The flame-gatherers

by Margaret Horton Potter

At length the chant came to an end. Fidá felt a breath of relief; for self-control was becoming difficult. Now, at last, he was seized by the stalwart young Brahmans and lifted, like a log of wood, up and up till he was laid on his back on top of the great heap of unlit firewood. A hoarse shout went up from the people gathered below. Fidá’s heart throbbed to suffocation. His hair was literally rising on his head; but he made no movement, nor did he utter any sound. Even in his horror he remembered the behavior of women enduring the suttee, and the memory shamed him into stillness. Under the fierce rays of the sun, now in mid-sky, he closed his eyes and waited—waited for the first crackling flame to leap upon his flesh. Evidently the time for this had not yet come. Again the priests were praying those endless, senseless, Vedic prayers, to Indra, to Vishnu, to Agni—Agni, the fire-god. How long he lay upon the pyre Fidá did not know. It was at once a century and a second. Then the voices of the priests were still. Once more he was seized by the head and the feet and lifted to the ground. There his ropes were cut. He was free again. Trembling and faint, he found himself facing the King’s minister, who was smiling at him still.

“The captive did not know,” he murmured, “that our sacrifices are bloodless.”

Fidá felt himself redden, and the next instant met the eyes of the Rajah, who was staring at him in amazement: “Knew you not? told they you not? Didst fear such a death? It was a needless fear. Human blood stains not the altars of our gods. You, the foremost of our captives, were laid upon the altar of Indra as a sign that we attribute all our victories to him. That ceremony is over. You are free to depart from the sacrifice.” And, with a friendly gesture, the Rajah turned away again, and Fidá knew himself dismissed.

It was not now so easy a task to force his way through the dense crowd; for this time they did not voluntarily make way for him. He was fiercely possessed with the desire, however, to escape from this mob who had been unconscious witnesses of what he felt to be his cowardice. And, after a persistent pushing and edging, he found himself beyond the people and in front of that doorway where he had dismounted the night before. Here Ragunáth had stood and watched him, but had not then read his soul; or, if he had, had found there nothing of which an Asra might be ashamed. Now!—Coward or not, that Asra was leaning up against the palace wall, gone very faint, even his knees trembling with the reaction of a strain that had been greater than he realized.

He remained standing here for a long time, regaining command of himself, and, afterward, attracted by the spectacle before him. The wood on the altar had been lighted, and a hot, wavering flame leaped high in the centre of the garland-strewn multitude. Into this fire went the contents of the jars that had stood at the base of the altar:—four of fine, ground meal, four of ghee, and four of strained honey. From this sacrificial mess arose a thick smoke; but the odor that came from it was, surprisingly enough, decidedly agreeable; for the meal and butter had been so skilfully treated with aromatics that the natural smell of burning vegetable and grease had been overcome. The sacrifice was of course accompanied by a continuous high and musical chant from the priests. Chapter after chapter of the Vedas they repeated without halt or break. Prayers were sent up to every Vedic god: to Vishvakarma, the all-maker, to Varuna and Mitra, to Agni, to Surya, to Yama, to the Ashvins, brothers of dawn and twilight, to Rudra, the storm-god, and Vivasat, the father of death. The sacred cattle were offered to Prishni, the holy cow of heaven; and, their spirits being accepted by a sign in the flame, they were led away to resume their duties in the great temple at the other end of the plateau. Finally, at the conclusion of the ceremony, the last god was introduced: he who, for many centuries, had played the great rôle in this ceremonial: Soma, lord of the moon, and lord of drunkennesses, whose name is that of the plant from which the powerful, sacred liquor is distilled. And at the first pronouncing of this name, the sacrifice was interrupted by the arrival of fifty slaves, who made their appearance from the great hall, bearing on their heads jars of the liquid to be quaffed to the great ones above. They were greeted by a long, loud murmur of anticipatory joy, such as no lavish display of meal or cattle could ever call forth from the crowd. And now at last Fidá, too well aware of what was to follow, turned from the courtyard down the corridor through which he had passed on the previous night, on his way to Ragunáth’s rooms.

He walked slowly along the cool, dim hall, the silence of which was refreshing. Evidently there was not a single soul in this part of the palace; and for an instant there rose in the mind of the captive a wild idea of escape. He was here, alone, unseen—and hundreds of miles away from his uncle’s army, hundreds of miles from any possible safety. Sanity returned as quickly as it had left him, but bringing a new heaviness on his spirit. He came presently to the passage that led to Ragunáth’s rooms; and, looking down it, perceived that it ended in a bright patch of sunlight, marking an inner court. Instinctively he turned thither, finding himself presently on the edge of a charming little three-cornered courtyard, shut in on every side by vine-clad walls. Opposite the passage ran a veranda, overrun with passion-flowers; and in a corner near by rose a group of small tamarinds. The courtyard was unpaved, but in the centre of it stood a little fountain of clear, bubbling spring-water. This place, like the corridor, was without a sign of life; but, pleased with its homelike, pleasant air, Fidá entered it, suddenly seized with a sense of unfamiliar delight.

As if in answer to his appearance, a door across from him was opened, and out upon the veranda, and thence into the court, came a young woman, unveiled, dressed in pale, flowing silk, her hips bound with a striped sash, of the broad Indian fashion, her dark hair twined with purple clematis. She was humming to herself a little tune; and as she hummed, she swayed her lithe body from side to side and stepped as a dancer does. Fidá drew a sharp breath. She was the woman who had danced the night before. She was Ahalya, youngest wife of Rai-Khizar-Pál. She was—the fairest creature that Fidá’s eyes had ever looked upon. As he drew quickly back into the shadow of the doorway, he knew, as one knows things in dreams and visions, that it was her spirit filling this place that had made it dear to him. Oblivious of himself, he stood gazing at her while she came to the fountain, sat down upon its brim, and dabbled her hands in the cool water, smiling to herself the while, reminiscently.

Presently, lifting her eyes, she looked full upon Fidá, and, startled out of her composure, jumped to her feet, and then stood still again, uncertain whether she wished to run or not. Fidá advanced matters by walking forward into the courtyard again and performing a deep salaam before her. She saw the metal circlet on his head, knew him for a slave, and yet lifted up her voice and spoke to him. What manner of woman could she be!

“Who art thou? What is thy name?” she asked, surprising herself by her unpremeditated boldness. The beauty of her voice, however, made the slave’s senses swim anew.

“My name is Fidá. I come from Yemen. And my race is the race of Asra—” he looked into her eyes, and his voice sank to a whisper, as he added involuntarily, “who must die if they cherish love!”