THE RAJAH’S GIFT
Originally published in Weird Tales, January 1925.
Strange tales are told of the rajah of Lacra-Kai, of the justice he dealt, of the rewards he gave; but the strangest of all these many tales is that of the gift he gave to Zaid, the Persian who had served him long and well. A crafty man was the rajah, who by his devices had retained the sovereignty of his petty state almost unimpaired by British rule. In short, he was an enlightened prince who was left quite to his own devices as regarded the internal administration of his state. But it is of his gift to Zaid whereof we are to deal.
In the privacy of his palace, screened from the view of his people, the rajah was quite European, dispensing with the pomp and formality that is supposed to surround all eastern rulers at all times. Therefore it was that Zaid the Persian, who had served his master long and well, not only sat, but also smoked as he listened.
“Zaid,” the prince was saying, “but for your courage and fidelity I would surely have been assassinated. Name whatsoever you desire and it shall be yours, for I mean to reward you richly.”
“My lord,” replied Zaid, “there is but one request that I make, and that is mad beyond all conception of madness…”
“Nevertheless, let me hear it; tell me what is on your mind. Forget that I am rajah, and consider me but as your friend who is indebted to you. Speak freely.”
“For ten years I have been favored by your magnificence,” began Zaid, speaking slowly. “For ten years I have been the friend of kings; but all that is nothing.”
Zaid paused. A far-away look had crept over his features; he seemed to be gazing through and beyond the rajah, and back to some dimly remembered, almost forgotten episode of the past. And then, picking his words as one groping in the dark picks his steps, he told how, twenty years previous, he had stood on the edge of the crowd in the square before the great temple of Kali, awaiting the arrival of the procession at whose head the present rajah would be riding. Zaid, a boy scarcely a dozen years old, ragged, dirty, half-starved, stood that day to watch the rajah ride past in the concentrated, fiery splendor that marked a prince’s accession to his throne. And all this the boy saw, yet saw not, for he had eyes for none but the rajah. High above the crowd, on the back of a great elephant he sat, dark, calm, impassive as a god. Not as a man, exultant, but rather as some high, passionless fate solemnly advancing across the wastes of space. The prince was oblivious of the pomp and splendor, oblivious of the tumult and applause; on that day it seemed to Zaid that he saw not a man, but destiny itself in march. And as the rajah drew near, the great temple gong clanged with a reverberation that seemed to shake the very base of the universe; a strange, unearthly vibration that mingled with the resonance of brass, the hiss of serpents and the rustle of silk; a sound that rose and fell, resonant, sonorous, awful. At the sound of that gong, at the sight of that impassive face, a great madness possessed Zaid, so that his blood became as a stream of flame. And he swore that he, too, would some day ride in such a procession, would bear himself with that same godlike hauteur, that same superb arrogance; he, Zaid, hungry beggar-lad dared have such a vision.
Silent were the gongs; vanished the procession; and the new rajah ruled in Lacra-Kai. But with Zaid the vision remained, following him over half the earth, and returning with him to Lacra-Kai, where, ten years later, he entered the service of that same rajah, and, by strange turns of fortune, rose to rank and power in that same court.
Such was the tale Zaid told the rajah.
“You have indeed prospered.” Then, suddenly, “And all this is apropos of what?”
Zaid started, as one waking from a dream, then laughed oddly.
“For twenty years that vision has haunted me. Much has happened since then; much have I seen and experienced, but through it all, this desire has persisted. And at last it happened that I entered your service, and that, having served you well, it has pleased you to grant me whatsoever I might desire. Let me ride as I saw you ride twenty years ago.”
Whereat the rajah replied in the tone of one who denies some child a dangerous toy: “To grant you that favor would be to sign your death-warrant. Were you to ride thus at noon, poison or dagger would find you before dawn; for no man may enjoy such a mark of favor and live. What? Have you lived in this land all these years and do not realize the penalty you would pay? Consider a moment: my son is dead; the succession to the throne lay among my three nephews. One of them sought to hasten his succession. The plot was discovered, and the plotter I punished by showing him a mark of extraordinary favor. Immediately it was rumored about that I had selected him as my heir; and within ten days he died. But not by my command. That was superfluous. The princes of the blood, and the lords of the court.…”
The rajah made a suggestive, sweeping gesture, then continued, “Me you were able to save from assassination; yourself you could not save, nor could I save you. You would ride in state; rumors would drift about. And you know the rest.”
“I know the rest. But I will take my chance. It is not good for a man to cherish a vision, however mad, without having made some effort to attain it.”
“Think again, Zaid, think again! Choose whatsoever else you will…a lakh of rupees…ten lakhs if you will…jewels the like of which you have never dreamed…and I have dancing girls…all this, and more is yours, for you have served me well; it is to you that I owe my life. Be reasonable, friend, be reasonable.”
“Be reasonable? For me there is no reason. This vision has haunted me entirely too long. So, though it may cost me my life, let me see it to a finish. For there at least would be a roundness, a completeness that in no way else could I attain. In the square before the great temple of Kali I found the inspiration that led me to enter your service, to attain your favor, to serve you well; and in that same square, if need be, I will meet my doom. The cycle will be complete. After that, let come what may, for I shall have cheated destiny of the rare gift of satisfaction, the gift so often denied to kings. And after all, is the assassin so sure of finding me?” The rajah smiled as one upon whom great understanding has suddenly descended.
“Zaid,” he said, “you are more than ever a man after my own heart. Mad, stark mad and raving; I understand, for I, too, have been haunted by visions. But none has understood my thoughts, even as none would understand your mad desire. It would be misconstrued, and…you know the result.”
Suddenly the rajah arose.
“Come, Zaid, let me tempt you with the things I have but named.”
And Zaid was led through treasure-vaults full of gilded arms and armor, trays of flaming jewels, great chests of age-old coins, dinars and mohurs of gold, the secreted plunder of a hundred generations.
“All this leaves you unmoved? Then let me try again.”
The Persian accompanied his master to the very heart of the palace, to a hall overshadowed with twilight—a broad, spacious hall whose wails were curiously carved with strange figures in odd postures, engaged in strange diversions. And then his ears were caressed by the soft, sensuously wailing notes of reed and stringed instruments: his senses were stirred by the dull pulsing of atabals, throbbing like a heart racked with passion. And through the purple gloom of incense-fumes he saw the lithe, swaying, gilded bodies of dancing girls, slim and beautiful. One, emerging from the figures of the dance, slowly advanced and made obeisance before the rajah.
“And this is Nilofal. Should she please you…”
The Persian saw that she was perfection, outstripping voluptuous fancy. But when he turned to reply, the rajah had disappeared: and the door through which they had entered was barred.
Nilofal failed in her efforts to separate the Persian from his madness.
Once again Zaid stood before the rajah, who smiled with the air of one whose cleverness has just reaped its reward in the solution of a difficult problem.
“What now,
Zaid? Was Nilofal to your taste? Surely she must have been; and certainly she is worth all the dreams that have haunted men since the beginning of time.”
”My lord,” replied the Persian, “you have tempted me as man has never before been tempted; yet am I to sacrifice the vision of twenty years in favor of a treasure-vault and a lupanar? Although you may refuse it, I nevertheless hold fast to my first desire.”
“So be it then; and tomorrow at noon you shall see it satisfied.” And then and there were preparations made for Zaid to ride in royal state through the streets of Lacra-Kai.
Noon, the next day. The rajah, watching from the roof of his palace, saw Zaid in the gilded howdah, mounted on the elephant that carried none but princes of the blood. Calm and serene and godlike sat the Persian: a king he seemed, and the descendant of a hundred kings, for at that moment he was about to fulfill his destiny. Once again understanding came to the rajah.
“It was wrong that I tried to dissuade him,” reflected the rajah, “for whatever the end may be, it will be as nothing; Zaid is about to accomplish that which he set out to do when he was a beggar. There is something heroic in this madness…but what will happen when he passes the temple of Kali? Can he ever become a man again?…for in his madness he is more than a man; he has overturned destiny to fulfill a childish fancy…”
And the prince, watching the procession get under way, was lost in admiration of the man who for half an hour would be rajah.
“And having attained his dream, will not the man Zaid have died, though he live a hundred years thereafter in security? And what would life mean to him?”
The procession, turning, had taken Zaid from the rajah’s view. Bestirring himself from his reverie, he whispered a few words to Al Tarik, his trusted servant.
“…And do not fail me in the slightest detail.”
The rajah repeated his instructions. Al Tarik departed. And in the meanwhile, Zaid rode to the fulfillment of his dreams.
Through the streets of Lacra-Kai the procession wound. The Persian bore himself not as a man but as the avatar of some god returning to judge the world. On and on he rode, like the slow, sure march of destiny, immutable, irresistible. And but one thought flitted through his brain, the words of some long-forgotten sage: “When indeed they do grant to a man the realization of his dream, they straightway reach forth to snatch from him his prize, lest in his triumph he become god-like and toss them from their Thrones.”
He smiled. Swift indeed would have to be their envy to defeat him; the temple of Kali was at hand. The great gong in the temple rang, reverberating like the crash of doom, filling the entire universe with its shivering resonance—full-throated, colossal, then hissing with the rustle of silk—a sound that swelled, and died, and rose again.
As slowly as some animated Juggernaut the elephant advanced, pace by pace, deliberately, majestically, as though each step took him from world to world. And again the gong, touched to life by the mallet wielded by a temple slave, rolled forth its sonorous, vibrant crash.
A few more steps, and Zaid, the Persian, whom the rajah loved to honor, was before the temple of Kali. High as Rama going forth to conquer the world; no longer a man, but transfigured beyond recognition. Again the temple gong gave forth its vibrant note, reverberant, awful; diminishing, then rising and swelling again. And the god, who but half an hour before had been Zaid, toppled forward in the gilded howdah. The last roll of the gong had masked the report of a high-powered rifle.
That evening the rajah gazed at the body of the man who had served him well, the man he had esteemed and loved as a friend. Pity and sorrow were on his lean, hard features; but regret was absent.
“A king and more than a king.” He regarded the transfigured face of the Persian. “A madman, perhaps—or a god. By his own effort he rounded his destiny. The cycle is complete, the circle has closed upon itself. Yes, it is well that I commanded Al Tarik to fire before Zaid endured the agony of becoming mortal again.”
Such was the gift of the rajah of Lacra-Kai. Yet once, at least, though he did not know it, the rajah had made a futile move: the shot of Al Tarik had missed; and there was no wound on the Persian’s body.
SATAN’S DAUGHTER
Originally published in Spicy Mystery Stories, January 1936.
“It was Lilith the wife of Adam…
Not a drop of her blood was human,
But she was made like a sweet soft woman.”
—Dante Gabriel Rossetti
When Morton Reed, unaided except for a leather-faced, white-bearded Arab servant, began to dig in an unpromising spot half a dozen miles from Koyunjik, his fellow archaeologists devoted their spare moments to helpful mockery; but they remained to marvel when Reed uncovered a buried city where every tradition claimed there should be nothing of the kind.
And inevitably the big American universities chiseled in on the discovery; which perhaps was no great imposition, as Reed’s only resources were his lean, bronzed hands and enthusiasm that gleamed from his deep-set, dark eyes to relieve the grimness of his gaunt, angular face. One man can’t excavate an entire city.
* * * *
Standing on the crest of a mound near the now crowded excavations, Reed watched a hundred sweating natives dragging a monstrous winged and human-headed bull from the oblivion of forty centuries. He smiled ironically, nestled in the crook of his arm a small parcel wrapped in a grimy turban cloth, spat contemptuously, and turned his back on the diggers.
“Let them have that rubbish,” he muttered, striding toward his shabby tent at the further crest of the mound. “I’ve got mine.”
A necromancer is one whose magic art makes the dead speak. An archaeologist is one whose spade uncovers forgotten centuries. Sometimes the distinction between the two becomes dismayingly thin.
Once in his tent, Reed examined his prize. It was a green basalt image of a woman standing on the back of a lion. She wore a tall tiara, and her delicately aquiline Semitic features were sweetened by the shadow of a smile that lurked at the corners of her sensuous mouth. That vague, disquieting smile made Reed feel as though he had exhumed some living thing.
Her body was a suave succession of curves, and about her waist was a broad girdle from which trailed carved pendants reaching well past her hips.
On the foot of the pedestal was a cuneiform inscription; but a wrathful muttering from the rear distracted Reed’s pondering on the text.
“I betake me to Allah for refuge against Satan,” growled old Habeeb, Reed’s Arab servant. He fingered the blue amulet that he had worn suspended about his neck ever since they had begun excavating.
Reed recognized the symptoms of superstitious terror.
“What’s the trouble now?” he brusquely demanded.
“Throw the accursed thing away, sahib,” muttered the Arab. “That is the image of Bint el Hareth.”
That meant, literally, Daughter of Satan—El Hareth was the name by which the angels called their renegade brother.
“Cousin of a jackass,” retorted Reed in Arabic, “that is only the lady they used to call Anaitis, a couple of thousand years before Mohammad made the world safe for the one true God.”
But old Habeeb muttered and cursed as he collected dry camel dung for the evening’s fire.
Master and servant ate in silence.
Habeeb was thinking of Bint el Hareth, the queen of demons, who rode by moonlight attended by myriads of seductive, night-prowling lilin, whose whisperings lure solitary travelers into the trackless desert to their doom. Reed was equally perturbed, but for another reason: he would have to guard his treasure day and night, lest the otherwise faithful and devoted Arab destroy it.
* * * *
As soon as he had swallowed the last savory morsel of pilau, Reed stretched his weary length on the thick-napped Mosul rug spread on the dirt floor of his te
nt. He watched Habeeb descending the slope toward the campfires of the archaeologists’ native workmen. From afar came the mutter of a drum, and the monotonous reiteration of the old song about what happens to the wandering dervish when he met the sultan’s forty daughters…
But that, reflected Reed as he again regarded his green basalt treasure, would be nothing to a meeting with the model who centuries ago had posed for this image of Bint el Hareth—
Then he cursed that chanting in the distance. They had changed to a new song. One that Reed had never before heard in all his wanderings. A sensuous, seductive rhythm, for all the crudity of the hoarse voices that blended to produce it. Reed caught himself nodding to that disturbing cadence. It reminded him of silk and white flesh and all that an archaeologist abandons—
It seemed finally as though something age-old and evil and alluring had begun to whisper to him in the undertones of that barbarous melody.
Then, suddenly, he realized that he was listening to music that could come from no group of Arab laborers. He sensed that he was no longer alone.
The full moon was rising over the low-lying knolls beyond the Tigris. Something was advancing through the moon glamor toward the entrance of his tent. A woman wearing a tall, glistening tiara. Her shapely body was a succession of fluent, rippling curves that smiled through a gown that left him wondering whether its fragile fabric could endure even a breath of evening breeze.
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