Best Fantasy Stories

Chapter 13 THE AWFUL "MISTA KOSEK"

Chapter 13

THE AWFUL "MISTA KOSEK"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 up

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 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 Almah 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 blood-thirsty cruelty. The stain of

blood-guiltiness 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 Almah. 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 of guests, the pride of the city. The Kohen

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 jom following the sacrifice I accompanied Almah 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.

Almah looked at me earnestly. "They will not bring them here;

they will not embalm them," said she.

"Why not?" I asked; "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 Almah's meaning, I left her and walked

along the terrace until I came to the next cavern. This had never

been open before, and I now entered through curiosity to see what

it might be. I saw a vast cavern, quite as large as the cheder

nebilin, 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 Kosek, 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. All 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 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 Almah 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 asked.

"Everything here is fearful," said Almah, 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 Kohen 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 in efforts to make us happy.

There must be many seamen in this nation who know the way. It would

be worth trying."

Almah shook her head. "You do not understand these people," said

she. "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

possess as 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 don't understand," said I.

"I suppose not," said Almah; "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 Kohen 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 Almah; "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 in 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, "they would kill us if we asked them to do

so?"

"Yes," said Almah; "for they think death the greatest

blessing."

"And if at the point of death we should beg for life, would they

spare us?"

"Certainly not," said Almah. "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 Almah was wretched,

dejected, and suffering greatly from home-sickness. 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

believed 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.

Almah utterly refused to go to the feast, and entreated 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 in

atrocity what I had already witnessed, it were better that I should

not remain in ignorance of it.

So at length, leaving Almah, 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 all standing an 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 this 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 Almah 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 Almah, anxiously; "you are weak."

"No," said I; "I am as strong as ever; but I'm afraid that you

are weaker."

Almah 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 Almah 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 Almah'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 feeling

save pity, sympathy, and a desire to alleviate his distress. And

yet—oh, and yet!—oh, thought of horror!—what was this that I had

seen? The abhorrent savages in 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

"Lochaber" till Almah 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 Kohen

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

allusion to the awful Mista Kosek. 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 Kosek?"

"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 Kohen then took

Almah's lute, played and sang in a very sweet voice, and at length,

with his usual consideration, seeing that I looked weary, he

retired.