CHAPTER XVII
Links in a Chain
THE full Council of the Aurora Clan was assembled. The crude accommodation was wholly inadequate. And many of the members were forced to stand through lack of sitting room amidst the debris of the old steam-heat cellar of the ruins of the lakeside dwelling. But then it was the full Council, and not the Supreme Executive. And its members numbered full twenty.
It was sufficiently grotesque for all the significance lying behind the gathering of these queer figures in their burlesque robes of white. They represented a deadly force in the life of this wide-flung northern country. It was the inevitable reply of those who saw and appreciated the problems and needs of their own existence and were prepared to deal with them without reference to political visions and principles. It was reaction to pristine instinct.
Yes, it was reaction. The fact of it being a council had no relation to democratic method. The Aurora Clan was ruled over by one individual who was called the “Chief Light of the Aurora.” The Chief Light was the brain and the driving force. He was the heart, the soul, and head of the organisation. His rule was despotic. The councillors were his supporters, and the executors of his absolute will. They were possibly, even, advisers, in that they were listened to in council. But, bound under oath, they obeyed the ruling of the Chief Light without question, and under ruthless penalty.
The Aurora Clan was an expression of passionate exasperation. It was an expression of men who saw no hope in the far off councils of self-interested men, who spend their lives in talk. They wanted their own corner of the earth made safe for decent democracy, and were prepared to purge it without regard to the rest of the world’s opinions. Laws might be enacted in those far off councils. They would obey them if they proved adequate in making decent life possible. If they proved otherwise, in view of the needs of their community, they would be simply set aside and other provision would be made.
To achieve its purpose the Aurora Clan viewed the situation with wide-open eyes. It saw things as they were, and refused to consider them through any medium that presented the picture in any different light. It was gazing on the rawest human nature, for all it was tricked out in the fashions of the twentieth century. It was the same human nature that had fought the old-time battle in the darkest ages, unchanged in the smallest degree. So the Clan had adopted the method which has always been the ultimate control when humanity got out of hand. It was the method of earliest man. And it will be the method of the last. It was the appeal of Fear. In the opinion of the controlling mind of the Aurora Clan there was no short cut to any Utopia, or Millennium, or things of that sort. There was even no such condition to arrive at. Life was Self. Simply Self, even if, at times, thinly disguised. And Self could only be sufficiently impressed to keep it within the bounds of reasonable decency by the methods of control which had come down throughout the ages. So the ugly banner of Terror had been raised. Awe, Superstition, Terror.
To the humorous mind the grotesqueness of the gathering must have been without question. Each pair of eyes gazing through rudely cut eye-holes in those conical hoods, if their humour were sufficient, must inevitably have smiled at the sight of the other nineteen ghostly figures squatting or standing about the place with pipes and cigars protruding through mouth-holes in the cloth of their hoods. In this respect these men-ghosts were not sacrificing their comfort for any undue regard for the impression they desired to create. They were there for business. The cellar was without comfort. They might be there for hours. Well, tobacco was no outrage of their principles.
The place reeked with every grade of tobacco smoke. Rank cigars and still ranker pipes had overridden the musty dankness of the atmosphere. Decay in any form was sufficiently abhorrent to the virile youth of this gathering. So each did his best to mask it under the fog of smoke which brought comfort to their souls.
The sitting had been a long one. All sorts of reports from individual councillors had been listened to, voted upon, and upon which the Chief Light, leaning against the central rusted furnace, had given his final decision. There was no secretary to take down any minutes of the meeting. No writing of any sort was permitted. All the business of the Council was done verbally. Sentence was passed on any delinquent reported by the Chief Light, and the work of its execution deputed by word of mouth. None but the Chief Light knew upon whom such tasks devolved. Maybe there was recognition in the voices as each councillor spoke, but that was all. Each member of the Council was known by a numeral which was inscribed on the white front of his gown, and, so long as he might serve on the Council, that would be the only form of identification permitted.
Towards the end of the session a stoutish councillor, with “No. 3” blazoned on the bosom of his cloak, bestirred himself. He made a sign which conveyed his claim to attention. It was given without question. The tall form of the Chief Light was instantly turned in his direction.