Close to him they paused.
PART V
Dancer and Priest
CHAPTER 23
“Bel should be pleased with his worship, priest!” Kenton heard the dancer say.
The priest asked, dully: “What do you mean?”
Narada drew closer to him; her hands fluttered out to him.
“Shalamu,” she whispered. “Did I dance for the god? You know I danced for—you. And whom did you worship, Shalamu? The god? No—the priestess. And whom, think you, did she worship?”
“She worshipped Bel! Our Lord Bel who has—all,” the priest answered, bitterly.
Said the dancer, mockingly: “She worshipped herself, Shalamu!”
He repeated, stubbornly, wearily: “She worshipped Bel.”
Closer came Narada, touched him with fluttering, yearning hands.
“Does any woman worship a god, Shalamu?” she asked. “Ah—no! I am a woman—and I know. This priestess would be a god’s woman—no man’s. She holds herself too high, too precious, for man. She loves herself. She worships herself. She would bow down to herself as a god’s woman. Women make gods of men and then love them. But no woman loves any god she has not made, Shalamu!”
The priest said, sullenly: “Well—I worshipped her!”
The dancer said: “As she worshipped—herself! Shalamu—does she long to give joy to Bel? To our Lord Bel who has Ishtar? Can we give joy to the gods—to the gods who have all? The lotus rises to the sun—but is it to give joy to the sun that she rises? No! It is to give joy to herself. So the priestess! I am a woman—and I know.”
Her hands were on his shoulders; he took them in his own: “Why do you say these things to me?”
“Shalamu!” she murmured. “Look in my eyes. Look on my mouth—my breasts. Like the priestess I am the god’s, But I give myself to you—beloved!”
He said, dreamily: “Yea—you are beautiful!”
Her arms were round his neck, her lips close to his.
“Do I love the god?” she whispered. “When I dance is it to delight his eyes? It is for you I dance—beloved. It is for you I dare Bel’s wrath—” Softly she drew his head down on her breast—“Am I not fair? Fairer than this priestess who is Bel’s and worships herself nor will ever give herself to you? Are not my perfumes pleasing? No god possesses me—beloved!”
Dreamily he answered her again: “Yea—you are very fair.”
“I love you—Shalamu!”
He thrust her from him: “Her eyes are like the Pools of Peace in the Valley of Forgetfulness! When she comes near me the doves of Ishtar beat their wings above my head! She walks upon my heart!”
Narada drew back, scarlet lips pale, brows a menacing straight line:
“The priestess?”
“The priestess,” he answered. “Her hair is like the cloud that veils the sun at dusk. The wave of her robe scorches me as the wind from the desert noon scorches the palm The wave of her robe makes me cold as the wind of the desert night makes cold the palm.”
She said:
“That youth was bolder far than you, Shalamu.”
Kenton saw the red rush through the priest’s face.
“What do you mean?” he snarled.
“Why did you have the youth slain?” coldly as before come her voice.
He answered, hotly: “He did sacrilege. He—”
She stopped him, contemptuously: “Because he was bolder than you. Because he dared to tear the veils from her. Because you knew yourself the coward. This is why you had him slain!”
His hands twitched to her throat: “You lie! You lie! I would dare!”
Again she laughed; “You did not even dare to slay him—yourself!”
His hands were at her throat; she thrust them carelessly aside.
“Coward!” she said. “He dared to lift the veil from what he loved. He dared the wrath both of Ishtar and of Bel!”
The priest cried brokenly: “Would I not dare? Do I fear death? Do I fear Bel?”
Her eyes mocked him.
“Hai! You love so greatly!” she taunted. “The priestess awaits the god—in his lonely house! Perhaps he is not in the storm! Perchance he tarries with another maid—Oh, fearless one! Bold lover—take his place!”
He shrank back from her.
“Take—his—place!” he whispered.
“You know where the armor of the god is hidden. Go to her as the god!” she said.
For a long moment the priest stood, quivering. Then Kenton saw irresolution fly; decision take its place. He strode to the altar—down went the lanced flame; wavered; died. In the sudden dark the crouching Kerubs seemed monstrously to take wing.
There came a flash of the weird lightning,
By its irised flare he saw the Priest of Bel passing swiftly along that way Sharane had come and gone; saw Narada lying huddled in her nets of jet, the sipping flocks of golden butterflies at rest upon her; heard a low, heartbroken wailing.
Slowly Kenton’s hand began to slip from the lever. Now was the time to use that key, pass on where the blue priest had pointed. His hand froze upon the lever.
A shadow, blacker than the dusk without, had passed the window; stood over the dancer; a huge and unwieldy bulk—familiar,
Klaneth!
“Good!” rumbled the black priest, and touched her with his foot. “Now soon neither he nor Sharane shall trouble you more. And you have well earned that reward I promised you.”
Narada looked up at him with white and piteous face, stretched shaking hands out to him.
“If he had loved me,” she wailed, “never would he have gone. If he had loved me but a little—never would I have let him go. But he angered me—he shamed me, throwing back to me the love I offered him. Not for you, black snake, despite our bargain, did I send him to her—and to death!”
The black priest stared at her, then laughed.
“Whatever your reason—you sent him,” he said. “And Klaneth pays his debts.”
He dropped a handful of flashing jewels into her outstretched palms. She screamed, opened fingers as though the gems burned her; they fell and rolled about the chequered stones.
“If he had loved me! If he had loved me but a little!” sobbed Narada—and crouched again, a huddled heap, among her butterflies.
Kenton, to him now clear all the black priest’s plot, let the lever go; raced to the farther door of bronze, thrust the wedged key into it; slipped past the slowly opening edge, and ran down the passageway it had barred. Two flames burned in him as he raced along that passage—white flame of love for his woman, black flame of hate against Klaneth. He knew that wherever the Priest of Bel was bound there must be Sharane. The end—unless Kenton could reach the Bower of Bel in time and conquer—inevitable.
Narada had repented—but too late! The black priest had gambled—and the black priest had won!
Kenton cursed as he ran. If Sharane, meshed in ensorcelled dream, saw the Priest of Bel as the god himself—still would she have taken earthly lover! Her innocence could not save her. Klaneth would see to that.
And if Sharane should awaken—God! Would she not in the dawn of that awakening take the Priest of Bel for him—for Kenton!
But either way—the presence of priest and priestess in Bel’s Bower would be enough to damn them both. Yes—Klaneth would see to that.
He crossed a traverse passage: ran blindly down a sloping corridor along whose sides glared guarding chimera; stopped in front of a wide portal from which hung, motionless and rigid, folds that seemed carved from solid silver. Caution whispered to him; he put out a hand, parted the metallic curtainings, peered within…
He looked into his own room.
There it lay before him, his old room in his old world!
He saw the jeweled ship, glimmering, glittering—but as though he saw it through a fog; through a mist of fiery particles, half veiling it. The long mirror glinted behind that same luminous vapor. Infinitely small, in infinite numbers, the sparkling atoms hung betwe
en him and that room of his—back in New York!
And he—here in this strange world!
Misty was the room, nebulous, quivering now into plainer sight; now withdrawing into indefiniteness.
And as he stared at it, incredulous, the old bleak despair clutching him, he felt within his hands the curtains grow light as silken gauze, stiffen back into metal—alternately; slip from his hands, strengthen within them as his room steadied in the sparkling mist, dissolved within it into phantom outlines!
Yet ever as his room swung inward clearer, swung back dimmer, the outlines of the jeweled ship hardened, crystallized, shone forth brighter—summoning him, dragging him back!
CHAPTER 24
The Gods—And Man’s Desire
Kenton braced himself; he held tight to the curtains. He fought with all his will to check their melting. The curtains were like bars between his old world and this of his great adventure.
A force, a pull like a strong undertow, dragged him forward each time they melted in his hands and the nebulous outlines of his room crisped into steadiness. Plainly he could pick out every detail of that room, the long mirror, the cabinets, the divan—the stains of his blood still wet upon the floor.
And always, whether room were melting mist or clear outline, the jeweled ship shining steadily—watchful.
Now he swung out and over that room; the ancient Chinese rug on its floor was below him—at once close and infinite distances away. He heard the first voices of those shrieking winds of space!
In that brief instant he realized that it was the shining toy itself drawing him back!
Something was reaching up and out to him from the dark deck of the ship! Something malignant and mocking—dragging him, dragging him to it!
Darker grew the black deck—stronger its pull—-”Ishtar!” he prayed, gaze upon the rosy cabin. “Ishtar!” Did the cabin flash as though filled with sudden light? The outlines of his room melted; again the curtains were heavy in his hands; he stood once more on firm feet at the threshold of the House of the Moon God.
Once, twice, thrice more the room pulled back—but each time less real, more spectral. And against each pulse Kenton set his will; closed eyes and thrust away the vision of it with all his strength.
His will won. The room vanished; in that envanishment a finality not to be mistaken. The spell was broken, the subtle links snapped.
Caught by the reaction he clung to the curtains, knees weak and shaking. Slowly he found himself, resolutely parted the folds.
He looked now into a vast hall filled with mist of argent light; still was this mist, yet palpable—as though the rays that formed it were woven. Interlaced and luminous, the webbed mist made of the chamber a home of immensities, of tremendous distances. He thought, but was not sure, that there was motion within these silver webs—shadowy shapes half appearing, vanishing, never quite coming into full sight. Far away he caught another movement; a figure was coming forward; steadily, inexorably. It drew closer, slowly; it swam into sight—a man, golden-helmeted, over his shoulder a short cloak of gold shot through with scarlet, in his hand a golden sword; head bent, pushing on as though against some strong current.
It was the Priest of Bel clad in the raiment of his god!
Scarce breathing, Kenton watched him. The eyes so like his own were black with dread and awe—yet filled with will and purpose; indomitable. The mouth was set, the lips white, and in all the priest’s body Kenton sensed a tremor, a shuddering—deep as the priest’s soul. Whether real or but phantoms, he knew the terrors of this place were realities to this strange double of his.
The Priest of Bel passed, and Kenton, waiting until he was half hidden in the shining mists, slipped through the curtains, followed him.
Now Kenton heard a voice; a still voice, passionless as that which had bidden him arise from his bed of stone; and like that voice neither was it in the place wherein he trod nor within him. It was as though borne to him out of farthest space…
The voice of Nabu, God of Wisdom!
Listening, he felt himself not one man, but three—a single purposed Kenton who followed the priest and would follow him through hell so he led to Sharane; a Kenton who, tied by some inexplicable link to the mind of the priest, felt and saw and heard, suffered and feared even as he; and a Kenton who hearkened to the words of Nabu as coldly, as dispassionately as they were uttered, watched as coldly, as detachedly, all they pictured.
“The House of Sin!” the voice rang. “Chief of the Gods! Nannar! Begetter of Gods and men! Lord of the Moon! Lord of the Brilliant Crescent! Great of Horns! Nannar Perfect of Form! Decreer of Destiny! Self Created! Whose House is the first of the Zones and Whose Color is Silver!
“He passes through the House of Sin!
“He goes by the altars of chalcedon and of sard which are set with the great moonstones and with rock crystals, the altars where burn the white flames from which Sin the Fashioner created Ishtar! He sees the pale and shining serpents of Nannar writhe toward him and from the silver mists that veil the crescented horns of sin he sees the winged white scorpions dart upon him!
“He hears the sound of the tramping of myriads of feet, the feet of all the men to be born beneath the Moon! And he hears the sound of the sobbing of myriads of women, the sobbing of all the women to be born and to bear! He hears the clamor of the Uncreate!
“And he passes!
“For lo! Not the Begetter of Gods nor the awe of him may stand before man’s desire!”
So the voice rang—and was silent. And Kenton saw all these things, saw the shimmering white serpents writhe through the silver mists and strike at the priest; saw the winged scorpions dart upon him; visioned within the mists a vast and awful shape upon whose clouded brows the crescent of the moon was bound. In his own ears he heard the tramping of armies of the unborn, the sobbing of worlds of women yet unborn, the clamor of the Uncreate! Saw and heard—even, he knew, as did the Priest of Bel!
And followed.
The golden helm flashed high above him. Kenton paused at the base of a winding stairway whose broad steps circled upward, changing as they arose from pallid silver to glowing orange. He waited until the priest—never hastening, never looking back—had ascended; he passed into the place to which the stairway led; slipped after him.
He looked into a temple filled with crocused light even as that through which he had just come had been filled with webs of moonbeams. A hundred paces away marched the priest, and as Kenton moved on the still voice resumed its whispering:
“The House of Shamash! Offspring of the Moon! God of the Day! Dweller in the House of Luster! Banisher of Darkness! King of Judgment! Judge of Mankind! On Whose Head Resteth the Crown with the High Horns! In Whose Hands are Life and Death! Who cleanseth Man with His Hands like a Tablet of Burnished Copper! Whose House is the Second of the Zones and Whose Color is Orange!
“He passes through the House of Shamash!
“Here are the altars of opal set with diamonds and the altars of gold set with amber and the yellow sunstones. Upon the altars of Shamash burn sandalwood and cardamon and verbena. He goes by the altars of opal and of gold; and he goes by the birds of Shamash whose heads are wheels of flame and who guard the wheel that turns within the House of Shamash and is a potter’s wheel upon which all the souls of men are shaped.
“He hears the noise of myriads of voices, the wailing of those who have been judged and the shouting of those who have been judged!
“And he passes!
“For lo! Not the King of Judgment nor the fear of him may stand before man’s desire!”
Again Kenton saw and heard all these things; and following the priest came to a second stairway whose steps merged from glowing orange into ebony black. And still following he stood, at last, in a great hall of gloom, the name of whose dread master he knew even before the still voice came murmuring to him out of hidden, secret space:
“The House of Nergal! The Mighty One of the Great Dwelling Place! King of the Dead! He
who Scattereth the Pestilence! He Who Ruleth over the Lost! The Dark One without Horns! Whose House is the Third of the Zones and Whose Color is Black!
“He passes through the House of Nergal!
“He goes by Nergal’s altars of jet and of bloodstone! He goes by the red fires of civet and of bergamot that burn thereon! He goes by the altars of Nergal and the lions that guard them! The black lions whose eyes are as rubies and whose claws are blood red, the red lions whose claws are as black iron and whose eyes are as jet; and he passes the sable vultures of Nergal whose eyes are as carbuncles and whose heads are the fleshless heads of women!
“He hears the whimpering of the People of the Great Dwelling Place and he tastes the ashes of their passion!
“And he passes!
“For lo! Not the Lord of the Dead nor the dread of him may swerve man from his desire!”
Now the steps of the stairway by which Kenton ascended from the House of Nergal faded from ebon into crimson, and fiery, wrathful scarlet was the light that filled the place in which he stood, watching the Priest of Bel go steadily on.
“The House of Ninib!” whispered the voice. “Lord of Spears! Lord of the Battle! Master of the Shields! Master of the Hearts of Warriors! Ruler of the Strife! Destroyer of Opposition! Breaker of the Lock! The Smiter! Whose Color is Scarlet, Whose House is the Fourth of the Zones! Of shields and of spears are builded the altars of Ninib and their fires are fed with the blood of men and the tears of women, and upon the altars of Ninib burn the gates of fallen cities and the hearts of conquered kings! He goes by the altars of Ninib. He sees threaten him the crimson fangs of the boars of Ninib whose heads are wreathed with the right hands of warriors, the crimson tusks of the elephants of Ninib whose feet are ankleted with the skulls of kings, and the crimson tongues of the snakes of Ninib which lick up the cities!
“He hears the clashing of spears, the smiting of swords, the falling of walls, the crying of the conquered!
The A. Merritt Megapack Page 78