The White Hecatomb, and Other Stories

by W. C. Scully

Aiäla took the greatest delight in ministering to the wants of her lover. She brought him food in delicate variety, and changes of wearing apparel. He now dressed like a Malay of superior rank, in loose, white trousers, long smock, short, sleeveless jacket of velvet, pointed sandals, and silken turban. The latter she would over and over again skilfully roll for him, place upon his head, and immediately disarrange with an embrace.

Seven golden days dawned under a pall of tempest and drenching rain, each with a brimming cup of delight for their unsated lips. Seven nights of fierce storm curtained them away from a world of shifting shadows with a rich fabric woven in the golden loom of happy dreams. Death was busy all around them, but they heeded him not, and he forebore to smite. Perhaps the genius of happiness that guested with them for a little time shielded their nest with a wing which even the Destroyers dart could not pierce.

The eighth morning brought a cloudless sun, before the garish face of which their bliss melted like a snow-flake on the lips of a rose.

When Brand looked out into the bright, bracing morning he awoke from his trance and again yearned for freedom. The whole man in him revolted against this hiding like a mole in the earth. The sunshine and the cool, moist air seemed to call him forth in tones of imperative command. His love for Aiäla had not in the slightest degree diminished, but a horror at his situation, which was accentuated by the pure, blue sky, fell upon him when he realised the nature of his surroundings. A longing to lave in the cold, cleansing sea came over him, and he felt that he must go forth, taking Aiäla with him. He was prepared to acknowledge her as his wife in the face of the world, and in all his plans for the future she was inextricably woven.

Aiäla had slipped away from his side before dawn while he was yet sleeping, and it was the middle of the forenoon before she was able to return. She found him pacing to and fro like a caged lion raging for its freedom.

Brand clasped her in his arms and poured out his trouble in a torrent of passionate words. She freed herself gently from his embrace and knelt before him with her head bowed in token of submission. She had understood in a flash the state of her lover’s mind, and the strength of his longing to go forth, and she submitted to the inevitable. One of the most marked effects which their mutual, virginal passion had upon these two was, that they became one in a very real sense. Aiäla, as a woman, naturally absorbed more of Brand than he did of her, and it was the intuitive perception of his thoughts, his hopes, and his needs manifested by Aiäla which struck her lover with a sense of wonder and almost with fear. It sometimes felt as though he had recreated her in his own mental and spiritual image and likeness.

It was decided that Brand was to make his escape just before midnight, Aiäla guiding him through the front door into the street. He was to dress as a Malay, leaving his own clothes to be disposed of by Aiäla amongst the lumber in the lower room. He was to return forty-eight hours later, and these two meant then to wander forth together into the wide world.

The last few hours of companionship which remained to them seemed to be blighted by the shadow of impending woe. After they had arranged the preliminaries regarding Brand’s departure they hardly spoke again to each other, but sat locked in a silent, close embrace. The vivid colour and the ethereal, bliss-born light had faded out of Aiäla’s lovely face, and given place to a shaded pallor. Her eyes were more wonderful than ever; the pupils having dilated to such an extent that the irises were completely absorbed.

It was at about eleven o’clock that Aiäla ascended the ladder for the last time, for the purpose of leading her lover forth. She hung around his neck a thin gold chain with a large pearl clasped by a rough, gold band attached to it. They bade each other a silent, tearless, passionate farewell, and then went forth, down the ladder and across the yard, Aiäla leading and Brand following with steps that faltered now that the parting was so near. Had Aiäla asked him to stay now at the last moment he would have done so without hesitation, but although the word was probably upon her lips, for she always divined Brand’s moods, she did not speak it.

Once they paused in going along the passage to the front door, and Aiäla lifted a curtain that hung before a doorway. Brand looked and saw the old priest sitting on the floor in mourning garb, still with ashes strewn upon his head. A dim light shone upon the pain-worn face, the sightless eyes, and the trembling lips that moved in prayer to the God whom the Great Prophet of Islam had always called “the compassionate—the merciful.” On the floor near the mourner lay the green robe and the turban of his dead son.