 CHAPTER XIII The Terrible Sacrifice marked the end of the light season. The dark season had now begun, which would last for half the coming year. No more sunlight would now be visible save at first for a few joms when at certain times the glare would be seen shooting above the icy crests of the mountains. Now the people all moved out of the caverns into the stone houses on the opposite side of the terraces, and the busy throng transferred themselves and their occupations to the open air. This with them was the season of activity when all of their most important affairs were undertaken and carried out, the season too of enjoyment when all the chief sports and festivals took place. Then the outer world all awoke to life. The streets were thronged, fleets of galleys came forth from their moorings, and the sounds of labor and of pleasure, of toil and revelry arose into the darkened skies. Then the city was a city of the living, no longer silent, but full of bustle, and the caverns were frequented but little. This cavern life was only tolerable during the light season, when the sun glare was over the land, but now when the beneficent and grateful darkness pervaded all things the outer world was infinitely more agreeable. To me, however, the arrival of the dark season brought only additional gloom. I could not get rid of the thought that I was reserved for some horrible fate in which Alma might also be involved. We were both aliens here, in a nation of kind-hearted and amiable miscreants, of generous refined and most self-denying fiends, of men who were highly civilized yet utterly wrong-headed and irreclaimable in their bloodthirsty cruelty. The stain of blood-guiltness was over all the land. What was I that I could hope to be spared? The hope was madness, and I did not pretend to indulge it. The only consolation was Alma. The manners of these people were such that we were still left as unconstrained as ever in our movements, and always wherever we went we encountered nothing but amiable smiles and courteous offices. Everyone was always eager to do anything for us, to give, to go, to act, to speak, as though we were the most honored guests, the pride of the city. The cohen was untiring in his efforts to please. He was in the habit of making presents every time he came to see me, and on each occasion the present was of a different kind. At one time it was a new robe of curiously wrought feathers, at another some beautiful gem, at another some rare fruit. He also made incessant efforts to render my situation pleasant, and was delighted at my rapid progress in acquiring the language. On the job following the sacrifice I accompanied Alma as she went to her daily task, and after it was over I asked when the new victims would be placed here. How long does it take to embalm them, I added. Alma looked at me earnestly. They will not bring them here. They will not embalm them, said she. Why not, I ask? What will they do with them? Do not ask, said she. It will pain you to know. In spite of repeated solicitation she refused to give me any satisfaction. I felt deeply moved at her words and her looks. What was it I wondered that could give me pain? Or what could there still be that could excite fear in me who had learned and seen so much? I could not imagine. It was evidently some disposal of the bodies of the victims, that was plain. Turning this over in my mind with vague conjectures as to Alma's meaning I left her and walked along the terrace until I came to the next cavern. This had never been opened before, and I now entered through curiosity to see what it might be. I saw a vast cavern quite as large as the shed or nebulin full of people who seemed to be engaged in decorating it. Hundreds were at work, and they had brought immense tree ferns which were placed on either side in long rows with their branches meeting and interlacing at the top. It looked like the interior of some great gothic cathedral at night, and the few twinkling lights that were scattered here and there made the shadowy outline just visible to me. I asked one of the bystanders what this might be, and he told me that it was the mista cosec, which means the Feast of Darkness, from which I gathered that they were about to celebrate the advent of the dark season with a feast. From what I knew of their character this seemed quite intelligible, and there was much beauty and taste in the arrangements. People were industrious and orderly, and each one seemed most eager to assist his neighbor. Indeed there seemed to be a friendly rivalry in this which at times amounted to positive violence. For more than once, when a man was seen carrying too large a burden, someone else would insist on taking it from him. At first these altercations seemed exactly like the quarrels of workmen at home, but a closer inspection showed that it was merely the persistent effort of one to help another. I learned that the Feast was to take place as soon as the hall was decorated and that it would be attended by a great multitude. I felt a great interest in it. There seemed to be something of poetic beauty in this mode of welcoming the advent of a welcome season, and it served to mitigate the horrible remembrance of that other celebration upon which I could not think without a shudder. I thought that it would be pleasant to join with them here, and resolved to ask Alma to come with me so that she might explain the meaning of the ceremonies. Full of this thought I went to her and told her my wish. She looked at me with a face full of amazement and misery. In great surprise I questioned her eagerly. Ask me nothing, said she. I will answer nothing, but do not think of it. Do not go near it. Stay in your room till the fearful repast is over. Fearful? How is it fearful, I ask? Being here is fearful, said Alma, with a sigh. Every season it grows worse, and I shall grow at length to hate life and love death as these people do. They can never understand us, and we can never understand them. Oh, if I could but once more stand in my own dear native land but for one moment to see once more the scenes and the faces that I love so well. Oh, how different is this land from mine. Here all is dark, all is terrible. There the people love the light and rejoice in the glorious sun, and when the dark season comes they wait, and have no other desire than long day. There we live under the sky, in the eye of the sun. We build our houses, and when the dark season comes we fill them with lamps that make a blaze like the sun itself. We must try to escape, I said, in a low voice. Escape, said she. That is easy enough. We might go now, but where? Back, said I, to your own country. See the sky is dotted with stars. I can find my way by them. Yes, said she. If I could only tell you where to go, but I cannot. My country lies somewhere over the sea, but where I know not. Over the sea there are many lands, and we might reach one even worse than this. Perhaps, said I, the cohen might allow us to go away to your country and send us there. He is most generous and most amiable. He seems to spend most of his time and efforts to make us happy. There must be many seamen in this nation who know the way. It would be worth trying. Alma shook her head. You do not understand these people, she said. Their ruling passion is the hatred of self, and therefore they are eager to confer benefits on others. The only hope of life that I have for you and for myself is in this, that if they kill us, they will lose their most agreeable occupation. They value us most highly, because we take everything that is given us. You and I now possesses our own property, all this city and all its buildings, and all the people have made themselves our slaves. At this I was utterly bewildered. I do not understand, said I. I suppose not, said Alma, but you will understand better after you have been here longer. At any rate, you can see for yourself that the ruling passion here is self-denial and the good of others. Everyone is intent upon this. From the cohen, up to the most squalid pauper. Up to the most squalid pauper, said I? I do not understand you. You mean down to the most squalid pauper. No, said Alma. I mean what I say. In this country the paupers form the most honored and envied class. This is beyond my comprehension, said I. But if this is really so, and if these people pretend to be our slaves, why may we not order out a galley and go? Oh, well, with you and your land, if a master were to order his slaves to cut his throat and poison his children and burn his house, would the slaves obey? Certainly not. Well, our slaves here would not, in fact, could not obey a command that would be shocking to their natures. They think that we are in the best of all lands, and my request to be sent home would be utterly monstrous. I suppose, said I, that they would kill us if we ask them to do so. Yes, said Alma, for they think death is the greatest blessing. And if at the point of death we should beg for life, would they spare us? Certainly not, said Alma. Would you kill a man who asked for death? No more would these people spare a man who asked for life. All this was so utterly incomprehensible that I could pursue the subject no further. I saw, however, that Alma was wretched, dejected, and suffering greatly from homesickness. Gladly would I have taken her and started off on a desperate flight by sea or land. Gladly would I have dared every peril, although I well knew what tremendous perils there were, but she would not consent and believe the attempt to be useless. I could only wait, therefore, and indulge the hope that at last a chance of escape might one day come, of which she would be willing to avail herself. Alma utterly refused to go to the feast, and had treated me not to go, but this only served to increase my curiosity, and I determined to see it for myself whatever it was. She had seen it, and why should not I? Whatever it might be, my nerves could surely stand the shock as well as hers. Besides, I was anxious to know the very worst, and if there was anything that could surpass an atrocity what I had already witnessed, it were better that I should not remain in ignorance of it. So at length, leaving Alma, I returned to the Hall of the Feast. I found there a vast multitude which seemed to comprise the whole city. Men, women, children, all were there. Long tables were laid out. The people were standing and waiting. A choir was singing plaintive strains that sounded like the chant of the sacrifice. Those nearest me regarded me with their usual, amiable smiles, and wished to conduct me to some place of honor. But I did not care about taking part in the feast. I wished to be a mere spectator, nothing more. I walked past and came to the next cavern. This seemed to be quite as large as the other. There was a crowd of people here also, and at one end there blazed an enormous fire. It was a furnace that seemed to be used for cooking the food of this banquet, and there was a thick steam rising from an immense cauldron while the air was filled with an odor like that of a kitchen. All this I took in at a glance, and at the same instant I saw something else. There were several very long tables which stood at the sides of the cavern and in the middle, and upon each of these I saw lying certain things covered over with cloths. The shape of these was more than suggestive. It told me all. It was a sight of horror, awful, tremendous, unspeakable. For a moment I stood motionless staring, then all the cavern seemed to swim around me. I reeled, I fell, and sank into nothingness. When I revived I was in the lighted grotto lying on a couch, with Alma bending over me. Her face was full of tenderest anxiety, yet there was also apparent a certain solemn gloom that well accorded with my own feelings. As I looked at her she drew a long breath and buried her face in her hands. After a time my recollection returned and all came back to me. I rose to a sitting posture. Do not rise yet, said Alma anxiously. You are weak. No, said I. I am as strong as ever, but I am afraid that you are weaker. Alma shuddered. If you had told me exactly what it was I would not have gone. I could not tell you, said she. It is too terrible to name. Even the thought is intolerable. I told you not to go. Why did you go? She spoke in accents of tender reproach and there were tears in her eyes. I did not think of anything so hideous as that, said I. I thought that there might be a sacrifice, but nothing worse. I now learned that when I fainted I had been raised most tenderly and the Kohen himself came with me as I was carried back and he thought that Alma would be my most agreeable nurse. The Kohen was most kind and sympathetic and all the people vied with one another in their efforts to assist me, so much so that there was the greatest confusion. It was only by Alma's express entreaty that they retired and left me with her. Here was a new phase in the character of this mysterious people. Could I ever hope to understand them? Where other people are cruel to strangers or at best indifferent, these are eager in their acts of kindness. They exhibit the most unbounded hospitality, the most lavish generosity, the most self-denying care and attention. Where others would be offended at the intrusion of a stranger and enraged at his unconquerable disgust, these people had no feelings, safe pity, sympathy, and a desire to alleviate his distress. And yet, oh, and yet, oh, the thought of horror. What was this that I had seen? The abhorrent savages and the outer wilderness were surely of the same race as these. They, too, received us kindly. They, too, lavished upon us their hospitality, and yet there followed the horror of that frightful repast. Here there had been kindness and generosity and affectionate attention to be succeeded by deeds without a name. Ah, me, what an hour that was. And yet it was as nothing compared to what lay before me in the future. But the subject was one of which I dared not speak, one from which I had to force my thoughts away. I took the violin and played locober till Alma wept, and I had to put it away. Then I begged her to play or sing. She brought an instrument like a lute, and upon this she played some melancholy strains. At length the cohen came in. His mild, benevolent face never exhibited more gentle and affectionate sympathy than now. He seated himself, and with eyes half closed as usual, talked much, and yet with a native delicacy which always distinguished this extraordinary man, he made no illusion to the awful mista cosec. For my own part I could not speak. I was absent-minded, overwhelmed with gloom and despair, and at the same time full of aversion toward him and all his race. One question, however, I had to put. Who were the victims of the mista cosec? They said he with an agreeable smile. Oh, they were the victims of the sacrifice. I sank back in my seat and said no more. The cohen then took Alma's lute, played and sang in a very sweet voice, and at length, with his usual consideration, seeing that I looked weary, he retired. End of CHAPTER XIII. CHAPTER XIV. A strange manuscript found in a copper cylinder. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A strange manuscript found in a copper cylinder by James DeMille. CHAPTER XIV. I LEARN MY DOOM. Horror is a feeling that cannot last long. Human nature is incapable of supporting it. Sadness, whether from bereavement or disappointment or misfortune of any kind, may linger on through life. In my case, however, the milder and more enduring feeling of sadness had no sufficient cause for existence. The sights which I had seen inspired horror and horror only. But when the first rush of this feeling had passed, there came a reaction. Calmness followed, and then all the circumstances of my life here conspired to perpetuate that calm. For here all of the surface was pleasant and beautiful, all the people were amiable and courteous and most generous. I had light and luxury and amusements. Around me there were thousands of faces, all greeting me with cordial affection, and thousands of hands, all ready to perform my slightest wish. Of all, there was Alma. Everything combined to make her most dear to me. My life had been such that I never before had seen anyone whom I loved, and here Alma was the one congenial associate in a whole world of aliens. She was beautiful and gentle and sympathetic, and I loved her dearly, even before I understood what my feelings were. One day I learned all, and found that she was more precious to me than all the world. It was one charm when she did not make her appearance as usual. On asking after her I learned that she was ill. At this intelligence there came over me a feeling of sickening anxiety and fear. Alma, ill? What if it should prove serious? Could I endure life here without her sweet companionship? Of what value was life without her? And as I asked myself these questions I learned that Alma had become dearer to me than life itself, and that in her was all the sunshine of my existence. While she was absent life was nothing. All its value, all its light, its flavor, its beauty were gone. I felt utterly crushed. I forgot all else save her illness and all that I had endured seemed as nothing when compared with this. In the midst of my own anxiety I was surprised to find that the whole community was most profoundly agitated. Among all classes there seemed to be but one thought, her illness. I could overhear them talking. I could see them wait outside to hear about her. It seemed to be the one subject of interest beside which all others were forgotten. The cohen was absorbed in her case. All the physicians of the city were more or less engaged in her behalf, and there came forward as volunteers every woman in the place who had any knowledge of sick duties. I was somewhat perplexed however at their manner. They were certainly agitated and intensely interested yet not exactly sad. Indeed from what I heard it seemed as though this strange people regarded sickness as rather a blessing than otherwise. This however did not interfere in the slightest degree with the most intense interest in her and the most assiduous attention. The cohen in particular was devoted to her. He was absent-minded, silent, and full of care. On the whole I felt more than ever puzzled and less able than ever to understand these people. I loved them yet loathed them. For the cohen I had at once affection and horror. He looked like an anxious father, full of tenderest love for a sick child, full also of delicate sympathy with me, and yet I knew all the time that he was quite capable of plunging the sacrificial knife in Alma's heart and of eating her afterward. But my own thoughts were all of Alma. I learned how dear she was. With her the brightness of life had passed. Without her existence would be intolerable. Her sweet voice, her tender and gracious manner, her soft touch, her tender affectionate smile, her mournful yet trustful look. Oh heavens, would all these be mine no more? I could not endure the thought. At first I wandered about, seeking rest and finding none, and at length I sat in my own room and passed the time in listening, in questioning the attendance and wondering what I should do if she should be taken from me. At length on one blessed job the cohen came to me with a bright smile. Our darling Alma is better, said he. Eat, I beseech you. She is very dear to all of us, and we have felt for her and for you, but now all danger is past. The physicians say that she will soon be well. There were tears in his eyes as he spoke. It may have been caused by the bright light, but I attributed this to his loving heart and I forgot that he was a cannibal. I took his hands in mine and pressed them in deep emotion. He looked at me with a sweet and gentle smile. I see it all, said he, in a low voice. You love her, Atem Orr. I pressed his hands harder, but said nothing. Indeed, I could not trust myself to speak. I knew it, said he. It is but natural. You are both of a different race from us. You are both much alike, and in full sympathy with one another. This draws you together. When I first saw you I thought that you would be a fit companion for her here, that you would lessen her gloom, and that she would be pleasant to you. I found out soon that I was right, and I felt glad, for you at once showed the fullest sympathy with one another. Never till you came was Alma happy with us, but since you have come she has been a different being, and there has been a joyousness in her manner that I never saw before. You have made her forget how to weep, and as for yourself I hope she has made your life in this strange land seem less painful, Atem Orr. At all this I was so full of amazement that I could not say one word. Pardon me, continued he, if I have said anything that may seem like an intrusion upon your secret and most sacred feelings. I could not have said it had it not been for the deep affection I feel for Alma and for you, and for the reason that I am just now more moved than usual, and have less control over my feelings. Saying this he pressed my hand and left me. It was not the custom here to shake hands, but with his usual amiability he had adopted my custom, and used it as naturally as though he had been to the manor born. I was encouraged now. The mild cohen came often to cheer me. He talked much about Alma, about her sweet and gracious disposition, the love that all felt for her, the deep and intense interest which her illness had aroused. In all this he seemed more like a man of my own race than before, and in his eager desire for her recovery he failed to exhibit that love for death which was his nature. So it seemed. Yet this desire for her recovery did not arise out of any lack of love for death. It's true cause I was to learn afterward, and I was to know that if he desired Alma's recovery now, it was only that she might live long enough to encounter death in a more terrific form. But just then all this was unknown, and I judged him by myself. At last I learned that she was much better, and would be out on the following job. This intelligence filled me with a fever of eager anticipation. So great that I could think of nothing else. Sleep was impossible. I could only wait and try as best I might to quell my impatience. At last the time came. I sat waiting, the curtain was drawn aside. I sprang up and hurrying toward her, I caught her in my arms and wept for joy. Ah me, how pale she looked. She bore still the marks of her illness. She seemed deeply embarrassed and agitated at the fervor of my greeting. While I, instead of apologizing or trying to excuse myself, only grew more agitated still. Oh, Alma, I cried. I should have died if you had not come back to me. Oh, Alma, I love you better than life, and I never knew how dearly I loved you till I thought that I had lost you. Oh, forgive me, but I must tell you and don't weep, darling. She was weeping as I spoke. She said nothing between her arms around my neck and wept on my breast. After this we had much to say that we had never mentioned before. I cannot tell the sweet words that she said to me, but I now learned that she had loved me from the first, when I came to her in her loneliness, when she was homesick and heartsick, and I came a kindred nature of a race more like her own, and she saw in me the only one of all around her whom it was possible not to detest, and therefore she loved me. We had many things to say to one another and long exchanges of confidence to make. She now, for the first time, told me all the sorrow that she had endured in her captivity, sorrow which she had kept silent and shut up deep within her breast. At first her life there had been so terrible that it had brought her down nearly to death. After this she had sunk into dull despair. She had grown familiar with horrors and lived in a state of unnatural calm. From this my arrival had roused her. The display of feeling on my part had brought back all her old self, and roused anew all those feelings which in her had become dormant. The darkness, the bloodshed, the sacrifices, all these affected me as they had once affected her. I had the same fear of death which she had. When I had gone with her to the Shedder Nebulin, when I had used my sepid ram to save her life, she had perceived in me feelings and impulses to which all her own nature responded. Finally, when I asked her about the Mestaco sick, she warned me not to go. When I did go she was with me in thought and suffered all that I felt, until the moment I was brought back and laid senseless at her feet. Then said Alma, I felt the full meaning of all that lies before us. What do you mean by that, I ask anxiously? You speak as though there was something yet, worse than what has already been, yet nothing can possibly be worse. We have seen the worst. Let us now try to shake off these grisly thoughts and be happy with one another. Your strength will soon be back, and while we have one another we can be happy even in this gloom. Ah, me said Alma, it would be better now to die. I could die happy now, since I know that you love me. Ah, said I. Do not talk of it. Do not mention that word. It is more abhorrent than ever. No, Alma, let us live and love. Let us hope, let us fly. Impossible, said she, in a mournful voice. We cannot fly. There is no hope. We must face the future and make up our minds to bear our fate. Fate, I repeated, looking at her in wonder and in deep concern. What do you mean by our fate? Is there anything more which you know and which I have not heard? You have heard nothing, said she slowly, and all that you have seen and heard is as nothing compared with what lies before us. For you and for me there is a fate. Inconceivable, abhorrent, tremendous. A fate of which I dare not speak or even think, and from which there is no escape whatever. As Alma said this, she looked at me with an expression in which terror and anguish were striving with love. Her cheeks, which shortly before, had flushed rosy red in sweet confusion, were now pallid, her lips ashen, her eyes were full of wild despair. I looked at her in wonder and could not say a word. Oh, a-tem-or, said she, I am afraid of death. Alma said I, why will you speak of death? What is this fate which you fear so much? It is this, she said hurriedly and with a shudder. You and I are singled out. I have been reserved for years until one should be found who might be joined with me. You came. I saw it all at once. I have known it, dreaded it, tried to fight against it, but it was of no use. Oh, a-tem-or, our love means death. For the very fact that you love me and I love you seals our doom. Our doom, what doom? This sacrifice exclaimed Alma with another shudder. In her voice and look there was a terrible meaning which I could not fail to take. I understood it now, and my blood curdled in my veins. Alma clung to me despairingly. Do not leave me, she cried. Do not leave me. I have no one but you. The sacrifice, the sacrifice. It is our doom, the great sacrifice, at the end of the dark season. It is at the amir. We must go there to meet our doom. The amir, I ask, what is that? It is the metropolis, she said. I was utterly overwhelmed, yet still I tried to console her, but the attempt was in vain. Oh, she cried, you will not understand. The sacrifice is but a part. It is but the beginning. Death is terrible, yet it may be endured, if there is only death. But think, oh, think! Think of that which comes after, the Mistak Osek. Now, the full meaning flashed upon me, and I saw it all. In an instant there arose in my mind the awful sacrifice on the pyramid and the unutterable horror of the Mistak Osek. Oh, horror, horror, horror! Oh, hideous abomination and deed without a name. I could not speak. I caught her in my arms and we both wept passionately. The happiness of our love was now darkened by this tremendous cloud that lowered before us. The shock of this discovery was overpowering, and some time elapsed before I could rally from it. Though Alma's love was sweet beyond expression, and though as the time passed I saw that every jom she regained more and more of her former health and strength, still I could not forget what had been revealed. We were happy with one another, yet our happiness was clouded and amid the brightness of our love that was ever present the dread specter of our polling doom. These feelings, however, grew fainter. Hope is ever ready to arise, and I began to think that these people, though given to evil ways, were after all kindhearted and might listen to entreaty. Above all there was the Kohen, so benevolent, so self-denying, so amiable, so sympathetic. I could not forget all that he had said during Alma's illness, and it seemed more than probable that an appeal to his better nature might not be without effect. I said as much to Alma. The Kohen said she, why he can do nothing. Why not? He is the chief man here and ought to have great influence. You don't understand, said she with a sigh. The Kohen is the lowest and least influential man in the city. Why, who are influential if he is not, I ask. The paupers, said Alma. The paupers, I exclaimed in amazement. Yes, said Alma. Here among these people the paupers formed the most honoured, influential and envied portion of the community. This was incomprehensible. Alma tried to explain but to no purpose, and I was determined to talk to the Kohen. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of A Strange Manuscript Found in a Copper Cylinder This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Galen Darnell A Strange Manuscript Found in a Copper Cylinder by James DeMille Chapter 15 The Kohen is inexorable I determined to talk to the Kohen and try for myself whether he might not be accessible to pity. This greatest of cannibals might indeed have his little peculiarities, I thought, and who has not. Yet at bottom he seemed full of tender and benevolent feeling, and as he evidently spent his whole time in the endeavour to make us happy it seemed not unlikely that he might do something for our happiness in a case where our very existence was at stake. The Kohen listened with deep attention as I stated my case. I did this fully and frankly. I talked of my love for Alma and of Alma's love for me, our hope that we might be united so as to live happily in reciprocal affection, and I was going on to speak of the dread that was in my heart when he interrupted me. You speak of being united, said he. You talk strangely. Of course you mean that you wish to be separated. Separated, I exclaimed. What do you mean? Of course we wish to be united. The Kohen stared at me as I said this with the look of one who was quite puzzled, and I then went on to speak of the faith that was before us and to entreat his sympathy and his aid that we might be saved from so hideous a doom. To all these words the Kohen listened with an air of amazement as though I were saying incomprehensible things. You have a gentle and an affectionate nature, I said, a nature full of sympathy with others and noble self-denial. Of course, said the Kohen quickly, as though glad to get hold of something which he could understand. Of course we are also, for we are so made. It is our nature. Who is there who is not self-denying? No one can help that. This sounded strange indeed, but I did not care to criticize it. I came to my purpose direct and said, Save us from our fate. Your fate? Yes, from death, that death of horror. Death, horror? What do you mean by horror? said the Kohen in an amazement that was sincere and unfaigned. I cannot comprehend your meaning. It seems as though you actually dislike death, but that is not conceivable. It cannot be possible that you fear death. Fear death, I exclaimed. I do, I do. Who is there that does not fear it? The Kohen stared. I do not understand you, he said. Do you not understand, said I, that death is abhorrent to humanity? Abhorrent, said the Kohen, that is impossible. Is it not the highest blessing? Who is there that does not long for death? Death is the greatest blessing, the chief desire of man, the highest aim. And you, are you not to be envied in having your felicity so near? Above all, in having such a death as that which is appointed for you, so noble, so sublime. You must be mad, your happiness has turned your head. All this seemed like hideous mockery. And I stared at the Kohen with a gaze that probably strengthened his opinion of my madness. Do you love death, I ask at length an amazement? Love death, what a question. Of course I love death, all men do. Who does not? Is it not human nature? Do we not instinctively fly to meet it whenever we can? Do we not rush into the jaws of sea monsters or throw ourselves within their grasp? Who does not feel it within him this intense longing after death as the strongest passion of his heart? I don't know, I don't know, said I. You are of a different race, I do not understand what you say, but I belong to a race that fears death. I fear death and love life. And I entreat you, I implore you to help me now in my distress and assist me so that I may save my life and that of Alma. I, I help you, said the Kohen in new amazement. Why do you come to me, to me of all men? Why, I am nothing here, and help you to live, to live, whoever heard of such a thing. And the Kohen looked at me with the same astonishment, which I should events if a man should ask me to help him die. Still, I persisted in my entreaty for his help. Such a request said he is revolting, you must be mad. Such a request outrages all the instincts of humanity. And even if I could do such violence to my own nature as to help you to such a thing, how do you think I could face my fellow men? Or how could I endure the terrible punishment which would fall upon me? Punishment, said I. What, you would be punished? Punished, said the Kohen. That, of course, would be inevitable. I should be esteemed an unnatural monster and the chief of criminals. My lot in life now is painful enough, but in this case my punishment would involve me in evils without end. Riches would be poured upon me. I should be raised to the rank of Kohen Gadol. I should be removed farther away than ever from the pauper class, so far indeed that all hope in life would be over. I should be made the first and noblest and richest in all the land. He spoke these words just as if he had said, the lowest, meanest, poorest, and most infamous. It sounded like fresh mockery, and I could not believe that he was amusing himself at my expense. This is cruel, said I. You are mocking me. Cruel? Cruel, said he. What is cruel? You mean that such a fate would be cruel for me? No, no, said I. But alas, I see we cannot understand one another. No, said the Kohen musingly as he looked at me. No, it seems not. But tell me, Atemor, is it possible that you really fear death, that you really love life? Fear death? Love life, I cried. Who does not? Who can help it? Why do you ask me that? The Kohen clasped his hands in amazement. If you really fear death, said he, what possible thing is there left to love or to hope for? What then do you think the highest blessing of man? Long life, said I, and riches and requited love. At this the Kohen stared back, and stared at me as though I were a raving madman. Oh, holy shades of night, he exclaimed. What is that you say? What do you mean? We can never understand one another, I fear, said I. The love of life must necessarily be the strongest passion of man. We are so made. We give up everything for life. A long life is everywhere considered as the highest blessing, and there is no one who is willing to die, no matter what his suffering may be. Riches also are desired by all, for poverty is the direst curse that can embitter life. And as to requited love, surely that is the sweetest, purest, and most divine joy that the human heart may know. At this the Kohen burst forth in a strain of high excitement. Oh, sacred cavern gloom, oh, divine darkness, oh, impenetrable abysses of night. What, oh, what is this? Oh, ATEM, or, are you mad? Alas, it must be so. Joy has turned your brain, you are quite demented. You call good evil and evil good. Our light is your darkness, and our darkness is your light, yet surely you cannot be altogether insane. Come, come, let us look further. How is it? Try now to recall your reason. A long life, a life, and a long one. Surely there can be no human being in a healthy state of nature who wishes to prolong his life, and as to riches it is possible that any one exists who really and honestly desires riches? Impossible. And requited love? Oh, ATEM, or you are mad today. You are always strange, but now you have quite taken leave of your senses. I cannot but love you, and yet I can never understand you. Tell me and tell me truly, what is it that you consider evils if these things that you have mentioned are not the very worst? He seemed deeply in earnest and much moved. I could not understand him, but could only answer his questions with simple conciseness. Poverty, sickness and death said I are evils, but the worst of all evils is unrequited love. At these words the cohen made a gesture of despair. It is impossible to understand this, said he. You talk calmly. You have not the air of a madman. If your fellow countrymen are all like you, then your race is an incomprehensible one. Why death is the greatest blessing. We all long for it. It is the end of our being. As for riches, they are a curse abhorred by all. Above all, as to love, we shrink from the thought of requital. Death is our chief blessing, poverty our greatest happiness, and unrequited love, the sweetest lot of man. All this sounded like the ravings of a lunatic, yet the cohen was not mad. It seemed also like the mockery of some teasing demon, but the gentle and self-denying cohen was no teasing demon, and mockery with him was impossible. I was therefore more bewildered than ever at this reiteration of sentiments that were so utterly incomprehensible. He, on the other hand, seemed as astonished at my sentiments and as bewildered, and we could find no common ground on which to meet. I remember now, said the cohen in amusing tone, having heard of some strange folk at the Amir, who profess to feel as you say you feel, but no one believes that they are an earnest, for although they may even bring themselves to think that they are an earnest in their professions, yet after all everyone thinks that they are self-deceived, for you see in the first place these feelings which you profess are utterly unnatural. We are so made that we cannot help loving death. It is a sort of instinct. We are also created in such a way that we cannot help longing after poverty. The pauper must always, among all men, be the most envied of mortals. Nature too has made us such that the passion of love when it arises is so vehement, so all-consuming, that it must always struggle to avoid requital. This is the reason why when two people find that they love each other they always separate and avoid one another for the rest of their lives. This is human nature. We cannot help it, and it is this that distinguishes us from the animals. Why if men were to feel as you say you feel, they would be mere animals. Animals fear death. Animals love to accumulate such things as they prize. Animals when they love go in pairs and remain with one another. But man with his intellect would not be man if he loved life and desired riches and sought for requited love. I sank back in despair. You cannot mean all this, I said. He threw at me a piteous glance. What else can you believe or feel, said he? The very opposite. We are so made that we hate and fear death. To us he is the king of terrors. Poverty is terrible also, since it is associated with want and woe. It is therefore natural to man to strive after riches. As to the passion of love, that is so vehement that the first and only thought is requital. Unrequited love is anguished beyond expression. Anguished so severe that the heart will often break under it. The cohen clasp his hands in new bewilderment. I cannot understand, said he. A mad man might imagine that he loved life and desired riches, but as to love why even a mad man could not think of requital for the very nature of the passion of love is the most utter self- surrender and a shrinking from all requital. Wherefore the feeling that leads one to desire requital cannot be love. I do not know what it can be. Indeed I never heard of such a thing before, and the annals of the human race make no mention of such a feeling. For what is love? It is the ardent outflowing of the whole being. The yearning of one human heart to lavish all its treasures upon another. Love is more than self-denial. It is self-surrender and utter self-abnegation. Love gives all away and cannot possibly receive anything in return. A requital of love would mean selfishness, which would be self-contradiction. The more one loves, the more he must shrink from requital. What cried I? Among you do lovers never marry? Lovers marry? Never. Do married people never love one another? The cohen shook his head. It unfortunately sometimes happens so, said he, and then the result is, of course, distressing. For the children's sake the parents will often remain with one another, but in many cases they separate. No one can tell the misery that ensues where a husband and wife love one another. The conversation grew insupportable. I could not follow the cohen in what seemed the wildest and maddest flights of fancy that ever were known. So I began to talk of other things, and gradually the cohen was drawn to speak of his own life. The account which he gave of himself was not one whit less strange than his previous remarks, and for this reason I added here. I was born, said he, in the most enviable of positions. My father and mother were among the poorest in the land. Both died when I was a child and I never saw them. I grew up in the open fields and public caverns, along with the most esteemed paupers. But unfortunately for me there was something warning in my natural disposition. I loved death, of course, and poverty too, very strongly, but I did not have that eager and energetic passion which is so desirable, nor was I watchful enough over my blessed estate of poverty. Surrounded as I was by those who were only too ready to take advantage of my ignorant or want of vigilance I soon fell into evil ways, and gradually, in spite of myself, I found wealth pouring in upon me. Designing men succeeded in winning my consent to receive their possessions, and so I gradually fell away from that lofty position in which I was born. I grew richer and richer. My friends warned me, but in vain. I was too weak to resist, in fact I lacked moral fiber and had never learned how to say no, so I went on descending lower and lower in the scale of being. I became a capitalist, an anthon, a general officer, and finally Kohen. At length on one eventful day I learned that one of my associates had by a long course of reckless folly become the richest man in all the country. He had become athon, mellick, and at last Kohen Gadol. It was a terrible shock, but I trust a salutary one. I had once resolved to reform that resolution I have steadily kept and have at least saved myself from descending any lower. It is true I can hardly hope to become what I once was. It is only too easy to grow rich, and you know poverty once forfeited can never return except in rare instances. I have, however, succeeded in getting rid of most of my wealth chiefly through the fortunate advent of Alma and afterward of yourself. This I confess has been my salvation. Neither of you had any scruples about accepting what was bestowed, and so I did not feel as though I was doing you any wrong in giving you all I had in the world. Most of the people of this city have taken advantage of your extraordinary indifference to wealth and have made themselves paupers at your expense. I had already become your slave and had received the promise of being elevated to the rank of Skullion in the cavern of the Mistak Osek. But now, since this event of your love for Alma, I hope to gain far more. I am almost certain of being made a pauper, and I think I can almost venture to hope some day for the honor of a public death. To such a story I had nothing to say. It was sheer madness, yet it was terribly suggestive, and showed how utterly hopeless was my effort to secure the assistance of such a man to ward my escape from death. A public death, I said grimly. That will be very fortunate, and do you think that you will gain the dignity of being eaten up afterward? The cohen shook his head in all seriousness. Oh no, said he, that would be far beyond my desserts. That is an honor which is only bestowed upon the most distinguished. by James DeMille, Chapter 16, The Kosykin These people call themselves the Kosykin. Their chief characteristic, or at least their most prominent one, is their love of darkness, which perhaps is due to their habit of dwelling in caves. Another feeling equally strong and perhaps connected with this is their love of death and dislike of life. This is visible in many ways, and affects all their character. It leads to a passionate self-denial, an incessant effort to benefit others at their own expense. Each one hates life and longs for death. He, therefore, hates riches, and all things that are associated with life. Among the Kosykin, everyone makes perpetual efforts to serve others, which, however, are perpetually baffled by the unselfishness of these others. People thus spend years in trying to overreach one another, so as to make others richer than themselves. In a race, each one tries to keep behind, but as this leads to confusion, there is then a universal effort for each one to be first, so as to put his neighbor in the honorable position of the rear. It is the same way in a hunt. Each one presses forward, so as to honor his companion by leaving him behind. Instead of injuring, everyone tries to benefit his neighbor. When one has been benefited by another, he is filled with a passion which may be called Kosykin Revenge, namely a sleepless and vehement desire to bestow some adequate and corresponding benefit on the other. Feuds are thus kept up among families and wars among nations, for no one is willing to accept from another any kindness, any gift, or any honor, and all are continually on the watch to prevent themselves from being overreached in this way. Those who are less watchful than others are overwhelmed with gifts by designing men who wish to attain to the popper class. The position of Alma and myself illustrates this. Our ignorance of the blessings and honors of poverty led us to receive whatever was offered us. Taking advantage of our innocence and ignorance, the whole city thereupon proceeded to bestow their property upon us, and all became poppers through our fortunate arrival. No one ever injures another unless by accident, and when this occurs, it affords the highest joy to the injured party. He has now acclaim on the injurer, he gets him into his power, is able to confer benefits on him and force upon him all that he wishes. The unhappy injurer, thus punished by the reception of wealth, finds himself helpless, and where the injury is great, the injured man may bestow upon the other all his wealth and attain to the envied condition of a popper. Among the Kosykin, the sick are objects of the highest regard, all classes vie with one another in their attentions. The rich send their luxuries. The poppers, however, not having anything to give, go themselves and wait on them and nurse them, for this there is no help, and the rich grumble but can do nothing. The sick are thus sought out incessantly and most carefully tended. When they die, there is great rejoicing, since death is a blessing, but the nurses labor hard to preserve them in life, so as to prolong the enjoyment of the high privilege of nursing. Of all sick, the incurable are most honored, since they require nursing always. Children also are highly honored and esteemed, and the aged too, since both classes require the care of others and must be the recipients of favors which all are anxious to bestow. Those who suffer from contagious diseases are more sought after than any other class, for in waiting on these there is the chance of gaining the blessing of death. Indeed, in these cases much trouble is usually experienced from the rush of those who insist on offering their services. For it must never be forgotten that the Kosikin love death as we love life, and this accounts for all those ceremonies which to me were so abhorrent, especially the scenes of the Mista Kosek. To them a dead human body is no more than the dead body of a bird. There is no awe felt, no sense of sanctity, of superstitious horror, and so I learned with a shutter that the hate of life is a far worse thing than the fear of death. This desire for death is, then, a master passion, and is the key to all their words and acts. They rejoice over the death of friends, since those friends have gained the greatest of blessings, they rejoice also at the birth of children, since those who are born will one day gain the bliss of death. For a couple to fall in love is the signal for mutual self-surrender. Each insists on giving up the loved one, and the more passionate the love is, the more eager is the desire to have the loved one married to someone else. Lovers have died broken-hearted from being compelled to marry one another. Poets here among the Kosikin celebrate unhappy love, which has met with this end. These poets also celebrate defeat instead of victories, since it is considered glorious for one nation to sacrifice itself to another, but to this there are important limitations, as we shall see. Poets also celebrate street sweepers, scavengers, lamp lighters, laborers, and, above all, poppers, and pass by as unworthy of notice the authors, mellocks, and coins of the land. The poppers here form the most honorable class. Next to these are the laborers. These have strikes with us, but it is always for harder work, longer hours, or smaller pay. The contest between capital and labor rages, but the conditions are reversed, for the grumbling capitalist complains that the laborer will not take as much pay as he ought to, while the laborer thanks the capitalist too persistent in his efforts to force money upon him. Here among the Kosikin the wealthy class forms the mass of the people, while the aristocratic few consist of the poppers. These are greatly envied by the others, and have many advantages. The cares and burdens of wealth, as well as wealth itself, are here considered a curse, and from all these the poppers are exempt. There is a perpetual effort on the part of the wealthy to induce the poppers to accept gifts. Just as among us the poor try to rob the rich. Among the wealthy there is a great and incessant murmur at the obstinacy of the poppers. Secret movements are sometimes set on foot, which aim at the redistribution of property and a leveling of all classes, so as to reduce the haughty poppers to the same condition as the mass of the nation. More than once there has been a violent attempt at a revolution, so as to force wealth on the poppers. But as a general thing these movements have been put down and their leaders severely punished. The poppers have shown no mercy in their hour of triumph. They have not conceded one jot to the public demand, and the unhappy conspirators have been condemned to increase wealth and luxury, while the leaders have been made mellocks and coins. Thus there are among the Kosikin the unfortunate many who are cursed with wealth, and the fortunate few who are blessed with poverty. These walk while the others ride, and from their squalid huts look proudly and contemptuously upon the palaces of their unfortunate fellow countrymen. The love of death leads to perpetual efforts on the part of each to lay down his life for another. This is a grave difficulty in hunts and battles. Confined prisoners dare not fly, for in such an event the guards kill themselves. This leads to fresh rigors in the captivity of the prisoners in case of their recapture, for they are overwhelmed with fresh luxuries and increased splendors. Finally, if a prisoner persists and is recaptured, he is solemnly put to death, not as with us by way of severity, but as the last and greatest honor. Here extremes meet. The death, whether for honor or dishonor, is all the same, death, and is reserved for desperate cases. But among the Kosikhin this lofty destiny is somewhat embittered by the agonizing thought on the part of the prisoner, who thus gains it, that his wretched family must be doomed, not as with us, to poverty and want, but on the contrary, to boundless wealth and splendor. Among so strange a people it seems singular to me what offenses could possibly committed which could be regarded and punished as crimes. These, however, I soon found out. Instead of robbers, the Kosikhin punish the secret bestowers of their wealth on others. This is regarded as a very grave offense. Analogous to our crime of piracy is the forcible arrest of ships at sea and the transfer to them of valuables. Sometimes the Kosikhin pirates give themselves up as slaves. Kidnapping, assault, highway robbery, and crimes of violence have their parallel here in cases where a strong man, meeting a weaker, forces himself upon him as his slave or compels him to take his purse. If the weaker refuse, the assailant threatens to kill himself, which act would lay the other under obligations to receive punishment from the state in the shape of gifts and honors, or at least subject him to unpleasant inquiries. Murder has its counterpart among the Kosikhin in cases where one man meets another, forces money on him, and kills himself. Forgery occurs where one uses another's name so as to confer money on him. There are many other crimes, all of which are severely punished. The worse the offense is, the better is the offender treated. Among the Kosikhin capital punishment is imprisonment amid the greatest splendor, where the prisoner is treated like a king and has many palaces and great retinues. For that which we consider the highest they regard as the lowest, and with them the chief post of honor is what we would call the lowest menial office. Of course, among such a people any suffering from want is unknown, except when it is voluntary. The pauper class, with all their great privileges, have this restriction that they are forced to receive enough for food and clothing. Some, indeed, manage by living in out-of-the-way places to deprive themselves of these and have been known to die of starvation, but this is regarded as dishonorable, as taking an undue advantage of a great position, and where it can be proved that children and relatives of the offender are severely punished according to the Kosikhin fashion. State politics here move, like individual affairs, upon the great principle of contempt for earthly things. The state is willing to destroy itself for the good of other states, but as other states are in the same position, nothing can result. In times of war, the object of each army is to honor the other and benefit it by giving it the glory of defeat. The contest is thus most fierce. The Kosikhin, through their passionate love of death, are terrible in battle, and when they are also animated by the desire to confer glory on their enemies by defeating them, they generally succeed in their aim. This makes them almost always victorious, and when they are not so, not a soul returns alive. Their state of mind is peculiar. If they are defeated, they rejoice, since defeat is their chief glory. But if they are victorious, they rejoice still more in the benevolent thought that they have conferred upon the enemy the joy, the glory, and the honor of defeat. Here all shrink from governing others. The highest wish of each is to serve. The Melix and Coens, whom I at first considered the highest, are really the lowest orders. Next to these come the authors, then the merchants, then farmers, then artisans, then laborers, and finally the highest rank is reached in the poppers. Happy the aristocratic, the haughty, the envied poppers. The same thing is seen in their armies. The privates here are highest in rank, and the officers come next in different graduations. These officers, however, have the command and the charge of affairs as with us. Yet this is consistent with their position, for here to obey is considered nobler than to command. In the fleet the rowers are the highest class, next come the fighting men, and the lowest of all are the officers. War arises from motives as peculiar as those which give rise to private feuds. As for instance, where one nation tries to force a province upon another, where they try to make each other greater, where they try to benefit unduly each other's commerce, where one may have a smaller fleet or army than has been agreed upon, or where an ambassador has been presented with gifts or received too great honor or attention. In such a country as this, where riches are disliked and despised, I could not imagine how people could be induced to engage in trade. This, however, was soon explained. The laborers and artisans have to perform their daily work so as to enable the community to live and move and have its being. Their impelling motive is the high one of benefiting others most directly. They refuse anything but the very smallest pay, and insist on giving for this the utmost possible labor. Tradesmen also have to supply the community with articles of all sorts. Merchants have to sail their ships to the same end, all being animated by the desire of affecting the good of others. Each one tries not to make money, but to lose it. But as the competition is sharp and universal, this is difficult, and the larger portion are unsuccessful. The purchasers are eager to pay as much as possible, and the merchants and traders grow rich in spite of their utmost endeavors. The wealthy classes go into business so as to lose money, but in this they seldom succeed. It has been calculated that only two percent in every community succeed in reaching the proper class. The tendency is for all the laborers of the working class to be ultimately turned upon the unfortunate wealthy class. The workmen being the creators of wealth and refusing to take adequate pay cause a final accumulation of the wealth of the community in the hands of the mass of the non-producers, who thus are fixed in their unhappy position, and can hope for no escape except by death. The farmers till the ground, the fishermen fish, the laborers toil, and the wealth thus created is pushed from these incessantly till it all falls upon the lowest class, namely the rich, including Athens, Melix, and Coens. It is a burden that is often too heavy to be born, but there is no help for it, and the better minded seek to cultivate resignation. Women and men are in every respect absolutely equal, holding precisely the same offices and doing the same work. In general, however, it is observed that women are a little less fond of death than men, and a little less unwilling to receive gifts. For this reason they are very numerous among the wealthy class and abound in the offices of administration. Women serve in the army and navy as well as men, and from their lack of ambition or energetic perseverance they are usually relegated to the lower ranks, such as officers and generals. To my mind it seemed as though the women were in all the offices of honor and dignity, but in reality it was the very opposite. The same is true in the family. The husbands insist on giving everything to the wives and doing everything for them. The wives are therefore universally the rulers of the household while the husbands live in apparently subordinate but to the cosecan a more honorable position. As to the religion of the cosecan, I could make nothing of it. They believe that after death they go to what they call the world of darkness. The death they long for leads to the darkness that they love, and the death and the darkness are eternal. Still they persist in saying that the death and the darkness together form a state of bliss. They are eloquent about the happiness that awaits them there in the sunless land, the world of darkness, but for my own part it always seemed to me a state of nothingness. Chapter 17 of A Strange Manuscript Found in a Copper Cylinder This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Eddie Winter. A Strange Manuscript Found in a Copper Cylinder by James DeMille Chapter 17 Belief and Unbelief The doctor was here interrupted by Featherstone who, with a yawn, informed him that it was 11 o'clock and that human endurance had its limits. Upon this the doctor rolled up the manuscript and put it aside for the night, after which supple was ordered. Well said Featherstone, what do you think of this last? It contains some very remarkable statements, said the doctor. There are certainly monsters enough in it, said Melek, Golgans and Hydras, and Kamira's Dire. Well why not, said the doctor. It seems to me, said Melek, that the writer of this has peopled his world with creatures that resemble the fossil animals more than anything else. The so-called fossil animals, said the doctor, may not be extinct. There are fossil specimens of animals that still have living representatives. There is no reason why many of those supposed to be extinct may not be alive now. It is well known that many very remarkable animals have become extinct within a comparatively recent period. These great birds of which more speaks seem to me to belong to these classes. Dodo was in existence 50 years ago. The Moa, about 100 years ago. These great birds, together with others such as the Epionis and Plaptorix, have disappeared not through the ordinary course of nature, but by the hand of man. Even in our hemisphere they may yet be found. Who can tell but that the Moa, or the Dodo, may yet be lurking somewhere here in the interior of Madagascar, of Borneo, or of Papua? Can you make out anything about those great birds, after Featherstone? Do they resemble anything that exists now, or has ever existed? Well yes, I think so, said the doctor. Unfortunately, Moa is not at all close or accurate in his descriptions. He has a decidedly unscientific mind, and so one cannot feel sure. Yet from his general statements, I think I can decide pretty nearly upon the nature and the scientific name of each one of his birds and animals. It is quite evident to me that most of these animals belong to races that no longer exist among us, and that this world at the South Pole has many characteristics which are like those of what is known as the Coal Period. I allude in particular to the vast forests of fern of gigantic grasses and reeds. At the same time the general climate and the atmosphere seem like what we may find in the tropics at present. It is evident in Moa's world that various epochs are represented, and that animals of different ages are living side by side. What do you think of the yacht cook, after Featherstone with a yawn? Well I hardly know. Why it must be a dodo of course, said Malik, only magnified. That said, the doctor gravely is a thought that naturally suggests itself, but then the yacht cook is certainly far larger than the dodo. Oh, more put on his magnifying glasses just then. The dodo, continued the doctor, taking no notice of this. In other respects, corresponds with Moa's description of the yacht cook. Clusius and Bontius give good descriptions, and there is a well-known picture of one in the British Museum. It is a massive clumsy bird, ungraceful in its form, with heavy movements, wings too short for flight, little or no tell, and down rather than feathers. The body, according to Bontius, is as big as that of the African ostrich, but the legs are very short. It has a large head, great black eyes, long bluish white bill, ending in a beak like that of a vulture. Yellow legs, thick and short, four toes on each foot, solid, long and armed with sharp black claws. The flesh, particularly on the breast, is fat and escalant. And all this corresponds with Moa's account, except as to the size of the two. For the yacht cooks are as large as oxen. Oh, that's nothing, said Malik. I'm determined to stand up for the do-do. With this he burst forth singing. Oh, the do-do once lived, but he doesn't live now. Yet why should a cloud overshadow our brow? The lot of that bird ne'er should trouble our brains, for though he is gone, still our claret remains. Sing do-do, jolly do-do, hurrah, in his name, let our cups overflow. As for your definition, Doctor, continued Malik, I'll give you one worth a dozen of yours. It was a mighty bird whose strong short legs were never known to fail, and he felt a glory of pride while thinking of that little tale. And his beak was marked with vigor, curving like a wondrous hook. Thick and ugly was his body, such a form was made one look. Malik, said Featherstone, you're a volatile youth. You mustn't mind him, Doctor. He's a professional cynic, skeptic, and scoffer. Oxenden and I, however, are open to conviction, and want to know more about these birds and beasts. Can you make anything out of the opma herea? The Doctor swallowed a glass of wine and replied, Oh yes, there are many birds, each of which may be the opma herea. There's the fossil bird of Massachusetts, of which nothing is left but the footprints. But some of these are 18 inches in length, and show a stride of two yards. The bird belonged to the older of the grale, and may have been 10 or 12 feet in height. Then there is the gastornis porus iensis, which was as tall as an ostrich, as big as an ox, and belongs to the same older as the other. Then there is the palapterics, of which remains have been found in New Zealand, which was 7 or 8 feet in height. But the one which in my mind is the real counterpart of the opma herea, is a dinornis giganti, whose remains are also found in New Zealand. It is the largest bird known, with long legs, a long neck, and short wings, useless for flight. One specimen that has been found is upward of 13 feet in height. There is no reason why some should not have been much taller. More compares its height to that of a giraffe. The Maori's call this bird the mower, and their legends and traditions are full of mention of it. When they first came to the island six or seven hundred years ago, they found these vast birds everywhere, and hunted them for food. To my mind the dinornis is the opma herea of more. As to riding on them, that is likely enough. For ostriches are used for this purpose. The dinornis must have been far stronger and fleeter than the ostrich. It is possible that some of these birds may still be living in the remote parts of our hemisphere. What about those monsters, asked Furtherstone, that Morse speaks of in the sacred hunt? I think, said the doctor, that I understand pretty well what they were, and can identify them all. As the galley passed the estuary of that great river, you remember that he mentions seeing them on the shore. One may have been the ichthyosaurus. This, as the name implies, is a fish lizard. It has the head of a lizard, the snout of a dolphin, the teeth of an alligator, enormous eyes, whose membrane is strengthened by a bony frame, the vertebrae of fishes, sternum and shoulder bones, like those of the lizard, and the fins of a whale. A whale calls it the whale of the Saurians. Another may have been the chyrotherium. On account of the hand-shaped marks made by its paws, Owen thinks that it was akin to the frogs. But it was a formidable monster with head and jaws of a crocodile. Another may have been the teleosaurus, which resembled our alligators. It was 35 feet in length. Then there was the hyliosaurus, a monster 25 feet in length, with a curess of bony plates. That none of these correspond with Moore's description of the monster that fought with the galley. No, said the doctor. I'm coming to that now. That monster could have been no other than the plesiosaurus, one of the most wonderful animals that has ever existed. Imagine a thing with the head of a lizard, the teeth of a crocodile, the neck of a swan, the trunk and tail of a quadruped, and the fins of a whale. Imagine a whale with its head and neck consisting of a serpent, with the strength of the former and the malignant fury of the latter, and then you will have the plesiosaurus. It was an aquatic animal, yet it had to remain near or on the surface of the water, while its long serpent-like neck enabled it to reach its prey above or below with swift far-reaching darts. Yet it had no armor and could not have been at all a match for the hyliosaurus. Moore's account shows, however, that it was a fearful enemy from men to encounter. He seems to have been less formidable than that beast which they encountered in the swamp. Have you any idea what that was? I think it can have been no other than the iguanodon, said the Doctor. The remains of this animal show that it must have been the most gigantic of all primeval psorians. Judging from existing remains, its length was not less than 60 feet, and larger ones may have existed. It stood high on its legs, the hind ones were larger than the fore. The feet were massive and armed with tremendous claws. It lived on the land and fed on herbage. It had a holy, spiky ridge all along its back. Its tail was nearly as long as its body. Its head was short, its jaws enormous. Furnished with teeth of a very elaborate structure, and on its muzzle it carried a curved horn. Such a beast as this might well have caused all that destruction of life on the part of the desperate assailants of which more speaks. Then there was another animal, continued the Doctor, who was evidently discoursing upon a favourite topic. It was the one that came suddenly upon more while he was resting with Alma after his flight with the runaway bird. That, I take to be, the megalosaurus. This animal was a monster of tremendous size and strength. Cuvier thought that it might have been 70 feet in length. It was carnivorous, and therefore more ferocious than the agranadon, and more ready to attack. Its head was like that of a crocodile, its body massive like that of an elephant, yet larger. Its tail was small, and it stood high on its legs, so that it could run with great speed. It was not covered with bony armour, but had probably a hide thick enough to serve the purpose of shell or bone. Its teeth were constructed so as to cut with their edges, and the movement of the jaws produced the combined effect of knife and saw, or the inward curve rendered impossible the escape of prey that had once been caught. It probably frequented the riverbanks, but fed upon reptiles of smaller size which inherited the same places. More, continued the Doctor, he is too general in his descriptions. He has not a scientific mind, and he gives but few data, yet I can bring before myself very easily all the scenes which he describes, particularly that one in which the megalosaurus approaches, and he rushes to mount the Dianornist so as to escape. I see that river with its trees and shrubs, all unknown except in museums, the vegetation of the coal period. The Lepidodendron, the Lepidostrobus, the Picopterus, the Neuropterus, the Longcopterus, the Odontopterus, the Sphanopterus, the Cyclopterus, the Cygallaria Viniformis, the Sphenophilium, the Calomites. Melik started to his fate. There, there he cried, Hold hard, Doctor. Talking of calamities, what greater calamity can there be than such a torrent of unknown words? Talk English, Doctor, and we shall be able to appreciate you. But to make your jokes, your conundrums, and your brilliant witticisms in a foreign language, isn't fair to us, and does no credit either to your head or your heart. The Doctor elevated his eyebrows and took no notice of Melik's ill-timed levity. All these stories of strange animals, said Oxenden, may be very interesting, Doctor, but I must say that I am far more struck by the account of the people themselves. I wonder whether they are an Aboriginal race or descendants of the same stock on which we came. I should say, remarked the Doctor confidently, that they are, beyond a doubt, an Aboriginal and Autoc-Thonus race. I differ from you altogether, said Oxenden calmly. I will say the Doctor. There can be no doubt about it. Their complexions, small stature, and peculiar eyes, their love of darkness, their singular characteristics, both physical and moral, all go to show that they can have no connection with the races in our part of the earth. Their peculiar eyes, said Oxenden, are no doubt produced by dwelling in caves for many generations. On the contrary, said the Doctor. It is their peculiarity of eye that makes them dwelling caves. You are mistaken the cause for the effect, Doctor. Not at all. It is you who are making that mistake. It's the old debate, said Melik, as the poet has it. Which was first, Yegor the Hinn, tell me I pray ye learned men. There are the earliest fishes of the great cave of Kentucky, said Oxenden, whose eyes have become extinct from living in the dark. No, cried the Doctor. The fish that have arisen in that lake have never needed eyes, and have never had them. Oxenden laughed. Well said he. I'll discuss the question with you on different grounds altogether, and I will show clearly that these men, these bearded men, must belong to a stock that is nearly related to our own, or at least that they belong to a race of men with whom we are all very familiar. I should like very much to have you try it, said the Doctor. Very well said Oxenden. In the first place, I take their language. Their language? Yes. Moore has given us very many words in their language. Now he himself says that these words had an aerobic sound. He was slightly acquainted with that language. What would you say if I tell you that these words are still more like Hebrew? Hebrew exclaimed the Doctor in amazement. Yes, Hebrew, said Oxenden. They are all very much like Hebrew words. And the difference is not greater than that which exists between the words of any two languages of the Aryan family. Or if you come to a philology, I'll start the sponge, said the Doctor. Yet I should like to hear what you have to say on that point. The languages of the Aryan family, said Oxenden, have the same general characteristics. And in all of them, the differences that exist in their most common words are subject to the action of a regular law. The action of the law is best seen in the changes which take place in the mutes. These changes are indicated in a summary and comprehensive way by means of what is called Grimm's law. Take Latin and English, for instance. Grimm's law tells us, among other things, that in Latin and in that part of English which is of Teutonic origin, a large number of words are essentially the same, and differ merely in certain phonetic changes. Take the word father. In Latin, as also in Greek, it is Pater. Now the Latin P in English becomes F. That is, the thin mute becomes the aspirated mute. The same change may be seen in the Latin piscis, which in English is fish. And the Greek, poor, which in English is fire. Again, if the Latin or Greek word begins with an aspirate, the English word begins with a medial. Thus the Latin F is found responsive to the English B, as in Latin Fegus, English Beach, Latin Pharaoh, English Bear. Again, if the Latin or Greek has a medial, the English has the thin, as in Latin Duro, English Two, Latin Genu, English Knee. Now I find that in many of the words which Moorah mentions, this same Grimm's law will apply. And I am inclined to think that if they were spelled with perfect accuracy, they would show the same relation between the Cossican language and the Hebrew that there is between the Saxon English and the Latin. The doctor gave a heavy sigh. You uttered my depth, Oxenden, said he. I am nothing of a philologist. By Joe's said further stone, I like this. This is equal to your list of the plants of the coal period, doctor. But I say, Oxenden, why are you about it? Why don't you give us a little dose of Anglo-Saxon and Sanskrit? By Joe, the fellow has bop by heart, and yet he expects us to argue with him. I have it, cried Melick. The Cossican are the lost ten tribes. Oxenden is filling his way to that. He's going to make them out to be all Hebrew, and then, of course, the only conclusion will be that they are the ten tribes, who, after a life of strange vicissitudes, have pulled up at the South Pole. It's a wonder Moor didn't think of that. Or the rites of this yarn, whoever he may be. Well, for my part, I always took a deep interest in the lost ten tribes, and thought them a fine body of men. Don't think they got much of the dew about them, said further stone languidly. They hate riches and all that, you know. They could use heart to hear of all that property wasted, and money going a begging. Not a bad idea, though, that of theirs about money. Too much money is a horrid bore, by Joe. Well, continued Oxenden, calmly resuming and taking no notice of these interruptions. I can give you word after word that Moor has mentioned, which corresponds to a kindred Hebrew word in accordance with Grimm's law. For instance, Cossican op, Hebrew off, Cossican asson, Hebrew addon, Cossican salon, Hebrew shalom. They are more like Hebrew than Arabic, just as Anglo-Saxon words are more like Latin or Greek than Sanskrit. Hurrah, cried Melik. We've got him to Sanskrit at last. Now, Oxenden, my boy. Trot out the Hittopadesa, the Megaduta, the Rigveda, quote Beowulf and Cademon, give us a little Xeno, and wind up with Lullawook in modern Persian. So I conclude, said Oxenden, calmly ignoring Melik, that the Cossican are a Semitic people. Their complexion and their beard show them to be akin to the Caucasian race, and their language proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that they belong to the Semitic branch of that race. It is impossible for an Autocthonus people to have such a language. But how, cried the doctor, how in the name of wonder did they get to the South Pole? Easily enough, interrupted Melik. Shem landed there from Noah's Ark, and left some of his children to colonize the country. That's as plain as a pike staff. I think on the whole that this idea is better than the other one about the Ten Tribes. At any rate, they are both mine, and I warn all present to keep their hands off them. For on my return, I intend to take out a copyright. There's another thing continued Oxenden, which is of immense importance. And that is their habit of cave-dwelling. I'm inclined to think that they resulted to cave-dwelling at first, from some who had its instinct or other, and that their eyes and their whole moles have become affected by this mode of life. Now as to ornamented caverns, we have many examples. Caverns adorned with a splendor fully equal to anything among the Cossican. There are in India the great Bahar Caves, and the splendid Kali Temple, with its magnificent sculptures and imposing architecture. And the cavern temples of Alephanta. There are the subterranean works in Egypt, the Temple of Dendera in particular. In Petra we have the case of an entire city excavated from the Rocky Mountains. Yet after all, these do not bear upon the point in question. For there are isolated cases, and even Petra, though it contained a city, did not contain a nation. But there is a case, and one which is well known, that bears directly upon this question, and gives us the connecting link between the Cossican and their Semitic Brethren in the Northern Hemisphere. What is that, asked the Doctor? There are troglodytes, said Oksenden, with impressive solemnity. Well, on what do you make out of the troglodytes? I will explain, said Oksenden. The name troglodytes is given to various tribes and men, but those best known and celebrated under this name, once inhabited the shores of the Red Sea. But on the Arabian and the Egyptian side, they belonged to the Arabian race, and were consequently Semitic people. Mark that, for it is a point of the utmost importance. Now these troglodytes all lived in caverns, which were formed partly by art, and partly by nature. Although art must have had most to do with the construction of such vast subterranean works. They lived in great communities in caverns, and they had long tunnels passing from one community to another. Here also they kept their cattle. Some of these peoples survived even to their own age, but Bruce the Abyssinian traveler saw them in Nubia. The earliest writer who mentions the troglodytes was Agathasides of Nidos. According to him they were chiefly herdsmen. Their food was the flesh of cattle, and their drink a mixture of milk and blood. They dressed in the skins of cattle, they tattooed their bodies. They were very swift of foot, and were able to run down wild beasts in the hunt. They were also greatly given to robbery, and co-vans passing to and fro had to guard against them. One feature in their character has to my mind a strange significance, and that is their feelings with regard to death. It was not the casiquin love of death, yet it was something which was certainly be considered as approximating to it. For Agathasides says that in their burials they were accustomed to fasten the corpse to a stake, and then gather in round, to pelt it with stones amid shouts of laughter and wild merriment. They also used to strangle the old and infirm, so as to deliver them from the evils of life. These troglodytes, then, were a nation of cave dwellers, loving the dark, not exactly loving death, yet at any rate regarding it with merriment and pleasure. And so I cannot help seeing a connection between them and the casiquin. Yes, said the doctor, but how did they get to the south, Powell? That, said Oxenden, is a question which I do not feel bound to answer. Oh, it is easy enough to answer that, said Malik. They have, of course, dug through the earth. Oxenden gave a groan. I think I'll turn in for the night, said he, rising. Upon this the others rose also and followed his example. On the following morning the calm still continued. None of the party rose until very late, and then, over the breakfast table, they discussed the manuscript once more, each from his own point of view. Malik still asserting a contemptuous skepticism. Oxenden and the doctor, giving reasons for their faith, and further stone listening without saying much on either side. At length it was proposed to the doctor, at length it was proposed to resume the reading of the manuscript, which task would now devolve upon Oxenden. Their journey to the deck were all dispose themselves in easy attitudes, to listen to the continuation of Moore's narrative. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of a strange manuscript found in a copper cylinder. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Eddie Winter A strange manuscript found in a copper cylinder by James DeMille. Chapter 18 A Voyage Over the Pole The discovery of our love had brought a crisis in our fate for me and Alma. The Coen held it with joy, for now was a time when he would be able to present us to the Coen Goddull. Our doom was certain and inevitable. We were to be taken to the Amir. We were to be kept until the end of the dark season, and then we were both to be publicly sacrificed. After this our bodies were to be set apart for the hideous rites of the Mr. Kozek. Such was the fate that lay before us. The Coen was now anxious to take us to the Amir. I might possibly have persuaded him to postpone our departure, but I saw no use in that. It seemed better to go, for it was possible that amid new scenes and among new people, there might be hope. This too seemed probable to Alma, who was quite anxious to go. The Coen pressed forward the preparations, and at length a galley was ready for us. The galley was about 300 feet in length and 50 in width, but not more than 6 feet in depth. It was like a long raft. The rowers, 200 in number, sat on a level with the water, 100 on each side. The rows were small, being not more than 12 feet in length, but made of a very light, tough material with very broad blades. The galley was steered with broad-bladed paddles at both ends. There was no mast or sail. A stern was a light poop, surrounded by a pavilion, and forward there was another. At the bell there was a projecting platform used chiefly in fighting the Thanin, or sea monsters, and also in war. There were no masts, flags, or gay streamers. No brilliant colours. All was intensely black, and the ornaments were of the same hue. We were now treated with greater reverence than ever, for we were looked upon as the recipients of the highest honour that could fall on any of the Kosikin, namely the envied dignity of a public death. As we embarked, the whole city lined the public ways, and watched us from the keys, from boats, and from other galleys. Songs were sung by a chosen choir of paupers, and to the sound of this plaintive strain, we moved out to sea. This will be a great journey for me, said the Curran as we left the port. I hope to be made a pauper, at least, and perhaps gain the honour of a public death. I have known people who have gained death for less. There was an athon last year, who attacked a pay mat with 40 men and 120 rowers. All were killed or drowned, except himself. In reward for this, he gained the mudasheb, or death recompense. In addition to this, he was set apart for the Mr Kosik. Then, with you, when a man procures the death of others, he is honoured. Why, yes, how could it be otherwise, said the Curran? Is it not the same with you? Have you not told me incredible things about your people, among which there were a few that seemed natural and intelligible? Among these was your system of honouring, above all men, those who procure the death of the largest number. You, with your pretended fear of death, wish to meet it in battle as eagerly as we do, and your most renowned men are those who have sent most to death. To this strange remark, I had no answer to make. The year out at sea now grew chillier. The Curran noticed it also, and offered me his cloak, which I refused. He seemed surprised and smiled. You are grown like one of us, said he. You will soon learn that the greatest happiness in life is to do good to others and sacrifice yourself. You already show this impart. When you are with Elma, you act like one of the Kosikin. You watch her to see and anticipate her slightest wish. You are eager to give her everything. She, on the other hand, is equally eager to give up all to you. Each one of you is willing to lay down life for the other. You would gladly rush upon death to save her from harm, much as you pretend to fear death. And so I see that with Elma, you will soon learn how sweet a thing death may be. To live without her, said I, would be so bitter that death with her would indeed be sweet. If I could save her life by laying down my own, death would be sweeter still. And not one of you, Kosikin, would meet it so gladly. The Kosikin smiled joyously. O almighty and wondrous power of love, he exclaimed. How thou hast transformed this foreigner? O Atamor, you will soon be one of us altogether. For see how it is now? You pretend to love riches and life, and yet you are ready to give up everything for Elma. Gladly, gladly, I exclaimed. Yes, he said, all that you have, you would gladly lavish on her, and would rejoice to make yourself a pauper for her sweet sake. You would also rejoice equally to give up life for her. Is it not so? It is, said I. Then I see by this that Elma has awakened within you your true human nature. Thus far it has lain dormant. It has been concealed under a thousand false and unnatural habits, arising from your strange native customs. You have been brought up under some frightful system where nature is violated. Here among us your true humanity is unfolded, and with Elma you are like the Kaseekin. Soon you will learn new lessons, and we'll find out that there is a new and a final self-abnegation in perfect love, and your love will never rest till you have separated yourself from Elma, so that love can have its perfect work. The sea-nail opened wide before us, rising up high as if halfway to the zenith, giving the impression of a vast ascent to endless distances. Around the shore spread themselves, with the shadowy outlines of the mountains, above with the sky all clear, with faint aurora flashes and gleaming stars. Hand in hand with Elma, I stood and pointed out the constellations, as we marked them, while she told me of the different divisions known among the Kaseekin, as well as her own people. There high in the zenith was the southern polar star, not exactly at the pole, nor yet of very great brightness, but still sufficiently noticeable. Looking back we saw low down parts of the phoenix and the crane, higher up the Toucan, Hydras and Pavo. On our right, low down, was the beautiful Altar, high up the Triangle, while on the left were the saltfish and the flying fish. Turning to look forward, we beheld a more splendid display. Then over the bow of the vessel between the Centaur which lay low and Musca Indica, which rose high, there blazed the bright stars of the Southern Cross, a constellation, if not the brightest, at least the most conspicuous and attractive in all the heavens. All around there burned other stars separated widely. Then over the stern glimpsed the splendid luster of Akinar, on the left the brilliant glow of Alpha Robor and Canopus, and low down before us the bright light of Argo. It was a scene full of splendor and fascination. After a time a change came over the sky. The aurora flashes at first faint, gradually increased in brilliancy, till the stars grew dim, and all the sky, wherever the eye might turn, from the horizon to the zenith, seemed filled with lustrous flames of every conceivable hue. Colossal beams radiated from the pole towards the horizon, till the central light was dissipated, and they remained encircling us, an infinite colony of flaming pillars, that towered to the stars. These were all in motion, running upon one another, incessantly shifting and changing. New scenes forever succeeded to old. Pillars were transformed to pyramids, pyramids to fiery bars. These in their turn were transformed to other shapes, and all the while one tint of innumerable hues overspread the entire circle of sky. Our voyage occupied several joms, but our progress was continuous, for different sets of roars relieved one another at regular intervals. On the second jom, a storm broke out. The sky had been gathering clouds during sleeping time, and when we awoke we found the sea all lashed to fury, while all around the darkness was intense. The storm grew steadily worse, the lightning flashed, the thunder peeled, and at length the sea was so heavy that rowing was impossible. Upon this the oars were all taken in, and the galley lay tossing upon the furious sea amid waves that continually beat upon her. And now a scene ensued that filled me with amazement, and took away all my thoughts from the storm. It seemed impossible that so frail a bark could stand the fury of the waves. Destruction was inevitable, and I was expecting to see the usual signs of grief and despair, wondering too how these rowers would preserve their subordination, but I had forgotten in my excitement the strange nature of the Kosykin. Instead of terror there was joy, instead of wild despair there was peace and serene delight. The lightning flashes revealed a wonderful scene. There were all the rowers each one upon his seat, and from them all there came forth a chant, which was full of triumph, like a song of public welcome to some great national hero, or a song of joy over victory. The officers embraced one another, and exchanged words of delight. The koan, after embracing all the others, turned to me, and forgetting my foreign ways exclaimed in a tone of enthusiastic delight, We are destroyed, death is near, rejoice! A custom desire was, to the perils of the sea, I had learned to face death without flinging. Alma too was calm, for to her this death seemed preferable to that dark of fate which awaited us, but the words of the koan jarred upon my feelings. Do you not intend to do anything to save the ship? I asked. He laughed joyously, there's no occasion, said he. When yours are taken in we always begin to rejoice, and why not? Death is near, it is almost certain. Why should we do anything to distract our minds and mar our joy? For, oh dear friend, the glorious time has come, when we can give up life, life with all its toils, its burdens, its endless bitternesses, its perpetual evils. Now we shall have no more suffering from vexatious and oppressive riches, from troublesome honours, from a surplus of food, from luxuries and delicacies, and all the ills of life. But what is the use of being born at all, I asked, in a wonder that never ceased to rise at every fresh display of Kaseekin failing. The use, said the koan, why, if we were not born, how could we know the bliss of dying, or enjoy the sweetness of death? Death is the end of being, the one sweet hope and crown and glory of life, the one desire and hope of every living man. The blessing is denied to none, rejoice with me, oh Atamor, you will soon know its blessedness as well as I. He turned away, I held Alma in my arms, and we watched the storm by the lightning flashes and waited for the end. But the end came not. The gully was light, broad and buoyant as a lifeboat. At the same time it was so strongly constructed that there was scarcely any twist or contortion in the scenery fabric. So we floated buoyantly and safely upon the summit of vast waves, and a storm that would have destroyed a ship of the European fashion scarcely injured this in the slightest degree. It was as interstructible as a raft, and as buoyant as a bubble. So we rode out the gale and the death which the Kaseekin invoked did not come at all. The storm was but short lived, the clouds dispersed and soon went scudding over the sky, the sea went down, the roars had to take their oars once more, and the reaction that followed upon their recent rejoicing was visible in universal gloom and ejection. As the clouds dispersed the aurora lights came out more splendid than ever, and showed nothing but melancholy faces. The roars pulled with no life or animation. The officers stood about sighing and lamenting. Alma and I were the only ones that rejoiced over this escape from death. Drums passed, we saw other sites. We met with galleys and saw many ships about the sea. Some were moved by sails only, these were merchant ships, but they had only square sails and could not sail in any other way than before the wind. Once or twice I caught glimpses of vast shadowy objects in the air. I was startled and terrified. For great as were the wonders of this strange region, I had not yet suspected that the air itself might have denizens as tremendous as the land or the sea. Yet it was so, and afterward during the voyage I saw them often. One in particular was so near that I observed it with ease. It came flying along in the same course with us, at a height of about 50 feet from the water. It was a frightful monster with a long body and vast wings, like those of a bat. Its progress was swift, and it soon passed out of sight. To Alma the monster created no surprise. She was familiar with them, and told me that they were very abundant here, but that they were never known to attack ships. She informed me that they were capable of being tamed, if caught when young. They were in her country they were never made use of. The name given by the Kaseekin to these monsters is Athalab. At length we grew near to our destination. We reached a large harbour at the end of a vast bay. Here the mountains extended around, and before us there arose terrace after terrace of twinkling lights, running away to immense distances. It looked like a city of a million inhabitants, though it may have contained far less than that. By the brilliant aurora light I could see that it was in general shape and form precisely like the city that we had left, though far larger and more populous. The harbour was full of ships and boats of all sorts. Some lying at the stone keys, others leaving port, others entering. Gallies passed and re-passed, and merchant ships with their clumsy sails and small fishing boats. From afar arose the deep hum of a vast multitude, and the low roar that always ascends from a popular city. The galley hold alongside her wolf, and we found ourselves at length in the mighty amir of the Kosikin. The koan alone landed, the rest remained on board, and I remember and I with them. Other galleys were here. On the wolf workmen were moving about. Just beyond were caverns that looked like warehouses. Above these was a terraced street, where a vast multitude moved to and fro, a living tide as crowded and as busy as that in Cheepside. After what seemed a long time, the koan returned. This time he came with a number of people, all of whom were in cars drawn by upcocks. Half were men and half women. These came aboard and it seemed as though we were to be separated, for the women took Alma while the men took me. Upon this I entreated the koan not to separate us. I informed him that we were both of a different race from his, that we did not understand their ways, we should be miserable if separated. I spoke long and with all the entreaty possible, to one with my limited acquaintance with the language. My words evidently impressed them. Some of them even wept. You make us sad, said the koan. Willingly would we do everything that you bid, for we are your slaves. But the state law prevents, still in your case the law will be modified, for you are in such honour here, that you may be considered as beyond the laws. For the present at least we cannot separate you. These words brought much consolation. After this we landed, and Alma and I were still together. End of chapter 18