to hurry him away when I heard her cries.

  “I wonder she did not lose her reason.

  “The rest of the story you know. I employed Ganzani and another with whom I sent Orestes back. The priests asked for him, and I — fool that I was — let him go. Would that I had kept him with me. Ganzani played his part foolishly. He had no pluck — a cringing beast who only cared for money.

  “I had to wait long because of that interfering person, Sinclair, who very nearly upset my affairs altogether, but fortunately he went away. He was getting to know too much.

  “Then my chance came, and I took Diana — as I had a perfect right to do.”

  “She went with you willingly, knowing what was in store for her?” Ronald asked, his voice dry and hard.

  “Yes — willingly.”

  Ronald groaned in bitterness.

  “Ganzani I left to watch you. As a spy he was useful. Really, you know, you played into my hands like children.” The impudent contempt in his voice stung like a lash. “Is there anything else you would ask?”

  “Why did you bring us here at all?”

  Carstairs smiled that cold, diabolical smile which he had never shown in England.

  “Ah. I must finish my story — you will be amused. The gods have a distorted sense of humour. After all my journeyings and schemings, I returned — thinking to find my father here to welcome me home. The priests’ plan had succeeded only too well. Orestes had slain my father, and ruled as Priest-King, a bitter mockery — a vast, misshapen monster, hardly human, whom the priests dare not show in the temple, as was the custom before. He prowls round the sacred oak, which none venture to approach. When the moon is full we can hear him howling like a beast.