The Highlands of Ethiopia

by Sir William Cornwallis Harris

The effects of his diabolical incantation were soon manifest. Foul spirits mowed and chattered in his ear, and the cold rushing of pinions flapping lazily through the air wetted him with slimy spray. But revenge and desperation had steeled his nerves; and after a period of intense misery, which appeared without limit to the sufferer, the melancholy sound of a drum came faintly booming over the face of the waters—the welcome token that the hour of trial was past, and that the sacrifice had been accepted. Waxing louder and louder, the pealing of the music shook the rocks with its continuous reverberations. Unearthly voices, ceasing to torment, faded altogether away; and the renegade, casting one look on the ashes of things holy and once prized, stepped forth from the mouth of the cavern.

Wild and fearful was the scene which met his gaze. The moon was for the moment unobscured, but huge masses of pale cloud, like armed hosts, sped fiercely across the skies, whilst thunder and lightning seemed to warn the astounded beholder that spirits of another world were engaged in their unholy revels.

Unruffled by the breeze, the great lake spread like a sheet of molten silver at his feet; whilst every cliff and crag, revealed boldly to view, was fearfully lit up by the reflected glare of an unearthly lurid flame, which at short intervals spouted in jets from the centre of the expanse, amid streams of wild melancholy music and the clash of the magic drum.

Roused to daring deeds in this moment of frantic excitement, with one short prayer to the spirit he had invoked, Thavánan plunged headlong into the cold deep waters, which gurgled and bubbled over his descending form; but baffled in his design to reach the glittering white sand—now the only haven of his hope—he rose once more to the surface.

All was dark, dismal, and lonely. A thick fog covered the water, the earth, and the sky, whilst the voice of his better angel alone came moaning through the mist, bewailing the lost soul of a son of Adam. Again and again he struggled to reach the glowing bed of the lake, but mortal strength and energy were unavailing to pierce the fathomless abyss. The clear searching element rushed unresisted into his mouth and ears—the faintness of death spread over his exhausted limbs—and his senseless form, tossed to and fro, became the sport of the heaving billow.

But the sound of the spell had swept along the blast, and the savour of the sacrifice had penetrated into the halls of magic. A long sinewy arm raised the body high over the water. The drum again pealed through the boundless space; the bright fire threw one last triumphant stream above the surface, and a heavy plunge beneath the waves was succeeded by the utter silence of solitude.

The soft tinkling sound of harps first stole upon the slumbers of the neophyte. Bright, happy visions flitted over his awakening senses, and the sweet melody of voices ushered him again into existence. Starting from his trance, the bewildered Thavánan found ample scope for the indulgence of his wonder and astonishment. Far as the eye could scan, innumerable arcades stretched in endless vistas on every side, with alternating domes of the purest pearl. Pillars of variously coloured amber and crystal rose to sustain the glowing fabric, and cloths, such as emperors alone can boast, strewed the floors in unbounded profusion.

In the centre of each gallery stood an altar of virgin silver, from which a never-failing arrow of flame diffused a mellow light over the glittering pillars of the hall. Around their more searching sister, jets of sweet-scented water played high in the air; and dancing on the apex of each fountain, a sparkling emerald, the ransom of a monarch, gently regulated the rush of the stream, in token that the elements were here held under control.

Superb paintings, illuminated in transparency, shed a dreamy languor over the scene, and music lent her exhaustless charms to captivate the sense. Sweet strains of triumph, ringing in full chorus among the lofty domes, died gently away into the softness of repose; and at times the low murmur of the waves fell pleasingly upon the ear, as the lake poured forth her springs in homage to the master spirit, and imprinted the kiss of obedience on the magic abode of Wárobal Mama.

Colossal statues of Famine, War, and Pestilence, frowned from their lofty pedestals in all the sternness of brass above the glories of this rich and varied scene. Each giant arm grasped a knotted mace, whose awful blow on the iron drum of misfortune was well known to the dismayed inhabitants of the upper regions of earth as the sure harbinger of woe.