“Let the Strife End!”

Chapter Thirty-Two

When Kenton awakened, it was the Viking and not Gigi who lay beside him, stripped and snoring. He must have slept long, for the drenched garments the Ninevite had taken off him were dry. He put on clout and tunic, slipped feet in sandals, threw over his shoulders a short cloak and softly opened the door. Blackness and dark twilight had given way to a pallid dusk that turned the sea a sullen gray. The rain had ceased, but all the world of the ship vibrated to the steady roar of a mighty wind pouring over it.

Before that wind the ship was flying, riding like a gull on the crests of giant waves; slipping back, as the swells passed, through smoothly onrushing floors of water like liquid slate; rising to fly again upon the crest of the next racing wave.

He struggled up to the steersman’s place, the spindrift stinging his face like sleet. To one of the rudder oars clung Gigi, at the other were two slaves from the rowers’ pit. The Ninevite grinned at him; pointed to the compass. He looked and saw that the needle which held constant to Sorcerers’ Isle pointed straight astern.

“Far behind us now is that den!” shouted Gigi.

“Go below!” cried Kenton in a pointed ear, and would have taken the oar from him. But Gigi only laughed, shook his head and pointed toward the cabin of Sharane.

“That is your course,” he roared. “Steer it!”

And buffeting the gale Kenton came to the door of the rosy cabin; opened it. Sharane lay asleep, cheek cradled in one slim hand, tresses covering her like a silken net of red gold. Two maids, watchful, crouched at her bedside.

As though he had called to her, she opened sleepy eyes—sleepy eyes that as she looked at him grew sweetly languorous.

“My own dear lord!” whispered Sharane.

She sat up, motioned the girls to go. And when they had gone she held out white arms to him. His own arms were around her. Like a homing bird she nestled in them; raised red lips to his.

“Dear lord of me!” whispered Sharane.

He heard no more the roaring wind—heard nothing but the whisperings, the sighings of Sharane; forgot all worlds save that which lay within Sharane’s tender arms.

Long they flew on the tempest’s wings. Twice Kenton took Gigi’s place at the rudder oars, twice the Viking relieved him before the great wind died and they sailed once more on dimpling, sparkling turquoise sea with a perfumed breeze beating the sail with gentle hands.

Began now for those upon the ship a hunted life—and a haunted one.

Far, far behind them must lie Emakhtila by now, and yet—On all the four rested clear certainty of pursuit. No fear, no terror—but untroubled knowledge that the ship was a hunted thing; knowledge that unless they could outwit, outsail the fleet they knew must be combing these strange seas until they found a safe and secret harbor, there could be but one end for them. Nor did one of them believe, deep in his heart, that there was such sanctuary.

Yet they were happy. Full tide of life beat round Kenton and Sharane. They took their fill of life and love. And Sigurd sang old sagas, and a new one he had made of Zubran the Persian, while he and Gigi beat out huge shields and arrows for the bows. The shields they set around the bulwarks at the ship’s bow and pierced them with slits through which arrows could be winged. Two they fastened on each side of the stern to guard the helmsman.

“If we are slain, dear lord, we shall be slain together,” Sharane would say. And always:

“Always together—from now henceforth, beloved,” Kenton would answer her.

And Sigurd would chant of battle to come, and shield maidens who would hover over the ship ready to bear the soul of Sigurd, Trygg’s son, to his seat in Valhalla where Zubran awaited him and Gigi. He sang of place for Kenton there, too—but not when Sharane was in earshot, since in Valhalla was no place for women.

Hunted and—haunted!

Within the black cabin the shadows thickened and faded, grew stronger, passed and returned. Something of the dark lord of the dead was there, had retaken seizin of his deck. Nor Gigi nor the Viking cared to sleep there now; they sought the open deck or the cabin of the warrior maids. And the slaves murmured of shadows that flitted over the black deck and clustered at the rail and stared down upon them.

Once, while Sigurd drowsed over the tiller bar, he awakened to find that unaware to all the course of the ship had changed, that the greater needle of the compass pointed straight over the bow to—Emakhtila; that the ship was moving under the oars back to Sorcerers’ Isle!

Thereafter they steered two by two—Kenton and Sharane, Gigi and the Viking.

Nor was there power within Sharane to banish the shadows.

“I will make my bed within the black cabin,” she had said. “Once I was vase for Ishtar—and it may be that something of her still lingers within me to cleanse that den again.”

But whatever evil it was gathering there seemed only to grow stronger; banishing sleep from her or making that sleep dreadful. So Kenton forbade her.

One isle they made and replenished food and water. There was good harbor there, a hidden cove and beyond a great forest beckoned them. Here they stopped for a time; talked of drawing the ship up shore, concealing her; then finding place within the woods to build fort; meet there whatever attack might come.

The ship drew them back to her.

Restless were they all, uneasy on the land; each afraid in secret heart that the other three would make up minds to stay; and gay as children they were when the ship drove out again and dipped her bow to the crested waves while the clean sea wind shouted to them and the isle dropped behind.

“A prison,” laughed Kenton.

“No life, that!” growled Sigurd. “Hiding in a burrow till the dogs come to dig us out! Now we can see what comes.”

They met a long ship, a unireme like their own, but of twenty oars. It was a merchant carrier and heavily laden, and it would have fled from them. But the Viking cried that she must not escape to carry tidings to Emakhtila. So they pursued and rammed and sunk her with the chained slaves wailing at the oars—Kenton and Gigi and Sigurd ruthlessly, Sharane white faced and weeping.

They met another—a light vessel no larger than the ship, but this time a war boat, a hunter. They feigned to flee and it gave chase. And when it was close to them the Viking swerved and fell astern; then drove the ship swiftly against the other’s side, shearing the oars. Those on that vessel fought bravely; yet, hampered by the black priest’s command to take but not slay, they were no match for Gigi’s great mace, the Viking’s blade and Kenton’s sword of blue lightnings. They fell before them and the arrow storm from Sharane and her maids. But they took toll before they were ended. One of the warrior maids died with an arrow through her heart and both Gigi and Sigurd had their wounds.

In this craft they found store of metal for the Viking’s forge. Better still, balls of tow and oils to soak them in and flint to light them, strong shafts to carry the balls when blazing and oddly shaped cross-bows to hurl the shafts with their heads of fire. All these and the metal they took. Then sank that vessel with its living and its dead.

On sailed the ship and on; while Sigurd hammered out his long shields and Gigi and Kenton set the cross-bows in place by rosy cabin and dark, with tow and oils and flint ready for the firing.

And time passed; nor did the tides of life that flowed strong through Kenton of the ship wane ever; waned not—grew stronger and more strong for him and for Sharane.

And then—

Lying beside his sleeping love Kenton awoke—or thought that he awakened—and opening his eyes saw not the cabin but two faces gazing down upon him from some unknown space; vast faces, vague and nebulous. Their shadowy eyes dwelt upon him.

One spoke—and lo, it was the voice that had guided him through the temple’s secret shrines! The voice of Nabu!

“Again Nergal centers his wrath upon the ship, O Ishtar!” it said. “The strife between him and your Sister-Self once more will trouble gods and men, deepening the shadows in a myriad worlds. Great Mother—only you may end it!”

“My word went forth”—the other voice was like the wind rippling over thousands of harp strings—“my word went forth; and that Sister-Self of mine whom of old men have called the Wrathful Ishtar—has she not her rights? She has not conquered Nergal. Nor has Nergal conquered her. There has been no settlement such as I decreed. How, then, can my Sister-Self rest when the word I spoke in anger has not yet been resolved? And as long as she contends, so long must Nergal also who, too, is bound by that word.”

“Yet the flames you kindled within the souls of Zarpanit and Alusar, the flames that were the life of those souls—they did not perish,” the still voice whispered. “Did they not escape both your Wrathful Sister and Dark Nergal? And why, Ishtar? Was it not because you willed it so? Did you not hide them? What of that word of yours then?”

“Wise are you, Nabu!” There was a touch of anger in the ripple of the harp strings—“Now let this man whose eyes we have opened see what that sin my priestess and her lover wreaked of ill when it brought into each other’s arms the Mother of Life and the Lord of Death! Let this man judge whether my anger were just or not!”

“Let him judge!” echoed the voice of Nabu.

The vast faces faded. Kenton looked out upon depth upon depth, infinity upon infinity of space. Myriads of suns were hived therein and around them spun myriads upon myriads of worlds. Throughout that limitless space two powers moved; mingled yet ever separate. One was a radiance that fructified, that gave birth and life and joy of life; the other was a darkness that destroyed, that drew ever from the radiance that which it had created; stilling them, hiding them in its blackness. Within the radiance was a shape of ineffable light and Kenton knew that this was the soul of it. In the darkness brooded a deeper shadow, and he knew full well that this was its darker soul.

Before him arose the shapes of a man and a woman; and something whispered to him that the woman’s name was Zarpanit and the man’s Alusar, the priestess of Ishtar and the priest of Nergal. He saw that in each of their hearts burned a wondrous, clear white flame. He saw the two flames waver, bend toward each other. And as they did so, shining threads of light streamed out from the radiance, linking the priestess with its spirit; while from the black core of the darkness threads of shadow ran out and coiled about the priest.

And as the bending flames touched suddenly the shining threads and shadow threads were joined—for an instant were merged!

And in that instant all space shuddered, the suns rocked, the worlds reeled and all the rushing tides of life paused! Sprang in the wake of that shuddering births monstrous and evil, pestilences and wars, harvests of sorrows!

“Behold the sin!” rippled the voice of harp strings.

“Open his eyes wider!” came the still, cold voice.

And now Kenton looked into a radiant chamber in which sat as in judgment dread powers, veiled in glories of light—all save one who hid in darkness. Before them stood the priest and priestess and at the side of the priestess—Sharane! He knew he looked upon the gods within the temple of ancient Uruk—upon the gods as they judged between Ishtar and Nergal and doomed Ishtar’s priestess and the dark lord’s priest.

Again he saw the white flames within the hearts of those two—untroubled, serene. Indifferent to gods or angry goddess! Bending toward each other, unquenchable, immutable, indifferent of wrath of gods or their punishments! Immortal!

That picture wavered, faded. Now upon the floor of that radiant chamber he saw priest and priestess, Sharane and Klaneth and around them the bodies of many women and men. There was a high altar half hidden by a cloud of sparkling azure mist. Within the mist, upon that altar, that had been built by unseen hands, a wondrous ship was growing.

And ever as that ship grew Kenton saw, far beyond it as though it were its shadow cast into another dimension, another ship growing; a ship that seemed to build itself out of a turquoise sea in a world of silver clouds! Step by step that shadow ship followed the building of the puppet ship upon the altar.

He knew that the shadow was the real—the toy being shaped upon the altar was but the symbol!

Knew, too, that symbol and reality were one; things linked by an ancient wisdom; things created by ancient powers, of which the fate and fortune of one must be the fate and fortune of the other!

Duoform! One a puppet and one real! And each the same!

Now the unseen hands within the mists of azure had finished the ship. They reached down and touched, one by one, the bodies of Ishtar’s priestess and Nergal’s priest, Sharane and Klaneth and all who lay around them. And as they touched, those still forms vanished. The unseen hands lifted and placed, one by one, puppets on the puppet ship.

Upon the decks of the shadow ship on the turquoise sea in the world of silver clouds bodies lay—one by one they gathered there as the toys were set in place upon the toy ship on the altar!

At last there were no more still forms upon the floor of the council chamber of the gods.

The ship was made and manned!

A ray shot out from the radiance that veiled Ishtar and touched the ship’s bow. A tendril of darkness uncoiled from the blackness in which brooded the Lord of the Dead and this darkness touched the ship’s stern.

That picture wavered and fled. There appeared another chamber; small, almost a crypt. In it stood a single altar. Over the altar hung a lamp nimbused by an aureole of azure; and the altar was of lapis lazuli and turquoise and studded with sapphires of clearest blue. And Kenton knew that this was some secret shrine of Nabu, Lord of Wisdom.

On the altar rested the ship. As Kenton looked upon it it was borne to him again that this jeweled toy, this gleaming symbol, was linked inseparably with that other ship sailing in another space, another dimension; sailing on strange seas in an unknown world—

The ship that he was on!

And that as the toy fared, so fared the ship; and as the ship fared, so fared the toy; each threatened when one was threatened; sharing each the other’s fate.

That picture faded. He looked upon a walled city out of which towered a high temple, a terraced temple, a ziggurat. A host besieged the city; its walls were covered with its warriors. He knew that the city was ancient Uruk and the high temple that in which the ship had been built. And as he looked, the besiegers broke through the walls; overwhelmed the defenders. He had a glimpse of red carnage—that picture fled.

Again he saw the crypt of Nabu. There were two priests there now. The ship rested upon the floor on a lattice of silvery metal. Over the altar hovered a little shining blue cloud. It came to him that the two priests were obeying a voice in that cloud; saving the ship and those who sailed on it from the invaders. They poured over it from huge basins a fine mortar that was like powder of ivory flecked with dust of pearls. It covered and hid the shining ship. Where ship had been was now a block of stone. The cloud vanished. Other priests entered; dragged the block out, through corridors and into the court of the temple. There they left it.

Into the court swarmed the victors, looting and slaying. But ever, unheeding, they passed the rough block by. The block that held—the ship!

Now he looked upon another walled city, great and beautiful. He knew it for Babylon in the full moon of its power. Another ziggurat took its place. That melted and Kenton looked upon another secret shrine of Nabu within it. The little blue cloud rested again upon the altar. The block lay beside it and blue robed priests worked on it, smoothing, polishing, cutting on a glistening surface the arrow headed cuneiform.

The warning of Nabu, God of Wisdom!

Flickered thereafter before him fleeting pictures of battles and of triumphs; pageant and disaster; quick, broken scenes of temple and city lost and won and lost once more; destroyed only to be built again in greater grandeur—

Then fallen—abandoned by the gods.

Then crumbling—abandoned by man; the desert creeping on it; at the last covering it.

Then—forgotten!

But always, no matter what the passing fate of the city, he saw the block in which lay the ship endure; untouched by fire, shielded from destruction, passed by pillagers, ignored by conquerors.

There came a whirlpool of images, gray and indistinct in the swiftness of their passing. They steadied. He saw men working in the sands that were Babylon’s shroud. He recognized among them—Forsyth! He saw the block unearthed; borne away by tall Arabs; saw it crated into a primitive cart drawn by patient little rough coated ponies; watched it tossing in the hold of a ship that sailed a sea he knew; watched it carried into his own house—

He looked upon himself as he freed the ship!

He looked again into the shadowy eyes.

“Judge!” sighed the harp strings.

“Not yet!” whispered the still voice.

Kenton looked again into that immeasurable space wherein he had first seen radiant power and dark. But now he saw within it countless flames like those which had burned in breasts of Ishtar’s priestess and the Lord of Death’s priest; saw infinity flecked and flaming with them. They burned deep down through the shadows, and by their light up from the darkness came groping multitude upon multitude of other flames that had been shrouded by the darkness. He saw that without those flames the radiance of itself would be but a darkness!

He saw the ship as though it floated in that same space. As he gazed a deeper shadow flitted from the soul of the blackness and brooded over it. Instantly something of the soul of the radiance rayed out and met it. They strove, one against the other. The ship was a focus of hatred and of wrath from which, visibly, waves swung out in ever widening circles. As they circled outward from the ship the shadow lines that ran from the core of darkness grew darker, thicker, as though they sucked strength from those waves. But under their beat the radiance dulled and the countless flames flickered and swayed and were troubled.

“Judge!” whispered the cold tones of Nabu.

Now Kenton in this dream of his—if dream it was—faced dilemma; hesitated. No trivial matter was it to indict this power—Ishtar, goddess or whatever that power might be in this alien world where, certainly, it was powerful indeed. Besides, had he not prayed to Ishtar and had she not answered his prayer? Yes, but he had prayed to Nabu, too, and Nabu was Lord of Truth—

He made up his mind; and his thoughts shaped themselves into words of his own tongue, his familiar idioms.

“If I were a god,” he said, simply enough, “and had made things with life, things with lives to live, men and women or whatever they might be, I would not make them imperfect, so that they must, perforce, through their imperfections, break my laws. Not if I were all powerful and all wise, as I have gathered gods—and goddesses—are supposed to be. Unless, of course, I had made them only for toys, to play with. And if I found that I had made them imperfect and that therefore they did wrong, I would think that it was I who was responsible for their sinning—since being all powerful and all wise I could have made them perfect but did not. And if I had made them for my toys I surely would not heap upon them heart-break and misery, pain and sorrow—no punishments, O Ishtar—not if they were toys that could feel these things. For what would they be but puppets dancing through their day as I had fashioned them to do?

“Of course,” said Kenton naïvely, and with no ironic intention, “I am no god—and most certainly could not be a goddess—nor until I came into this world have I had any conscious experience with either. Yet, speaking as a man, even if I had punished any one who had broken my laws I would not let my anger run on and hurt any number of people who had nothing whatever to do with the original cause of my anger. Yet that, if what I have just beheld was true, is what this battle that is about to be waged for the ship seems to bring about.

“No,” said Kenton, very earnestly, and quite forgetting the vague faces hovering over him. “I can’t see any justice in the torment of that priest and priestess; and if the struggle for the ship does the damage it appeared to, I certainly would stop it if I could. For one thing I would be afraid that shadow might get too thick some time and put all the little flames out. And for another—if I had spoken a word in anger that made all that misery I wouldn’t let that word be stronger than myself. I wouldn’t as a man. And if I were a god or a goddess—very certainly, indeed, I would not!”

There was a silence; then—

“The man has judged!” whispered the still voice.

“He has judged!” The vast ripple of the harp strings was almost as cold as that other. “I will recall my word! Let the strife end!”

The two faces vanished. He raised his head and saw around him the familiar walls of the rosy cabin. Had it been all a dream? Not all—those scenes he had beheld had been too clear cut, too consecutive, too convincing. Deep within him he knew that none of it had been dream!

Beside him Sharane stirred, turned his face to hers.

“What were you dreaming, Jonkenton?” she asked. “You were murmuring and muttering—strange words that I could not understand.”

He bent and kissed her.

“I greatly fear, heart of mine, that I have offended that goddess of yours,” he said.

“Oh—Jonkenton—but no! How!” Sharane’s eyes were terrified.

“By telling her the truth,” answered Kenton; then unveiled to Sharane all of that vision.

“I forgot she is—a woman!” he ended, a bit ruefully.

“Oh—but beloved, she is all women!” cried Sharane.

“Well—that makes it all the worse then!” laughed Kenton, reckless. He leaped up; whistling gayly, threw cloak about him and went out to talk to Gigi.

But Sharane did not join in his laughter; sat thinking, long after he had gone, with troubled eyes; at last walked to the empty shrine; threw herself before it, prostrate; praying.