E. Hoffmann Price's Fables of Ismeddin MEGAPACK®

by E. Hoffmann Price

  “I wonder, Ismeddin, if this Naram-sin built her such a house as this ziggurât?”

  “No, master, not like this. And when time comes to an end, and the last man seeks a place to pitch his tent, he must look elsewhere; for no camp will ever be made on the site of this ziggurât. Neither the hand of man nor the fires of heaven can ever shake it. Under the lintel—”

  “Let that be on my head also, even as the unutterable madness of this quest, against which you counseled me in vain. It was so prescribed; and I could but follow the text. And besides, is it not an honor to be immured beneath the lintel of a house built for Sarpanit?”

  Landon vaulted to the back of his Barbary stallion; but before starting down the slope, paused to contemplate his work. The sun had dipped below the horizon, so that all was obscure on the plain below, save the loftily towering silver-white masonry of the topmost stage.

  “Naram-sin built her no such house. And she came across the Border and danced before him on the moonlit terraces of his ziggurât.”

  “And the incandescent madness of the Hundred and First Kiss left him seared and lifeless,” warned Ismeddin, as he reined up beside the master. “Abandon it now, saidi, while you still can.”

  “No. Neither hell’s fire nor the black hands of Iblis can turn me aside. Nothing can stop me.”

  “You forget, master,” suggested Ismeddin, as their horses picked their way down the slope, “that one thing can stop you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Even so. Some girl of the village. Just one slip, and the Infidel’s Daughter will not cross the Border, for she is inhumanly jealous.”

  “The village!”

  Landon snorted his contempt.

  “You are more of a jester than a darvish, Ismeddin. I left my house in Herat, and the daughter of an emir to follow this madness into Feringhistan, to this very spot where you say the avatar shall materialize.”

  But under his badinage, Landon was troubled at the thought of that which he was attempting, even as a madman in his lucid moments is perturbed by the memory of his obsession.

  “No, Haaji, in the entire world there is no woman who can equal her who appeared in my pavilion on the plain of Babîl. Her eyes were a smoldering darkness, and her voice a purring, rippling sweetness. And even yet her perfume lingers in the rug on which she danced.”

  And then, as he leaned forward in the saddle, the Barbary stallion stretched out in a smooth, extended gallop. At the gate of the ziggurât, Landon reined his horse back on his haunches, and dismounting, tossed the reins to Ismeddin.

  An hour later, on emerging from the third stage of the ziggurât, Landon spoke of going to the village to call for mail.

  “Which horse will you ride, saidi?”

  “Neither. I’ll walk.”

  And Ismeddin, who knew that a horse is at times too much company, held his peace. As Landon, on foot, left the ziggurât, the old man opened the outer gate slightly, seated himself cross-legged in the shadow of one of the monstrous winged bulls whose mitered heads upheld the ceiling, and, like the darvish he had once been, entered the silence.

  At the post-office Landon found a letter awaiting him. Its seals seemed intact. At the sight of them he frowned, recognizing their device; tore the unopened letter in half, then, pausing, pieced it together and read the fine Persian script of the message from Herat. Once on the street, he wandered aimlessly. Passers-by avoided him, giving him the paving, shrinking from contact with that lean man and avoiding the mordant glance of those sombre eyes.

  They called him back to Herat; yet in his native land he was a foreigner, stared at from a distance, a distance which was scrupulously kept.

  Landon wandered aimlessly, and wondered, nor heeded the lady of the evening who trailed him and with professional allurements sought to inveigle him. Sought to ensnare him, until, under the glow of a street lamp, she recognized her prospective prey, and recoiled before the sombre, fierce eye that for an age-long instant impaled her.

  And then he stalked into the smoky air of Tiptoe Inn, seating himself at a table apart from the others, but next to a booth, occupied, as he judged from the murmur of conversation.

  Shirazi wine…the reek of raw corn whisky from the hills…sandalwood and patchouli…the stench of cigarettes tossed aside to smolder to extinction…the plucked strings of a sitar…the blatant screech and moan of saxophones…the tinkling, mistily spraying fountains of Herat…the raucous, rasping voice of a cabaret singer…

  And the Infidel’s Daughter, Sarpanit, the Bright and Shining One, was to cross the Border and appear in this strange land…

  From the adjoining booth came the purring voice of a woman who spoke with the blurred, indefinable accent of one who speaks many tongues; louder than before, but still softly, suavely, though with the sting and crackle of the lash in each finely enunciated word.

  “It is true,” she declared, “that all men are jackasses. But to think that I’m listening to the King of Men. No,” she resumed, interrupting her companion’s protest, “I don’t want you nor your damned car, nor your apartment. And that is that!”

  “So you’ve become pious all of a sudden? Perhaps you’ve forgotten—”

  A splash, and a crash of glass.

  “You hell-cat. I’ll—”

  “Go to it. Here’s luck!”

  Landon glanced up in time to see the high-spirited lady leaving the booth. Trim ankles, and dainty feet; jade ear-pendants, and rebellious, blue-black curls, and a fine, proudly carried head; and though her form was concealed by her cape, Landon knew that only a shapely, well-proportioned woman could achieve that effortless, undulant walk.

  “Don’t know who she is, but she sounds like a woman after my own heart,” reflected Landon. Then he noted that while a few smiled approval as the victrix left the field of battle, there were other groups who scowled and muttered to each other.

  That bit of distraction had cracked Landon’s introspective gloom, so that on his way back to the ziggurât he had no thought of the letter from Herat, nor of the lurid star which each night progressed farther into the configuration described in the cuneiform tablets. Strange, how in the face of a curious and uncertain doom one can pause to laugh.

  As Landon entered the steel-barred gate, Ismeddin emerged from his post in the shadow of the winged bull.

  “Master, there was a visitor this evening.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes. Look!”

  And Ismeddin thrust before Landon’s eyes a mask of vermilion-colored silk. “The open gate tempted him. And I…but I am an old man, and I was unarmed,” apologized Ismeddin, “so he lost nothing but his mask.”

  “Very good, Haaji. You’re in Feringhistan, where they discountenance private graveyards. If this fellow had been found with a bit of cutlery between his ribs, or a cord about his throat, we might conceivably have some explaining to do. And remember, we’re outnumbered, and we’re foreigners.”

  “But in Angor-lana, one evening—”

  “I know, Ismeddin. But this is my native land.” And Landon smiled sourly.

  * * * *

  One night, a week later, Landon thrust aside the three clay tablets which he had been studying, pronouncing after Ismeddin the age-old tongue whose secret they had wrested from the wedge-shaped characters. Landon’s wrists and fingers were numb from playing the snakeskin-headed drum, and his brain reeled from the insinuant sorcery of the rhythm he had coaxed therefrom.

  “I’ll ride tonight, Ismeddin. Suleiman needs exercise. And I need a rest.”

  A few minutes later the old man led the pawing, belligerent stallion from the stable. Landon mounted and gave the fierce beast his head, letting him pick his course across the moonlit plain. Mile after mile he sped, until finally, lacking the urge of the spur, the stallion slowed down to a walk. La
ndon, relaxed in the saddle, dozed, and dreamed of Herat, and of the mound at Koyunjik; and mixed into his wandering thoughts, ever recurring in one guise and another, was a girl with trim ankles and jade ear-pendants.

  A lurid star flamed over her head…and as she set on her blue-black hair a curiously wrought diadem, the piquant irregularity of her features became softened, transfigured into an astonishing loveliness…

  The stallion came to an abrupt halt, waking Landon with a jerk. The smell of smoke and smoldering wood and the odor of tar fanned his nostrils. And then he saw why Suleiman had recoiled, snorted, and tossed his head; athwart the path, almost beneath the horse’s hoofs, was a woman, sprawled in a heap, unconscious.

  “Steady, lad!” And then, dismounting, he saw that the girl was clad only in a slip of filmy silk, torn, soiled, and clinging in shreds to her lacerated back and sides. Her wrists were pinioned together with a piece of clothes-line. She was still breathing, and stirred faintly at his touch.

  “Well, we can’t leave her here… I’ll be damned!”

  Landon recognized the girl of Tiptoe Inn, the insouciant one who had a few nights ago so boldly declared herself. As he cut the lashings from her wrists, she opened her eyes, murmured confusedly, shrank from his touch.

  “Don’t worry, sister. Let’s go!” And so saying, he picked up the half-conscious girl, mounted Suleiman, and turned back toward the ziggurât, leaning forward in the saddle, urging the Barbary stallion to a longer stride.

  At the gate of the ziggurât, Landon tossed the reins to Ismeddin, who took charge of the foaming Suleiman. In due course, if he so pleased, the master would say more of the bruised, disheveled burden he had carried into the hall of winged bulls, and up the staircase flanked with parading archers. Nevertheless, the darvish wondered, and as he groomed Suleiman, he smiled, the first time in many weeks; smiled, and hoped that the woman was young and lovely.

  “Bismillahi rrahhmani rrahheem!” he ejaculated, as he put the finishing touches to Suleiman’s silky coat, and polished his dusty hoofs. “Praise be to God, lord of the worlds! Finding her by chance, and riding back as though the black hands of Abaddon reached out after him… Saidi, may this indeed be the daughter of some infidel!”

  The old man chuckled at his own play on words, and stroked his white beard.

  “Please don’t stand on formality,” replied the girl, as Landon, half an hour later, knocked at the door of the apartment wherein he had left his guest. “Come right in.”

  “Well, I didn’t want to take you at a disadvantage. How do you feel now?”

  “More like myself, thanks to a bit of first aid.”

  “I fancy we’ve met before,” resumed Landon. “At a distance, that is. In the Tiptoe Inn, a few nights ago. You were laying down the law to some friend, and ended by—”

  “Christening him with a ginger ale highball.” The girl laughed softly, then continued, “And here you see the result.”

  She shivered, and drew more closely about herself the brocaded robe in which Landon had wrapped her before leaving her to doctor her bruises and lacerations.

  “Oh, but my shoulders ache! Well, and it might have been worse. I just missed a coat of tar and feathers—”

  “What?”

  “Yes. Just that. But one of the Knights had a kind-hearted streak, so they merely beat me with rawhide whips until I passed out. I don’t know how long I was lying there when you found me.”

  “Must have been an hour or so. Come to think of it, I did smell tar along with the fire, a couple of yards to the side of the path. But what are these Knights, anyway?” demanded Landon, who had never, even in barbarous Angor-lana, seen a slave so mercilessly flogged.

  “Surely you’ve heard of the Knights of the Saffron Mask!”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “You’ll hear of them soon enough, if they learn I’m here. They’re a secret order—but how in the world have you missed hearing of them? And where am I?” she questioned, glancing about her, and indicating the sculptured and tapestried walls.

  “All in due course. Please continue about these Knights,” suggested Landon.

  “They’re self-appointed guardians of public safety and morals, and particularly of Christianity in general. Jews, Catholics, and atheists are their particular aversion, as well as anyone who is inclined to be unconventional. And whoever offends them is introduced to tar, feathers, and the lash. Witness myself. Once in a while they make effective use of rope, and a tall tree.”

  “Conducting a jehad under cover, so to speak?”

  “Exactly. Holy war describes the doings of these bigots.”

  Landon wondered that the girl had understood his phrase, but held his peace.

  “Come to think of it, I did hear of them.” And he told her of Ismeddin’s adventure with the masked intruder the very night of the episode at Tiptoe Inn. “Self-appointed guardians…judging from my bit of eavesdropping that night, your friend’s propositions weren’t any too savory—”

  “No. Which was to be expected. Rumor has it that he holds a high command in the order. The rank and file are honest, deluded bigots who serve as a mask for blackmail, rape, murder, arson, or what’ll-you-have, perpetrated by their leaders. Extortion, revenge…see how the pretty scheme works out? Camouflaged by piety, virtue, and saffron masks.”

  And Landon wondered greatly, and marveled at the contrasting crudeness and simplicity of the lands of the Moslem, where he had spent so many hard, fierce years.

  “Now tell me,” resumed the girl, again glancing about her, “where I am.”

  “Among friends.” And Landon struck the small brazen gong at his side.

  “Pardon me. I didn’t mean to be inquisitive.”

  “You may as well improvise some clothes,” continued Landon, ignoring his guest’s apology, “until I can equip you more suitably.” He picked up the torn and soiled scrap of silk that his guest had discarded in favor of his lounge-robe. “This is a bit the worse for wear, you know. Tell me where you live, and I’ll call for your baggage in the morning.”

  Just then Ismeddin, in response to the master’s summons, entered with a tray.

  “Is that all, saidi?”

  Landon nodded, whereupon the old man left the master and his guest to sip the night-black Abyssinian coffee he had brought in.

  “Allah akbar! But she is lovely!” he exulted. “Oh, excellent young woman!”

  “Lord, what coffee! You are a mind-reader, stranger. But no, don’t go after my clothes. You’ll just draw the whole pack down on both of us. That clown at Tiptoe Inn surely must hold a high command among the Knights, or they’d never have bothered me. Even if I am a cabaret singer. That town’s no longer safe for me. They’d drag me out of here if they knew I was here, and as for you, helping me this way—”

  “The devil you say!” snorted Landon. “You’re safe here till the crack of doom. Unless these fellows get siege guns and batter the place down over our ears. And I’ll certainly get you some clothes and whatever else you need.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” pleaded the girl. “They don’t know I’m here. As long as they don’t know, we’re safe. I’ll make the most of things—yes, I have my nerve, but I simply have to invite myself to stay a few days until this mess quiets down, and I can safely leave.”

  “Fair enough. Just make yourself at home, if you can stand our queer life. See you in the morning!”

  And Landon left his guest to nurse her bruises and make herself as comfortable as she could on her improvised couch of several small silk rugs and a few cushions.

  The signs of heaven were approaching the aspect called for in the three tablets; so that even after such an outlandish night, Landon, after leaving his guest, dismissed her from his mind and devoted himself to the rehearsing of the invocations and secret names he was to use in
summoning Sarpanit from across the Border. In the seventh stage, high above the plain, face to face with the Lords of the Sign, Landon chanted and beat the tiny drum with knuckles and fingertips until it purred and rolled in that same uncanny rhythm to which the Infidel’s Daughter had danced in the pavilion of Koyunjik.

  Finally, having reached the end of the ceremonial, Landon arose from his seat at the foot of the altar, gazed through the slits in the vaulted ceiling of the seventh stage and out into the shimmering darkness beyond. In each slit were cross-hairs of fine silver wire so adjusted that at the instant the Lords of the Sign had risen into position, each would be at the intersection of the wires in his particular house: and thus Landon would know that the moment had arrived when the secret name of the Infidel’s Daughter was to be pronounced, summoning her into his presence in material form from across the abyss that divides the phantom from its incarnation. And as Landon noted that some of the powers were already approaching their houses, he knew that the others, in the course of but a few days, would swing into the prescribed aspect; knew, and shuddered at the thought of the awful forces which he sought to command, the ruin and ultimate destruction that would be his.

  * * * *

  During the next few days Landon saw little of his protégée save at an occasional meal; but those few glimpses were disturbing. The blurred, indefinable accent of her speech stirred a shadowy memory of a memory; and the haunting, half familiarity of her piquant, irregular, almost lovely features upset his poise and self-possession. He found himself from time to time denying with needless vehemence the speech of old Ismeddin, wherein the darvish had suggested that a girl of Feringhistan might lure him from his quest of Sarpanit, who was inhumanly jealous.

  The girl had amused herself by taking pieces of Hindustani fabrics Landon had given her and improvising quaint, outlandish apparel which seemed to please her enormously: exotic, pagan raiment which made her fit into and become a part of her surroundings.