CHAPTER XIII
THE SENTENCE UPON ARRACK
Sir John, with Masters, Desmond and Mavis arrived at Hoormoori in time for the trial. They were much interested in Alan’s adventures, and were looking forward to witnessing the spectacle of Jovian justice. Mavis and Chlorie were already warm friends, and the Rorka insisted on the strangers occupying suites of apartments in his palace. Baby John Alan had grown into a fine boy. Now nearly four, he toddled about the palace and chattered away in a quaint mixture of Keemarnian and English. The grown-ups seldom used English now—their past life seemed to be fading away entirely; they were already acclimatized to Jupiter and looked upon it as their home. Mavis at the bottom of her heart, however, did not forget all the pretty customs in which she had been brought up from childhood and she it was who introduced a trousseau as a necessary adjunct to a wedding. Chlorie took up the idea with fervour, and in future all society weddings had trousseaux, cakes and honeymoons as essential parts of their festivities.
Chlorie’s mother had heard the call of Schlerik-itata when she was but a small child, and possessing no near feminine relatives, the Keemarnian Princess was glad to have Mavis helping her at the happiest time of her life. All was bustle and rush at the palace. The wedding was to be a grand affair, but before it took place, Arrack had to answer publicly the charges that were brought against him. In the large Justice Hall, on the day appointed, the Rorka took his seat wearing his purple robes of Justice.
A fanfare of trumpets announced his arrival, with his postillions and servants and attachés. All wore full court dress, and the whole scene was picturesquely brilliant. Alan had not yet been admitted to the highest circles in Jovian society; his honour was to come on his wedding day—so to meet the exigencies of the case, a special raised seat had been placed at the right hand of the Rorka, and there Alan sat in state and watched the proceedings. There were neither lawyers nor barristers in this wonderful land of harmony. The case for the defence, if so it could be called, was taken by the High Priest—and for the prosecution by the highest Djoh in the whole of Keemar.
The Rorka listened to the statements made on both sides, and gave his sentence as he thought fairest. No appeal could be made afterwards; his judgment was final. Never had there been such a case as this one. Arrack had broken the traditions of his land. If the Rorka adjudged him guilty, he would take his punishment stoically. The Rorka rose, and the silence in the court was profound. “Bring in Arrack the Miserable,” he cried, and Arrack appeared in the prisoner’s garb of an ugly neutral tint. This garment of shame was worn only by prisoners, when charged with some heinous offence. It was something of the shape of a Jewish gaberdine. About his waist the prisoner wore a hempen rope; his head was covered with a hood, and there were sandals upon his feet. “O Arrack,” said the Rorka, “take your seat upon the Penitent’s Chair, for you are accused by this court of most grievous dealings. If you are found guilty, a terrible fate awaits you. Speak first, Lamii, Djoh of all Keemar, read your charge first.” And Djoh Lamii, a dignified old greybeard, stepped forward and read from a parchment.
“Rorka, most mighty, by the grace of Mitzor, Keemarnians one and all, I charge Arrack the Miserable with grievous sins. Whether he alone is responsible or whether responsibility rests with another—unnamed, but now in a state of serquor—remains to be proved. First, I charge Arrack with idolatry and devil worship,—nay more, I charge him with the greatest offence of all against Mitzor—the offence of offering black sacrifices, the sacrifice of living bodies, to Pirox the Killer, a graven image of hideous aspect. I charge him with acting as assistant in that Temple of Sin and Death. I charge him as a heretic and a heathen. He, a born believer in the one and only Creator, is a deserter from his faith. I charge him with aiding the unnamed, now serquor, in his horrible, nefarious practices. All these charges are with regard to his sins against Mitzor. Now I charge him with attempting to lay hands on the precious person of our loved Princess; with offering her wine that was drugged, and being a party to keeping her a captive against her will. Above all, I charge him with trying to aid the unnamed, now serquor, to soil her purity, and thus to cause her to wed one she did not love. These, O Rorka, are the sins in brief, and a more hideous category of evil, I have never before had to repeat. Although I am old, and my call must come soon, this is the saddest day of my life to think I have to utter such things against a true Keemarnian.”
He sat down, and then rose up Misrath the High Priest. “O Rorka, the mighty and the just. I cannot deny the charges that Lamii has brought. Long have I talked with Arrack the Miserable, and it is hard to offer even a word in his favour. Yet because of thy justice I beg of you to hear me out, and I will tell the tale of sorrow and shame. Arrack and the unnamed, now serquor, were foster brothers. The mother of the unnamed received her call while her babe was yet a suckling, and these two babes, suckled from the same breast, drew the food of life from the same woman. As toddling mites they flew their kites together, and threw their balls. Then the sire of Arrack, Meol, now serquor, took these suckling babes to the Temple of Pirox the Killer. It is he I blame, not the innocent ones. He, with two others, lived a life of lies. Respected Keemarnians, wise fathers, loving husbands, they lived unsuspected of their evil practices; for they were all devil worshippers and offered up the black sacrifice. But serquor took them all into his bosom. These tender nurslings grew in the ways of sin. He, the unnamed, possessed brains and cunning. He was the leader. He it was who took Arrack the Miserable on to our Isle of Holiness—made him build him a hut, and left him there, a tool to work his will and prepare his heathen rites. Since he was of tender years he has led this life—hating it, yet loving it; fearing it, yet welcoming it. Then the time came when he, the unnamed, whispered words that affrighted even Arrack the Miserable. Whispered words of passion for a Princess. The Ipso-Rorka was named—and even to that length of degradation would Arrack have assisted, so deep was he in the toils of sin. Then the day of reckoning came. Mighty thunders shook the Cave of Darkness. The wrath of Mitzor tore it asunder; no more shall these perfidious practices be handed down from father to son. No longer shall sin creep out unseen in Keemar. The Great White Glory has spoken. The Temple of Sin is in ruins, and under the mass of rock and stones lies the tortured body of Waiko. Whether he, too, had practised the sins of the unnamed also, we know not. But we do know his character was weak. We pray that his suffering on the Black Altar may have purged his soul and that soon he will be sitting in the warmth of the Tower of Help.”
Misrath sat down, and the Rorka rose. “I have heard your case, O Arrack, in silence. I have listened to your tale of shame. One thing only is in your favour. You sought not an evil life, but sin and its sorrows were taught you when you were yet a child. But—” he paused. “You lived the life of Keemar. You attended our services of joy that were offered to Mitzor. You knew sin was abhorrent to us. From the time when our first parents populated our world, we have fought to keep Keemar perfect. Thanks to Mitzor we nearly succeeded. It is to prevent the occurrence of sins like yours that I pronounce sentence. Misrath, High Priest of our Temples—our Mediator on earth between Mitzor and man, robe the sinner in the garments of shame.”
Immediately the grey tinted gaberdine was torn from Arrack, and in its place was put a long robe of black. The covering was taken from his head, and the sandals from his feet. His head was bowed in shame, and in shame he was led to the Sentence Bar, there to hear his fate.
“Through the streets of Hoormoori shalt thou be led,” said the Rorka. “A rope round thy middle shall direct thee the way to go. Neither man nor woman shall speak to thee. Neither beast nor bird shall be permitted to fawn upon thee. Alone and an outcast shalt thou be sent upon thy way. Lonely shalt thy days be. Lonely shalt thou be taken to the Hall of Sorrows at Fyjipo. There thou shalt live until thy beard grows and turns white with age. Should thy call come early, alone wilt thou have to meet the Great White Glory. No Sacrament shall help thee on thy way. Neither incense nor prayers shall assist thee in thy last moments here. Alone and wretched thou shalt leave this world. But should thy call not come soon, then shalt thou stay in the Hall of Sorrows until thy beard covers thy face and thy middle, then—when that time arrives, shalt thou be free to leave the place of sorrow. But thy life will be lonely all thy days for the sins thou hast committed.”