Out There Where The Big Ships Go v1.0, page 17
Although I was aware of all this at the time, can indeed recall it vividly to mind in all its bewitching detail, my immediate attention was drawn to the people who were gathered in the room and were regarding me with obvious wonder and curiosity. Apart from two young boys and, of course, myself, all those present were women, and I did not doubt that among them were the four who had ventured out into the storm and had conducted me down the valley from the distant ridge. Nevertheless, as though drawn by an invisible leash, my eyes turned to one who sat slightly apart from the others, surveying me with, I fancied, the faintest hint of amusement in her grave, dark eyes. I judged her to be of middle years—I detected a touch of gray in her dark hair—and truly I think that compared to some of her companions she was not outstandingly beautiful, but there was a fineness about her, an almost ineffable aura of quality which I find it quite impossible to convey in words alone. Thus, it was to her that I made my obeisance, bowing from the waist, and wondering as I did so whether I was committing some heinous solecism by failing to fall upon my face and grovel like some medieval suppliant.
If I was, she chose to overlook my barbarism and in response to my brisk and formal courtesy made an almost imperceptible motion of her head. Then she beckoned me forward into the room and said, “Thou art welcome in the House of Anahita, Or’mond.”
Her voice was soft, low and musical, perfectly in harmony with her physical presence. Her dress too was in no way ornate, being composed of a sort of short gray tunic worn over a silken undershirt, with soft kneeboots and woolen breeches. The only jewelery about her was a band of silver clasped around her left wrist and a gold medallion, roughly the size of a spade guinea, which she wore on a chain about her neck. Yet, even so, she was the most richly adorned woman in that room.
I bowed again and did my level best to express my gratitude for the hospitality, though all the while I was conscious that my mind was teeming with questions to which I was longing to learn the answers. Then, without quite knowing why I did it, I elected to round off my excessively flowery speech of thanks with a phrase of gratitude to the grace of Ahuro Mazdao for directing my footsteps to her door.
The words had no sooner left my lips than I became aware of an immediate, almost electric, tension within the assembled group. It manifested itself to me in a series of quick, flickering glances which darted from myself to the woman I was addressing and then back to me again.
She frowned—whether from displeasure or perplexity I could not tell—and murmured something to those nearest to her which I was unable to catch, though I thought I detected a whisper of the name “Ormuzd.” Then, turning to me again she said, “Thou speakest wiser than thou knowest, Or’mond. Who schooled thee in our tongue?”
I explained as best I might how I had originally learned my Persian while stationed with the Fourth in Baluchistan and had improved it during the two years I had spent attached to Sir Ronald Thompson’s staff in Teheran. My recent secondment to Colonel Mallows’ mission had come about because he had needed an officer with the requisite technical skills who was also able to speak the language fluently—two qualifications I happened to possess.
How much she could have understood of my explanation is difficult to say, but she listened to me without interruption, even nodding her head from time to time, until I began to form the ridiculous notion that she was checking off my items of information against some private mental list of her own. Nevertheless, I plowed on gamely to describe the bare outline of my present mission which, after all, was hardly confidential.
When I had concluded my brief history she said, “Thy servants have fled south, Or’mond. But do not think too harshly of them for that.”
“Believe me, I’ll skin the rogues alive when I catch up with them, ma’am,” I growled.
She shook her head and smiled. “Those two are not like thee, Or’mond. They are simple and fearful men. Truly, they intended thee no harm. They did but do as they were commanded. Thou hast my word upon it.”
I stared at her. “Commanded?” I echoed incredulously. “By whom, ma’am?”
“It was done at my orders, Or’mond.”
I found myself quite literally lost for words. And yet, in spite of myself, I believed her, even though I could not begin to divine what purpose could lie behind such an act.
She rose to her feet, moved across to the window and motioned me to her side. We stood and gazed out across the white valley. A few lazy flakes still fluttered from the leaden sky and I guessed that more would shortly follow. She raised her right arm, pointed to the south, then swept her hand around to the west. “One day thy voice line will stand there,” she said. “Four days march to the south. It will pass through Kupah and along the banks of the Zayen-deh Rud. It will never come to Khar-i-Babek. Thus, all thy labors will have been in vain, Or’mond.”
I nodded ruefully. “I knew that the moment I set foot on the ridge yonder, ma’am.”
She gave me a sideways glance and once again I was conscious of that secret inward smile of hers which so intrigued me. “Was it only then?” she murmured.
“Well, naturally I thought that the ridge might conceal—,” I began, and then broke off. She was right of course. The moment I had first glimpsed that ridge I had known that there could be no way through, that my route must lie back through Abekun and thence, doubtless, as she herself had suggested, on to Kupah and the northwest. Yet I had climbed the ridge, had seen the valley, and having seen it had known that I would not rest easy until I had explored it.
She chose not to pursue the matter, saying only, “Well, thou art come, Or’mond. Thou art a guest in the House of Anahita. We shall prepare a banquet with music in thine honor. Doth that please thee?”
“It pleases me greatly, ma’am,” I replied, reflecting that not a morsel of food had passed my lips since breakfast.
There ensued a brisk general exodus from the room. I was expecting someone to conduct me to whatever quarters were set aside for uninvited guests, but no one did. Thus it was that I found myself left alone with my hostess who, having resumed her chair, now indicated that I might sit on one of the low cushioned couches beside her.
“So, Or’mond,” she said, “hast thou no questions to ask of me?”
“Indeed I have, ma’am,” I confessed with a smile. “So many that I know not where to begin. I seem to have beheld nothing but marvels since I entered Khar-i-Babek.” “Marvels? How so?”
“Why, this palace for one. When was it built? By whom? For what purpose?”
She laughed. “The ice melts; the dam breaks; and lo! a flood roars forth! When? Perhaps three thousand years ago. Maybe more. Who by? The A thravart—the fire kindlers—those whom thou wouldst call the Magians. For what purpose?” Here she paused and regarded me pensively. “How if I say to thee to enshrine the mysteries of Belit—she who was Ishtar and is Anahita?”
It was my turn to smile. “You speak to me of once upon a time, ma’am, thousands of years ago when our world was still young. But how is it since then?”
“Think thou that Truth’s children are fathered only by Time, Or’mond?” she countered.
“Then tell me how else, ma’am.”
“By Khratu.”
I thought I recognized an archaic form of the Persian word which represents “insight” or “inner vision,” and asked her if it were so.
“Yes,” she said. “Ahuro Mazdao stole much from us, but that he could not steal.”
“And so?”
“And so thou hast come to the last House of Anahita.”
I blinked. To tell the truth it crossed my mind that she might be enjoying some elaborate private joke at my expense; yet, she seemed perfectly serious, indeed almost somber. I tried to recall anything I had ever read of the myths and legends of the ancient pre-Zoroastrian cults which had flourished in Babylon a thousand years or more before the coming of Christ and, like a diver bursting to the surface, came up clutching the blazing name of Mithras which I thrust out to her in triumph.
“Mithras is dead,” she said.
“So the old gods were not immortal, ma’am?”
“Only Zurvan is immortal, Or’mond. The old gods can live only in us, through our souls. Where is Verethraghna, the dragon slayer? Where is Vohu’Mano? Once they walked the world robed in splendor; temples were built for them;
fires burned day and night. Yet where are they now? Gone like smoke, like the wind. Only their names remain, together with a few poor images scratched upon stones. We are the only gods left now, Or’mond. Thou and I. For at least a little while longer.”
“But my God is not dead,” I protested, and felt myself coloring even as I said it.
“The Galilean?” She studied me thoughtfully. “How if I tell thee that it was from here, from Khar-i-Babek, that the Magians rode out to seek him bearing The Gods’ gifts?”
My amazement must have shown plainly on my face for she laughed and said, “Or’mond, the story is all graven upon the stones beside the gate. Didst thou not note it? They had found thy god’s birth woven plain in the loom, Ahuro Mazdao sent a star to guide them.”
“I do not understand,” I said. “What does ‘woven in the loom’ mean?”
“Later, Or’mond,” she said. “All shall be made clear to thee, I promise. Now I am sending one to conduct thee to where thou mayst rest and prepare thyself for the entertainment.”
Hardly had she uttered the words before a boy materialized from some concealed entrance and bowed before me. I rose to my feet, bowed in my turn to my hostess, and was led out of the salon through the portal by which I had entered it. We descended several flights of stairs, and came at last to a heavy carved wooden door. The boy opened it and I stepped through to find myself in a sort of Turkish swimming bath which, to my profound confusion, I discovered to be already occupied by at least a dozen strapping young females, each one of whom was as naked as the day she was bom.
There is little point in my dwelling upon the events of the next fifteen minutes other than to say that I trust I conducted myself with the decorum befitting an English gentleman and an officer of Her Majesty. When I found myself once again closeted alone with the lad I asked him where all the other men were, but he just shrugged and smiled and would not be drawn. But the heated bath convinced me that the whole palace had been constructed around or above some natural thermal spring which, I felt certain, was related in some obscure fashion to the production of the gas or the mineral oil which fed the lamps.
I next thought to ask the boy—he was then assisting me to dress—whether he had attended upon many such guests as myself.
“No, Sire,” he piped. “Thou art the first. But I have heard tell that once, long ago, a shaman came out of the mist as thou hast and that he dwelt here among us for a while.”
“And have you yourself never been outside the valley?” I inquired.
He looked at me with huge, scared eyes and shook his head.
“But are you not curious to see what lies beyond?”
Again he shook his head as much as to say: What sort of ridiculous question is that?
“But surely others go?” I persisted.
He twitched his shoulders as though to indicate that the very concept was meaningless. Realizing I was dealing with a fool I pursued the matter no further.
From the dressing room he conducted me to a chamber situated on a level slightly below that where I had been given audience—a fact I determined by the simple expedient of glancing out of the window. I judged myself to be almost directly above the gate by which I had originally entered the palace.
The room itself, though somewhat sparsely furnished, was richly carpeted and, to my great relief and delight, I saw that the two cases containing my instruments and my written records had been carried in and placed on the low wooden bench which stood beside the right-hand wall. There was also a bowl of dried figs, of which I at once availed myself to stay the pangs of hunger. That done I lost no time in extracting my journal and, while the day’s events were still fresh in my memory, I filled several pages with detailed notes of what had occurred.
By the time I had brought matters up to date the daylight had completely faded and the area immediately beyond the stone grill, illuminated by the lamplight from within, was once again filled with the golden shimmer of downward drifting snowflakes. I restored my pen and notebook to their case, divested myself of my revolver and telescope, and then stood for a while gazing out into the darkness, reflecting upon the curious course of events which had brought me, in my forty-second year, halfway across the world to this remote and mysterious place.
My meditations were interrupted by the reappearance of the young woman who had first conducted me into the presence of her mistress. She had changed her attire and was now wearing a richly embroidered belted tunic whose high collar was fastened close around her superb throat in the Tartar style. The uniform was completed by silk breeches and boots which were also finely embroidered with gold and scarlet thread. She acknowledged me with a brief nod and informed me that she had come to escort me to the banquet.
“In my country,” I said, “it is customary for strangers to exchange names in order that speech may be made the more gracious. You know me as Ormond. How may I address you and your mistress?”
“I am called Sh’ula,” she replied indifferently.
“And she you serve?”
Her gray eyes flickered. “The Anahita.”
My surprise must have been plainly evident for she frowned, regarded me curiously, and then said, “Thou didst not know?”
Something in her tone warned me to tread warily. “I speak perforce as a man, Sh’ula,” I said. “What form of address is prescribed for such as I?”
For some unknown reason this reply appeared to satisfy her but she obviously had no answer ready on the tip of her tongue. “The weavers call her ‘Mother,’ ” she said at last. “But thou, Or’mond … ?” She spread her hands, plainly confessing herself at a loss.
“No matter,” I said. “You may rest assured that I shall be as duly reverential at all times as befits an envoy of Ahuro Mazdao.”
“And art thou truly so?”
I seemed to hear a voice whisper, “We are the only gods left now, Or’mond. Thou and I.”
“Has it not been woven in the loom, Sh’ula?” I said gravely.
I saw her tense slightly and a faint touch of color appeared high on her beautiful cheeks. “It has been woven,” she murmured. “Come. They await us.”
Feeling like an actor who, having forgotten his lines, has just spoken a mouthful of gibberish and somehow got away with it, I followed her out of the room.
For a while I strove to orientate myself by referring back to the room I had just left, but after half a dozen right and left turns I had completely lost my bearings. For all I knew Sh’ula might have been leading me round in a circle. The place was a veritable labyrinth, and the basic similarity of the corridors might have been expressly designed to confuse a stranger. Not once in our entire journey did I catch so much as a glimpse of another person, though I felt certain that the palace had been designed to house a multitude.
My conviction that this was so was reinforced when we at last reached our destination. That banqueting hall could easily have accommodated two hundred guests. Built around a central pillared nave it had obvious architectural affinities with the state apartment, but it was constructed on an altogether grander scale. At one end there was a balustraded gallery to which access was provided by two graceful flights of stone steps at either end. Immediately below the gallery was a raised dais, partly concealed behind draped curtains. Seated cross-legged in the gallery, a small group of musicians was twanging and tootling away on an assortment of zithers and ghibis and reed pipes. I-was interested to observe that it appeared to be an all-male ensemble.
In the carpeted central aisle a low, square table had been set out and cushions placed around it. Small groups of women were standing about, conversing in low voices and, I am sure, surveying me covertly. Sh’ula led me to the side of the table which was facing directly down the hall toward the dais. When I had taken up my position, she clapped her hands. The music stopped abruptly, and the assembled guests at once began moving forward into their places.
Just as I was beginning to wonder when our hostess would put in an appearance, the principal pipe player launched himself into a spirited, birdlike obbligato which he sustained with great skill for about a minute and concluded with a virtuoso trill. At this signal the flames in the wall lamps sank to a glimmer, the curtains beneath the gallery were drawn aside, and there was the Anahita.
I had, I suppose, been expecting some more elaborate costume—something, no doubt, on the lines of Sh’ula’s— but I was totally unprepared for the transformation I now beheld.
My first, startled, impression was that she had grown at least a foot taller, but this was an illusion created by the elaborate diadem she was wearing. At its crest shone a gold and jewel-encrusted crescent moon and beneath it a constellation of twinkling silver and diamond stars. The whole effect was made infinitely more magical by the fact that the filigree of wires which must have supported the headdress was virtually invisible to a beholder’s eye so that she appeared, almost literally, to be crowned with starlight.
Her own face was concealed behind a mask on which the eyes had been elongated and swept upward at the outer corners by the skillful application of kohl and some whitish pigment, while the full line of the lips had been sensuously enhanced with carmine. Around her neck was fastened a jeweled collar from which a single gold chain depended to her corsage. This in its turn was fashioned in such a way as to raise her bosom which, though it was indeed covered with a filmy gauze, appeared almost completely naked, an effect greatly enhanced by the fact that the areola of each breast appeared to have been painted with the same shade of red as the lips of the mask.
