Chapter VIII: News from the Captives

Good morning, Gentola̤: To your fervent prayer for guidance we respond with an earnest Amen!

Ere continuing the narration of the story, I desire to say that you who already have learned much concerning my people, the Entoans, will understand that, to those unacquainted with our laws and customs of both a secular and a sacred nature, portions of it may appear obscure. That I may render it more intelligible to those who may care to read that which concerns people of another Planet, I shall allude to certain features of the period during which the events of the story occurred; also, to certain usages which then, and, until the recent consummation of our mission, held the peoples of Ento in absolute bondage.

You, Gentola̤, are aware that for more than four Ento centuries I have been in our spirit world, and that the events of this veracious story occurred long antecedent to my birth. At the time of my death I was yet in my early youth; and but once during my mortal existence was human sacrifice offered: and that was voluntary on the part of a maiden who devoted herself as an expiatory sacrifice, hoping thereby to appease the wrath of Andûmana̤, who, for some unknown transgression of his wayward children, afflicted them with a disease so fatal as to threaten their entire extinction. You may recall that during our Mission I had occasion to allude to the pitiful affair which occurred during my brother's, Inidora̤'s, and my childhood, which left upon our immature minds a most distressing impression.

Decimon Hûydas, the writer of the little story which I am attempting to relate, has stated, that when through Andûmana̤'s pitying love the peoples found themselves freed from the ever-present dread of having their dearest ones chosen as victims of the Sacrificial Rite, for which always the fairest youths and maidens were selected, their exultation exceeded all reasonable bounds, impelling them not only to a nonobservance of the commandments of the sacred writings, but, also, to a lessened reverence for the persons and sacred offices of the Consecrated Ones.

This reprehensible conduct the priesthood could not tolerate, and very soon the people were made to understand that, if they did not at once return to a faithful observance of their religious duties, Andûmana̤ would withdraw his manifestation of pitiful love, and again the Sacrificial Rite would be demanded. This announcement speedily brought them to their right minds, and more than ever they became submissive to the requirements of the priesthood, who, possibly unawares, grew more arrogant than formerly in their exaction of ebedience to their ideas of what was due to religion and to themselves. Finally, the people found themselves in a state of absolute subjection to the will of the high priests, who ruled them with the authority of gods.

At the time of my departure into what my religious teachings had led me to regard as perpetual silence, but which, upon entering our Spirit World, I quickly learned was an enlarged life of inexpressible joy and progress. I, like all others, looked upon the priesthood as only a little less to be feared than the Deific Ones of Astranola̤. Thus you will perceive, that when the courageous Oûman Mitsa̤ braved, not only the anger and power of Zeydon a̤ Gamala̤, but, through him, the anger and power of the entire priesthood, he fully understood that he had placed his life in extreme peril, and that only through the interposition of the Deific Ones could he hope to thwart their implacable enmity.

I now will resume the narration of the story.

Genessano Allis Imo.

The night succeeding Oûman Mitsa̤’s interview with the High Priest Zeydon he passed in the home of the Nyassa̤, which he reached at the hour when twilight was hushing into stillness the noises of the day. Autumn, with advancing steps and chill breath, was busied with her task of lulling to rest the pulsing activities of nature, and tree, shrub and herbage were laying for her noiseless steps a carpet of many colors.

Amid the feathery crests of the lofty Bûdas trees some belated songsters chirped or trilled their regretful adieus ere flitting to join the comrades in some warmer clime. From somewhere in the distance came, at intervals, the harsh, mournful notes of the ill-omened Gatsika̤ (a large, gray, red-crested bird); and over the great residence and its surroundings was an air of melancholy and neglect. All this Oûman Mitsa̤ took in at a glance and gave it the tribute of a sigh, then made his presence known to his friends, who gave him a welcome as warm as his own greeting.

To fitly describe the scene following his relation of his interview with Zeydon and Frona̤ would demand a brighter mind and a more facile pen than mine. Imagine, if you can, Lûvon and Tillēne, Damma̤ and Avānna̤, a group of trembling auditors weeping and laughing by turns: for, in their almost delirious joy that their children yet lived, they momentarily forgot that they were as dead to them as though they had gone into the Silence.

In their eagerness to learn all that Oûman Mitsa̤ could tell them of their dearest ones their questions far exceeded his ability to make satisfactory replies. All that concerned Frona̤'s appearance had to be told over and over again. "Does she remember me, her mother?" cried Avānna̤; and in tremulous tones Damma̤ murmured, "I pray she may not have forgotten me, who love her so." With clasped hands and beseeching eyes they breathlessly listened to Oûman Mitsa̤'s assurance, that she remembered and loved them all; but of her anguish of mind he wisely refrained from speaking. There was immeasurable regret that he had not also seen Inva̤loû. "But he lives, he lives!" sobbed his and Frona̤'s parents. "Thanks to Andûmana̤ and the merciful gods our children yet live; and may not it be that knowing our sorrow, they may, ere we shall go into the Silence, permit us, if but once, to look upon the dear ones that Andûmana̤ did give into our keeping." And Oûman Mitsa̤ fervently prayed: "May it be so, O thou Mighty One in whose hands are all the issues concerning thy helpless children; aid us, we beseech Thee, and may also thy messengers, bear to thee account of our thoughts and deeds; for, alas! we are sorely distressed and have no refuge, save our trust in thy justice, pity and love."

The fervent Ra̤û's of the suppliants died away like expiring breaths, and for a little no one stirred or spoke. Then Oûman Mitsa̤ drew from his bosom Frona̤'s unread letter,—a letter written by her own dear hand. What sobbing cries, what frantic exclamations of joy and surprise burst from the lips of Lûvon and Tillēne, of Damma̤ and Avānna̤! Why, it was as though the dead had returned from the Silence! Only to see, to touch what Frona̤ had touched so overwhelmed her mother that she cried: "Oh, hasten dear Oûman! Hasten to read what our child has written! Hasten, for I am near death from joy that she yet lives—my child, my sweet Roinga̤ flower, my own, my ____.” Her loving words died on her lips, for into Oûman Mitsa̤’s eyes and paling face had come an expression which filled all hearts with terror and dismay: an expression so stern, so vindictive, that his usually benign face seemed transformed. For a space he stared at the letter speechless, and apparently with unseeing gaze, and no one moved or uttered a word. Save for their labored breathing and the terror in their questioning eyes, they were as so many statues.

At length Oûman Mitsa̤ aroused from his state of mental absorption and, with pitying glances at the faces of his friends, he said: “You will bear with me, I know. I would not needlessly alarm you: but I perceive that the poor child’s communication unhappily confirms a half formed fear that of late has been torturing me, and the shock of confirmation has somewhat unmanned me. But I will read it, and then we will counsel together. Steadying his voice as best he could, he read poor Frona̤’s letter, which ran in this wise:

“My beloved, my adored parents—and only a little less dear relatives: In the moment of such anguish of mind as I dare not attempt to express, this, our dear and honored kinsman, Oûman Mitsa̤, has appeared as though he were a god sent to us from the blest realm of Astranola̤. And surely, surely, Andûmana̤ has chosen him as a messenger between you, my dearest ones, and Inva̤loû and me, your unhappy children, who long for death that we may escape a crueller fate.

"I have so little space in which to write that I hasten to say that which is of most import. Our consecration to the temple service is near at hand. Inva̤loû and I shrink from it with dread and horror, for, O My Beloved Ones, we, in our hearts, are as we would be in all ways, wedded to each other.

"We well know that this cannot be, and we strive to be submissive to that which we cannot avert. But, Father, Mother, a great danger threatens me, your helpless Frona̤; and, knowing that you are as powerless to save me as I am to save myself I shrink from revealing it.

"Zeydon, the high priest (may the just Gods avenge us upon him!) has at last unmasked his false heart; and now Inva̤loû and I understand why he tore us from our home and from your dear embraces. He is faithless to his sacred vows and would make me a partner of his guilt: but be assured that he will fail in his abhorrent desire, for my Inva̤loû has sworn by the just gods that, even at the expense of Zeydon’s life, he will protect my honor,—and he will make his promise good. It is only that I know not what evil thing may occur that I make this known to you, my honored and beloved parents.

“Only to-day have we learned that we are so near our dear home and dearer parents; for when we were removed from Zeydon’s residence to this Litzen Rinda̤ we were given a sleeping potion, and, upon our awakening, we were made to believe that we were far distant from Koidassa̤. Only through our dear kinsman’s timely visit to Zeydon has the knowledge come to us; and now I fear that through his commands our accustomed freedom of movement about the grounds may be forbidden. If this should occur I know not how either Inva̤loû or I may find means to convey to you further knowledge of our condition. I dare write no more, lest I may fail of giving this into our dear kinsman’s hand.

“That Andûmana̤ and the pitiful Gods may save and restore us to your arms, is the unceasing prayer of your loving children,

“Inva̤loû and Frona̤.”

While, in a voice tremulous with emotion, Oûman Mitsa̤ read Frona̤'s piteous letter, Lûvon and Tillēne, Damma̤ and Avānna̤, with fierce anger raging in their minds and hearts clung to each other in shuddering horror and awful terror.

To have had their children torn from them to be unwillingly thrust into the Temple Service had robbed life of all that made it precious, and now—— now—— Oh, it was maddening to think of the peril threatening their dearest ones! Then came the natural protest of outraged nature, and where a moment ago were four crushed and helpless ones were now four determined avengers of the cruel wrongs perpetrated upon them and their innocent darlings.

As he noted their changed demeanor, on Oûman Mitsa̤'s strong, handsome face dawned a faint smile, a smile in which there was unusual meaning. "So!" he said. "So, Zeydon, thou base and treacherous priest, we know thee now for what thou art!" Then, with eyes and hands raised towards Astranola̤, he cried: "Ye messengers of Andûmana̤, who bear to him the prayers of his adoring children, hear us, hear and aid us, we implore you: Believing as we do in the justice of our cause by the majesty and glory of your and our Creator we swear, that if the High Priest Zeydon dares, save through the duties of his office, to touch one golden hair of Frona̤’s head, we will hold him to such strict account that the Silence shall claim one more life to add to the sum of its strange mystery!”

Then in a low, intensely earnest voice, he said “Lûvon, Tillēne, Damma̤, Avānna̤: It may surprise and displease you to learn that I am done with blind submission to our priestly oppressors, who make of us slaves, rather than reverent worshippers of the one Supreme God and Creator of all things that are. Lately it has grown into my thought as it has grown into the thought of many that they pervert the teachings of the sacred writings and make our holy religion a burthen, rather than a blessing. Does this thought, dear friends, find response in your minds?”

Their exclamations of assent gave reply to his appeal, and he continued. “Ere we shall go into the Silence, at most but a brief space remains to us; and since Inva̤loû and Frona̤, whose young lives are but well begun, death is preferable to dishonor, shall we, who love them more than all else, hesitate to offer on their behalf all that we possess,—aye, even the days or years remaining to us?"

The eager, tear-swept faces of the mothers and the clinched hands and drawn brows of Lûvon and Damma̤ were more eloquent than their expressions of fullest accord with his utterances.

“Now,” he said, “we must act on the instant lest Zeydon may deem it wise to have us placed under restraint. So, dear friends, hasten to make such preparation as may be necessary; for at earliest dawn we must depart for Da̤o to lay before the Most High Priest Moûkara, who is my kinsman and friend, a statement of your grievance: for it is only through his intervention that we may entertain the faintest hope of aid for our dearest ones. Though it may cost us all our possessions, aye, and our lives also, they shall be rescued, or we will go with them into the Silence.”