CHAPTER XV.
THE ALTAR FIRES GO OUT.
On hastened Atlano to the courtyard of the palace. And from there, drove to the temple in wild fashion. For a great dread was besetting him.
When the others had gone out to watch the quick evaporation, he, whilst pondering in dismay upon Sensel’s promptness, had suddenly realized that a strange torpor was overcoming him. Horrified, he essayed to break this, succeeding only after great struggling. Then, his tongue seemed to swell to twice its size, and clove to his mouth. In an agony of fear, he tried to burst its bands, it, at length, also yielding. Thereupon, an abject terror of his misdeeds and their penalty so possessed him that he hastened out, to atone in slightest measure, if possible, by accession to the voice’s demands.
Further, spurred by his dread and some remnant of good yet left in him, he confessed his evil desire, and deprecated it. Now he was speeding to the temple to confer with Oltis as to what these evils might forbode, what might be done to ward off further visitations, aye, judgments!
In the temple, he found only the presiding priest Kluto, and the handmaids whose duty it was to attend the sacred fire.
“Kluto, where are the other priests?”
“Gracious King, they have gone to the sands that they may wait upon the silent one.”
“Where is Urgis—that this hath been done?”
“Gracious King, Urgis hath gone, likewise.”
“Urgis?”
“Gracious King, thus is it.”
“And—hath the high priest gone?”
“Priest Hafoe hath told it that the high priest sitteth again as stone in the inner holy place.”
“Why is the altar fire thus feeble?”
“Gracious King, I know not. In spite of us, it will but flicker, and, at times, doth threaten to go out.”
Here was a dreadful omen.
The king would have spoken further, but his voice was thickening, his tongue growing sluggish: so, he turned abruptly from Kluto; and, with uncertain step, passed into the inner sanctuary. Here was still burning the ‘Silent Priest’s’ hand lamp; here the altar fire flickered feebly as that of the temple proper; here the great apartment was in shadow save where the sun’s beams entered faint through the hangings of the apertures.
In a passion of fear, Atlano looked about him, and called, “Oltis—Oltis!”
There was no response. Though quickly his eyes lighted upon the unhappy Oltis, who was sitting behind the statue of Amen, his rigid body bent forward, his eyes bright to madness.
The almost frenzied Atlano dragged a chair opposite him; and, as he sank into it, his sluggish tongue mumbled, “Oltis—speak.”
Oltis’ eyes showed his struggle to comply.
Oltis gave a sigh so long and deep that the king shook in terror.
“Oltis, strive to shake off thy torpor. I felt the like coming but mastered it; though my tongue is not yet right.”
There was another sigh.
“Oltis, the silent one hath gone. Ere this, he hath joined the Pelasgian children. And they are sailing away—even to the queen.”
“The queen!”
The words burst from the marble Oltis, so terrifying Atlano that he leaped from his chair.
“Ah—thou speakest!”
“The queen hath left the palace?” vociferated Oltis.
“Yea, for half the day.”
“And—with the Pelasgian children—and—their father—Deucalion?”
Atlano almost fell back in his chair. As it was, he was obliged to lean upon it; and then stared at Oltis, his eyeballs protruding, his lips ashy.
“I say—with Deucalion. Thy Deucalion—the ‘Silent Priest’—hath mastered us.”
“Oltis, thou ravest!”
But Atlano felt it was not raving. Like a flash, it went through him. He fell into his chair, confounded, baffled. Great sparks danced before his eyes; his tongue refused to move. If he could but speak the dreadful thoughts surging in his brain; if he could but kill Oltis for telling him this!
Oltis spurred on, in spite of his helplessness and fear, continued:
“The Silent One is Deucalion. I knew it when ye had fled. He spoke to me. The horror of it!—He said he would search into the hidden things of the ‘Deeps.’ He opened the door. He went down the stairway. He saw the handmaids. He threatened to bring in the islanders. He forced me to go on the portico, and speak. Ah, he is a master!” The marble figure sighed as if it would rend itself.
Atlano was writhing and groaning in his torment. But joy—his voice was coming. He hissed, “Oltis, thou art a craven. Oh, for strength to get at thee! To aid—Deucalion! I will strangle thee for this. Then will I be king, high priest, chief priest in one. For Urgis shall die, likewise!”
Then he made the motion to spring, his hand out-clutched, Oltis, with tongue again mute, awaiting him: but in spite of his mad hatred, his baffled revenge, he had not power to arise. In his immobility and dread, he moaned:
“My foe—Deucalion—here—under my hand—and I not to feel it. How often have I longed to yield him on the altar—that ‘Silent Priest.’ Baffled, and by such arts! Oh, for Deucalion! To have him here for one instant, even!”
“Call to mind how thou didst pale before him but last night,” derided Oltis. “Wouldst thou grow weak again under his eyes? The man is master of strange, dire powers. Well is it he hath gone. Though—the queen!”
“Name her not. Ah, how hath she known thee. How hath she borne with me. What sorrow hath been hers. Mine eyes open to it. Fool that I am. Oltis, add another to thy doings. Call me fool!”
“Oltis, I curse thee! Some good was in me when I came to the throne. Some good was in me as long as I hearkened to the queen; but that good, thou hast turned to evil. The evil in me thou didst pander to—so that I am what I am. And why, Oltis, didst thou pander? It was not for warmth for me. Nay, nay, I read thee. I saw thou didst look to be king. I knew of thy draught of death; that thou hadst just got it in shape so that it would leave no sign. (Thy father, of his age, needed not such art.)—Ah, but I like to see thee writhe!—And well I bided, laughing at thee. Poor Atlana, how often hath she warned me. Now—for thee!”
He half arose, Oltis again awaiting him, his eyes flaming; but, as before, he sank in his chair, his muscles refusing to go farther.
“Why can I not walk?” he cried frantically. “Oltis, thou art bewitching me? Or, is it, in truth; the gods? We made the show not to believe in them—did we not? We believe now, ha—ha! Let us not fear. Let us curse each other—and them. Then will I go from here, and hunt up those lagging priests. This light on the altar groweth too dim. The gods will be getting in even worse temper because of it. Come, Oltis, raise thy voice. Let us curse together!”
Again he essayed to rise. But, in that moment, all power of volition forsook him. Instantly, his feet, hands, head, body, seemed encased in iron, in iron weighing tons. Not a muscle could he move for the immense pressure. His tongue was the deadest weight of all. His will was all of strength remaining him; and that struggled long, superhumanly. But the end was that he like Oltis could only sit as stone, and stare before him—and into the terrible eyes opposite.
Yet, how active was the mind becoming. How keenly, already, was it suffering in its recollections of evil, its regrets, its humiliation at being baffled—its horror of the oncoming fate. Oh, for madness, instead!
Thus sat the two in the growing gloom. Thus sat they when the priests returned from the seashore where they had been carried by the silent one’s will. When they entered, the hand lamp was burned out, the altar fire so feeble that they hastened, alarmed, to restore it. The more than semi-darkness was terrifying.
Search was made for another hand lamp. When one was found and lighted, Atlano and Oltis were discovered sitting behind the statue of Amen. Both were marble, save their baleful eyes. At sight of them, the startled priests fell back one upon another; then turned, shrieking, to flee.
When without in the temple, Kluto said to them, “We have brought vengeance upon us. Let us try to win pardon while we may. But look—I cannot make this flame last long.”
“We will help.”
Terror-stricken, they fanned the dying blaze. Though no life would come in it. At length, they tottered to the portico, suffocating of dread.
But—what had come over the face of earth? It was smiling when they had entered the temple after returning from the shore; yet now, a strange gloom, a murkiness was enveloping sky, ocean, stream, valley, hill. And significant, far-off rumblings were beginning; the ocean was becoming white; the stream Luith, as well as the other streams, was leaping up its banks. On every side, people were crying out in affright. What was this?
Priests and handmaids ran out to the great court; and paused to look about in horror. Suddenly, lurid lights filled the northern heavens. Were the mountains of the northeast belching flame? Was that deafening noise to the east the roaring of the incensed waters? They fell on their knees to supplicate forlornly.
But Kluto, best of his fellows, could not pray long for thought of the king and high priest. He started to his feet, crying:
“Who will go with me to save King Atlano and High Priest Oltis?”
None answered. Indignant, he turned from his brethren to dart back to the temple; and flew through it to the inner sanctuary.
The hand lamp shed a feeble light. Upon the altar were a few faint sparks. Kluto made his way toward king and high priest who still sat rigid, glaring. He spoke, implored them to rise again and again—but only their despairing eyes answered.
Then he pulled the one, the other. As well might he have tried to move the temple itself. Almost frenzied, he cried:
“King Atlano, High Priest Oltis, come, come. The ocean seetheth, the streams leap their banks, the mountains throw forth fire, the earth grumbleth. Come, come! Break your bonds!”
But they stirred not, though their eyes grew like flames in their endeavors. Kluto then tried to lift Oltis’ hand. As well might he have tried to move the statue of Amen that frowned in front of them. Before this statue, he flung himself.
“O Amen, have mercy. Break their bonds!”
So alive was his faith, that he felt some answer must come to his passionate appeal; but the silence remained unbroken.
“Amen, I cannot go. I cannot leave them to this. I will share their fate!”
Now was the silence broken. There were heard the pattering of light feet and the cries of women. These, speeding through the western passage were the greater part of the handmaids who had been resting in their rooms after the vigils of the night; and who had just aroused to the terrors without. At their despairing tones, Kluto forgot king and priest, and ran out to them.
“Get ye to the great court, there to pray. For the end is upon us!”
They crowded about him, terrified and irresolute. When he had led them without among the priests and other handmaids, he went before the people thronging into the court, and bade them pray for the safety of the island.
But the majority, in scorn, received his words. Not even the most anxious could bring themselves to believe this paradisiacal island in danger. Possibly Atlano and Oltis might suffer, but their dear island could not come to harm! Had not the gods loved it? Had not one dwelt in it? And was he not their father? Had not blessings ever been showered upon it? No—no—their island must be safe!
But, as they ran in and out of the court, up and down the hill, along the banks of canal and stream, complaints of king and high priest began to rise.
“Said we not evil would follow that loss, ruin in Pelasgia?” murmured one.
“True, one evil bringeth another,” returned a second.
“It may be that the gods were angry then, with King Atlano,” whispered an old and thoughtful-looking man to his wife.
“But, Queen Atlana is good,” spoke their daughter, a young mother who was standing beside them with a little child clinging to each hand, and who was eyeing in dread the encroaching water of the stream. “Would she were here. Why, why did she sail away?—But look, Father, Mother! The water riseth even to the top of the bank! Oh, my dear ones!” And she kneeled to draw forlornly within her arms her little ones. “Oh, wert thy father but here!”
For their father was afar. He was the captain of the queen’s galley.
Past this kneeling, weeping mother were surging the distracted islanders, some making their way to the shore others rushing to gaze upon the menacing streams, others flying to the court of the temple there to plead for mercy, others running to the summit of the hill in order to view better the fast brightening sky of the northeast. And continuously now was the earth shaking, groaning beneath them—whilst great raindrops were beginning to fall, and Amen’s thunderbolts to play.
About this mother moaning over her children gathered other mothers with their husbands and little ones, the plaints mingling in chorus. But soon came a shaking so long and severe that every voice hushed, every face set in terror. Then all groveled on the ground.
When the trembling had subsided, and they were standing erect again, an old woman said to be the most aged person on the island, spoke in shrillest tone:
“This is what cometh of handmaids and animal gifts upon the altar. Think ye your fathers would have been thus led to evil. Oh, ye fools of Atlantis!”
She eyed the islanders about her with such derision that they forgot their terror, and felt like rushing upon her in a body.
A gray-haired, quivering man retorted:
“It is well for thee, old Nogoa, to stand there and taunt us islanders when it is known thou hast ever been loudest in favor of these new doings. Oh, thou old feather that goeth with the wind! Have a care—or thou wilt be more dragged in the dirt than thou hast been!”
“Hah, it is the craven Puppo who speaketh,” returned Nogoa viciously. “He who saw his daughter forced into the inner holy place, and lifted not his voice to man or heaven against it. It seemeth he can cry out only when an old woman talketh.”
Puppo darted for her. As she fell over backward in her effort to get out of his reach, a tall young man rushed between them.
“Puppo, she speaketh truth. Thou wert a craven; and hast been a toad to king and priests ever since. Look at me,” he continued to the people. “Dear to me was his daughter Lota, and I would have made her my wife. And in an hour—ah instant—the world became black to me. But became it black to him? Hath he not laughed with the loudest, bent the lowest, slept through it? Thou worse than hypocrite! Get thee away!”
He looked so evilly upon Puppo, and was so seconded by those listening, that Puppo, after a wicked glance at old Nogoa who had been lifted up and placed on a fallen bough, slunk off.
The young man continued: “Nogoa, though as false, as full of guile as Puppo, is right in this: we have looked on when Atlano and Oltis changed the worship in these vile ways with never a nay. For this, woe is upon us! I come from my cave on yon mount where the fires rage to bid you flee in your galleys while there is time.”
“Why dost thou not flee, Monon? Show us the way,” screeched Puppo, who was now brave because he was quite well to one side.
“I flee not because I wish death. Every moment have I longed for it—as thou shouldst have done—since thy daughter vanished!”
A shout of derision went up for the benefit of the hidden Puppo, whose habitual discretion forbade further speech for the while.
“Monon,” shouted a young man at his right, “I, for one, will stand by the island to the last!”
Vociferous became the outcries in accordance. When these were subsiding, a scream was heard from the wife of the galley captain: and then the words, “Look, look! Luith floweth up over the bank; and higher—higher!”
They followed her glance to perceive that the stream was rising even above its banks, whilst the affrighted islanders thereon were beginning to flee, shrieking. The beholders, in their terror, swayed as one; and then groveled to implore mercy.
But in wilder terror, at once arose to shake off the gray dust that was beginning to fall everywhere. And one voice shrieked, “The ashes from the mouth of the mountain! To the sands—to the sands!”
The mass stood irresolute, dazed. Then went up the cry, “Yea, the sands—the sands!”
They parted to hasten toward that goal, youths supporting the aged, parents bearing their tender young. But they had not gone far, when, from the east, came one running as if pursued by demons; and he was crying:
“We are lost! We are lost! The sea riseth even to cover the great pile of rocks! It will be upon us!”
Therewith he fell senseless among them.
After him came others running like madmen, and repeating his words. One of these asked, “Where is the king?” Another, “Where is the high priest?”
An islander who had been in the court when the priests and handmaids hastened from the temple, answered:
“Atlano and Oltis sit in the inner holy place behind the statue of Amen, frozen in body, burning in torment of mind. There they will stay until the end, for no one hath power to move them.”
A cry of horror went up.
“How knowest thou this?” asked another of the newcomers, as he wiped the ashes from his lips.
“I heard the chief priest and Priest Hafoe tell of it after they had fled the temple.”
“Who fled from the temple?”
“The priests, handmaids, and serving men. None are left save those two frozen ones. Good company are they for each other!”
Unanimous were the angry outcries of agreement.
“Well is it that the queen hath gone,” remarked another newcomer. “We saw her off. May she have sailed too far to get back to this. The sea doeth its best to keep her away.”
“The dear queen!” cried one after another.
“Poor queen—she hath sorrowed and been meek.”
“And we have known it, and lifted not our voices,” rang Monon’s tones.
“Yea; and many of us wives have been treated as herself,” said a clear voice from among a group of women.
The male hearers accepted this in different ways. Some smiled scornfully; others glanced furtively at their fellows; a few appeared conscience stricken. A brave one exclaimed:
“I will own I have sinned. I wedded my niece, which was against the old law. But—there is Puppo—he wedded his aunt!”
“And tormented his first wife, the mother of Lota, to her death that he might do it,” screamed old Nogoa.
“Who put away five husbands?” yelled the unseen Puppo. There was silence. Then he answered sepulchrally, “Old Nogoa!”
Old Nogoa was speechless.
But Monon spoke up, “Nogoa is not the only one. How many are there who have done as she! Until these last years, how holy hath been wedlock; yet now, on every side, is its mockery. The handmaids and the animal gifts on the altar are but a few of the wicked changes in the laws of our olden fathers. Further, the curse of avarice is upon this island. And we have been steeped in pleasure, in sense. The body of flesh hath been our one thought. The inner body—the spirit—hath been forgotten, hath become of evil shape—is evil. Let us look to it! Should this storm pass by, let us begin a better growth of the spirit. Let us go back to the warmth and trust of our fathers. Then may we have the knowledge of heaven that was theirs.”
“Thinkest thou there is still hope, Monon?” interrupted a by-stander.
“That we may come out of this?”
“I believe there is no hope. But, we can die without murmur.”
In the next instant, he pointed to the temple gateway.
“Behold—Priest Kluto and the handmaids.”
They looked to perceive Kluto marshaling the handmaids without. Well had he pleaded for this with Chief Urgis, pleaded that the wretched young creatures might be restored to the arms of their kindred whom he knew must be awaiting them. And he prevailed, as Urgis and the other priests had become so given over to terror as not to care for consequences.
Further, Kluto was in the main, correct; for, as the handmaids stood clinging to each other, and glancing piteously about them through the falling ashes and rain, they were surrounded by watching, anxious dear ones; and began to be suffocated almost of embraces. All save three!
Yes, three there were that stood shrinking, as they lost hope of recognition. In dreary silence, they waited a little, and then moved beside Priest Kluto, who had been looking inquiringly from them to the islanders. But all, excepting those caressing the fortunate handmaids, were acting dazed because of the thickening showers of ashes and the now pelting rain. And prayers and groans were filling the air.
So Priest Kluto gathered closer the three handmaids; and whispered to them. Thereupon, the four began to make their way through the excited, ejaculating crowds in order to ascend to the summit, to the temple of Poseidon and Cleito.
“Priest Kluto, thou goest the wrong way,” called out a youth as he pointed to several galleys, that, unfastened from their moorings, were being borne higher and higher by the rising stream. “Why not set off in those galleys, and save the handmaids?”
“No galley could live on the white water beyond. We go to the summit, to beseech the mercy of Amen and Poseidon; and, should the last moment draw nigh, to meet it as becometh us.” With encouragement, he looked upon the shrinking handmaids.
But one cried hysterically, “If my mother and father were not in Chimo. There is cheer in dying together!”
In sweet, plaintive tones, spoke the second, “There is cheer in not being forgotten. I have father, mother, sisters, brothers. Yet not one cometh to look for me!”
“For very good cause,” screamed old Nogoa, who was still sitting on the fallen bough, and whom they were passing. “Celesa, I saw thy father, mother, sisters, and brothers go off in their galley after the queen.”
“I thank the gods!” And Celesa, with face illumined, fell on her knees to implore that they might be beyond danger; to give further thanks that she was not forgotten, that she alone of her family was selected to suffer.
But Kluto raised her, and drew her arm within his. Then the third handmaid spoke low, “Happy are ye two! Though I have neither father, mother, sister, nor brother, yet one there was who cared for me when I was dragged to the temple. But him I see not. He hath not watched to know if I should need him. Yet—we played together—as children!” She laid her head upon Celesa’s breast, and sobbed.
“His name?” whispered Celesa.
“Where is the youth Veris?” inquired Celesa in low, clear tones, but without looking about her.
A voice quite near replied, “It is even now time for him to come back from Chimo, whither he went a few days since.”
Luta was overjoyed. What were these dangers if she was not forgotten? What was death if Veris shared it? Her face lighted rosily as she looked around her, half expecting to see him speeding through the blinding showers of ashes and rain. Then she seized Celesa’s arm, and said in exultation, “Now Priest Kluto, can I follow thee even unto death!”
Thus, when Priest Kluto had given his other arm to the first handmaid, did the four stand abreast, and look up to the summit, and at the volcano’s light beyond undauntedly. They began to move upward, upon their faces coming the expression of the loving, trusting martyr. In amaze, the people beheld them; and could not but show some reflection. One cried: “They will die well. Why cannot we?” Then he, being a singer, commenced a hymn to Amen. So magnetic were his tones that the people about him joined in; a moment more, and the multitude was swelling the refrain. To this music, the four ascended to the summit, there to kneel before the temple of Poseidon and Cleito.
But along by the palace was coming a horseman from the west, his horse smoking and foaming, for he had fairly flown over the country between Chimo and this place. As horse and rider came in among the chanting multitude, the singing ceased, and many voices cried, “Veris! Veris!”
Veris, as he walked his horse in among them, shouted, “The island sinketh! Everywhere as I came across, rise the streams! Already hath the sea laid Chimo half under water!”
He had been nearing the temple gateway. In a few moments more, he was looking through with most anxious face. Then he said, “I will go in.”
“Veris, look not there for Luta,” called an islander who had been running after him.
“Whither shall I look?”
“Herself and two other handmaids have gone with Priest Kluto to the temple above to pray.” And the man pointed in the direction.
“I will join them.” Then, in happy tones, Veris thanked his friend, shook his hand, and turned to mount the hill; and as he mounted, the rain began to fall in sheets, the thunderbolts to strike.
Terror-stricken, the people scattered, seeking shelter. Some ran to their homes, others to the palace. But many rushed into the great court of the temple, thence on to the temple, there to utter dismayed cries at beholding the altar fire but a faint spark. Despite the almost darkness they pressed on, invading the sacredness of the inner sanctuary. Here, by the dim lamplight, did they further behold Atlano and Oltis, still as iron, still glaring at each other. And but a faint spark was remaining on this altar, likewise!
Shriek after shriek went up as these intruders looked upon king and priest; these shrieks being echoed by the dazed ones running through passages, apartments, and temple until it seemed as though the weight of sound must bring the walls about them.
Some of these intruders even ventured to pass on through the private passage of Atlano and Oltis. Perceiving the end door open, they went toward it, and its dark stairway allured them. Down they rushed to the open door below through which a faint light could be seen. And hustled, awed, into the crypt-like apartment whose lamps were still burning, there to look about them in wonder, terror; and then dashed for the white objects at the far end!
There was an agonized staring, screams, yells, a frenzied retreat up the stairway, frantic disclosures when they reached the inner sanctuary. “The lost handmaids!” “Dead—dead!” “In the vault below!” “See for yourselves!” were the cries to the ones that were here.
Many of these ran down to look for themselves, whilst the discoverers hastened out to inform others. The second party, in turn, came tearing up, maddened; and rushed without to corroborate the reports of the first. The listening islanders, aroused to their gross neglect, their insensate yielding, were excited to extreme hatred and desire for revenge. With Monon as leader, they hastened in mass to the inner sanctuary, showering curses the while upon Atlano and Oltis. And, when before them, further cursed; then spat upon them. Yet still the two sat rigid.
As they were thus reviled—as the revilers endeavored to tear them from their seats—the great structure began to rock, and so terrifically that the infuriated ones, forgetful even of their revenge, turned to flee. Better the rain, the lurid sky, the unearthly gloom, the showering ashes, the thunderbolts than this!
The last to leave cried in their flight, “The spark is out! The spark is out!” but to repeat the same when the temple’s altar was shot by!
But Luta was in Veris’ arms; and Kluto was holding fast Celesa—whilst, on the summit, the four received the full fury of the elements. But they were happy. As to the first handmaid, she had passed away while praying. And was lonely no longer!