Best Fantasy Stories

Chapter 12 THE BALEFUL SACRIFICE

Chapter 12

THE BALEFUL SACRIFICEI resolved to go on no more sacred hunts. I was sickened at the

horrible cruelty, the needless s*******r, the mad self-sacrifice

which distinguished them. I was overwhelmed with horror at the

merciless destruction of brave comrades, whose wounds, so gallantly

received, should have been enough to inspire pity even in a heart

of stone. The gentleness, the incessant kindness, the matchless

generosity of these people seemed all a mockery. What availed it

all when the same hand that heaped favors upon me, the guest, could

deal death without compunction upon friends and relatives? It

seemed quite possible for the Kohen to kill his own child, or cut

the throat of his wife, if the humor seized him. And how long could

I hope to be spared among a people who had this insane thirst for

blood?

Some more joms had passed, and the light season had almost

ended. The sun had been sinking lower and lower. The time had at

last come when only a portion of his disk would be visible for a

little while above the hills, and then he would be seen no more for

six months of our time. This was the dark season, and, as I had

already learned, its advent was always hailed with joy and

celebrated with solemn services, for the dark season freed them

from their long confinement, permitted them to go abroad, to travel

by sea and land, to carry on their great works, to indulge in all

their most important labors and favorite amusements. The Kohen

asked me to be present at the great festival, and I gladly

consented. There seemed to be nothing in this that could be

repellent. As I was anxious to witness some of their purely

religious ceremonies, I wished to go. When I told Almah, she looked

sad, but said nothing. I wondered at this, and asked her if she was

going. She informed me that she would have to go, whereupon I

assured her that this was an additional reason why I should go.

I went with Almah. The Kohen attended us with his usual kind and

gracious consideration. It seemed almost as though he was our

servant. He took us to a place where we could be seated, although

all the others were standing. Almah wished to refuse, but I

prevailed upon her to sit down, and she did so.

The scene was upon the semicircular terrace in front of the

cavern, and we were seated upon a stone platform beside the chief

portal. A vast crowd was gathered in front. Before us arose the

half-pyramid of which I have already spoken. The light was faint.

It came from the disk of the sun, which was partly visible over the

icy crest of the distant mountains. Far away the sea was visible,

rising high over the tops of the trees, while overhead the brighter

stars were plainly discernible.

The Kohen ascended the pyramid, and others followed. At the base

there was a crowd of men, with emaciated forms and faces, and

coarse, squalid attire, who looked like the most abject paupers,

and seemed the lowest in the land. As the Kohen reached the summit

there arose a strange sound—a mournful, plaintive chant, which

seemed to be sung chiefly by the paupers at the base of the

pyramid. The words of this chant I could not make out, but the

melancholy strain affected me in spite of myself. There was no

particular tune, and nothing like harmony; but the effect of so

many voices uniting in this strain was very powerful and altogether

indescribable. In the midst of this I saw the crowd parting asunder

so as to make way for something; and through the passage thus

formed I saw a number of youths in long robes, who advanced to the

pyramid, singing as they went. Then they ascended the steps, two by

two, still singing, and at length reached the summit, where they

arranged themselves in order. There were thirty of them and they

arranged themselves in three rows of ten each, and as they stood

they never ceased to sing, while the paupers below joined in the

strain.

And now the sun was almost hidden, and there was only the

faintest line from the upper edge of his disk perceptible over the

icy mountain-tops. The light was a softened twilight glow. It was

to be the last sight of the sun for six months, and this was the

spectacle upon which he threw his parting beam. So the sun passed

away, and then there came the beginning of the long dark season. At

first, however, there was rather twilight than darkness, and this

twilight continued long. All this only served to heighten the

effect of this striking scene; and as the light faded away, I

looked with increasing curiosity upon the group at the top of the

pyramid. Almah was silent. I half turned, and said something to her

about the beauty of the view. She said nothing, but looked at me

with such an expression that I was filled with amazement. I saw in

her face something like a dreadful anticipation—something that

spoke of coming evil. The feeling was communicated to me, and I

turned my eyes back to the group on the pyramid with vague fears in

my soul.

Those fears were but too well founded, for now the dread

ceremony began. The Kohen drew his knife, and placed himself at the

head of the stone table. One of the youths came forward, stepped

upon it, and lay down on his back with his head toward the Kohen.

The mournful chant still went on. Then the Kohen raised his knife

and plunged it into the heart of the youth. I sat for a moment

rooted to the spot; then a groan burst from me in spite of myself.

Almah caught my hands in hers, which were as cold as ice.

"Be firm," she said, "or we are both lost. Be firm,

Atam-or!"

"I must go," said I, and I tried to rise.

"Don't move," she said, "for your life! We are lost if you move.

Keep still—restrain yourself—shut your eyes."

I tried to do so, but could not. There was a horrible

fascination about the scene which forced me to look and see all.

The Kohen took the victim, and drawing it from the altar, threw it

over the precipice to the ground beneath. Then a loud shout burst

forth from the great crowd. "Sibgu Sibgin! Ranenu! Hodu lecosck!"

which means, "Sacrifice the victims! Rejoice! Give thanks to

darkness!"

Then another of the youths went forward amid the singing, and

laid himself down to meet the same fate; and again the corpse was

flung from the top of the pyramid, and again the shout arose. All

the others came forward in the same manner. Oh, horrible, horrible,

thrice horrible spectacle! I do not remember how I endured it. I

sat there with Almah, trying to restrain myself as she had

entreated me, more for her sake than for my own, a prey to every

feeling of horror, anguish, and despair. How it all ended I do not

know, nor do I know how I got away from the place; for I only

remember coming back to my senses in the lighted grotto, with Almah

bending anxiously over me.

After this there remained a dark mystery and an ever-present

horror. I found myself among a people who were at once the gentlest

of the human race and the most blood-thirsty—the kindest and the

most cruel. This mild, amiable, and self-sacrificing Kohen, how was

it possible that he should transform himself to a fiend incarnate?

And for me and for Almah, what possible hope could there be? What

fate might they have in reserve for us? Of what avail was all this

profound respect, this incessant desire to please, this attention

to our slightest wish, this comfort and luxury and splendor, this

freedom of speech and action? Was it anything better than a

mockery? Might it not be the shallow kindness of the priest to the

victim reserved for the sacrifice? Was it, after all, in any degree

better than the kindness of the cannibal savages on those drear

outer shores who received us with such hospitality, but only that

they might destroy us at last? Might they not all belong to the

same race, dwelling as they did in caverns, shunning the sunlight,

and blending kindness with cruelty? It was an awful thought!

Yet I had one consolation. Almah was with me, and so long as she

was spared to me I could endure this life. I tried for her sake to

resist the feelings that were coming over me. I saw that she too

was a prey to ever-deepening sadness. She felt as I did, and this

despair of soul might wreck her young life if there were no

alleviation. And so I sought to alleviate her distress and to

banish her sadness. The songs of these people had much impressed

me; and one day, as I talked about this with Almah, she brought

forth a musical instrument of peculiar shape, which was not unlike

a guitar, though the shape was square and there were a dozen

strings. Upon this she played, singing at the same time some songs

of a plaintive character. An idea now occurred to me to have an

instrument made according to my own plans, which should be nothing

less than a violin. Almah was delighted at the proposal, and at

once found a very clever workman, who under my direction succeeded

in producing one which served my purpose well. I was a good

violinist, and in this I was able to find solace for myself and for

Almah for many a long hour.

The first time that I played was memorable. As the tones floated

through the air they caught the ears of those outside, and soon

great numbers came into the apartment, listening in amazement and

in rapt attention. Even the painful light was disregarded in the

pleasure of this most novel sensation, and I perceived that if the

sense of sight was deficient among them, that of hearing was

sufficiently acute. I played many times, and sometimes sang from

among the songs of different nations; but those which these people

liked best were the Irish and Scottish melodies—those matchless

strains created by the genius of the Celtic race, and handed down

from immemorial ages through long generations. In these there was

nothing artificial, nothing transient. They were the utterance of

the human heart, and in them there was that touch of nature which

makes all men kin. These were the immortal passions which shall

never cease to affect the soul of man, and which had power even

here; the strains of love, of sadness, and of pathos were sweet and

enticing to this gentle race; for in their mild manners and their

outburst of cruelty they seemed to be not unlike the very race

which had created this music, since the Celt is at once gentle and

blood-thirsty.

I played "Tara," "Bonnie Doon," "The Last Rose of Summer," "The

Land of the Leal," "Auld Lang Syne," "Lochaber." They stood

entranced, listening with all their souls. They seemed to hunger

and thirst after this music, and the strains of the inspired Celtic

race seemed to come to them like the revelation of the glory of

heaven. Then I played more lively airs. Some I played a second

time, singing the words. They seemed eager to have the same one

played often. At last a grisly thought came to me: it was that they

would learn these sweet strains, and put their own words to them so

as to use them at the awful sacrifices. After that I would play no

more.

It is a land of tender love and remorseless cruelty. Music is

all-powerful to awaken the one, but powerless to abate the other;

and the eyes that weep over the pathetic strains of "Lochaber" can

gaze without a tear upon the death-agonies of a slaughtered

friend.