_A strange manuscript found in a copper cylinder_
          (the ninth installment)

   from _Harper's weekly_ (1888-mar-03) 
           (by James De Mille)


Chapter XIII.  The Awful "Mista Kosek"

The terrible sacrifice marked the end of the light season.  The
dark season had now begun, which would last for half the coming
year.  No more sunlight would now be visible, save at first for a
few _joms_, when at certain times the glare would be seen shooting
up above the icy crests of the mountains.  Now the people all moved
out of the caverns into the stone houses on the opposite side of
the terraces, and the busy throng transferred themselves and their
occupations to the open air.  This with them was the season of
activity, when all their most important affairs were undertaken and
carried out; the season, too, of enjoyment, when all the chief
sports and festivals took place.  Then the outer world all awoke to
life; the streets were thronged, fleets of galleys came forth from
their moorings, and the sounds of labor and of pleasure, of toil
and revelry, arose into the darkened skies.  Then the city was a
city of the living, no longer silent, but full of bustle, and the
caverns were frequented but little.  This cavern life was only
tolerable during the light season, when the sun-glare was over the
land; but now, when the beneficent and grateful darkness pervaded
all things, the outer world was infinitely more agreeable.  
 
  To me, however, the arrival of the dark season brought only
additional gloom.  I could not get rid of the thought that I was
reserved for some horrible fate, in which Almah might also be
involved.  We were both aliens here, in a nation of kind-hearted
and amiable miscreants--of generous, refined, and most self-denying
fiends; of men who were highly civilized, yet utterly wrong-headed
and irreclaimable in their bloodthirsty cruelty.  The stain of 
blood-guiltiness was over all the land.  What was I, that I could
hope to be spared?  The hope was madness, and I did not pretend to
indulge it.  
 
  The only consolation was Almah.  The manners of these people were
such that we were still left as unconstrained as ever in our
movements, and always, wherever we went, we encountered nothing but
amiable smiles and courteous offices.  Every one was always eager
to do anything for us to give, to go, to act, to speak, as though
we were the most honored of guests, the Fide of the city.  The
Kohen was untiring in his efforts to please.  He was in the habit
of making presents every time he came to see me, and on each
occasion the present was of a different kind; at one time it was a
new robe of curiously wrought feathers, at another some beautiful 
gem, at another some rare fruit.  He also made incessant efforts to
render my situation pleasant, and was delighted at my rapid
progress in acquiring the language.   

  On the _jom_ following the sacrifice I accompanied Almah as she
went to her daily task, and after it was over I asked when the new
victims would be placed here.  "How long does it take to embalm
them?" I added.   

  Almah looked at me earnestly.  
 
  "They will not bring them here; they will not embalm them," said
she.  
 
  "Why not?" I asked; "what will they do with them?" 
 
  "Do not ask," said she.  "It will pain you to know." 
 
  In spite of repeated solicitation she refused to give me any
satisfaction.  I felt deeply moved at her words and her looks. 
What was it, I wondered, that could give me pain? or what could
there still be that could excite fear in me, who had learned and
seen so much?  I could not imagine.  It was evidently some disposal
of the bodies of the victims--that was plain.  Turning this over in
my mind, with vague conjectures as to Almah's meaning, I left her
and walked along the terrace until I came to the next cavern.  This
had never been open before, and I now entered through curiosity to
see what it might be.  I saw a vast cavern, quite as large as the 
_cheder nebilin_, full of people, who seemed to be engaged in
decorating it.  Hundreds were at work, and they had brought immense
tree-ferns, which were placed on either side in long rows, with
their branches meeting and interlacing at the top.  It looked like
the interior of some great Gothic cathedral at night, and the few
twinkling lights that were scattered here and there made the
shadowy outline just visible to me.  
 
  I asked one of the bystanders what this might be, and he told me
that it was the _Mista Kosek_, which means the "Feast of Darkness,"
from which I gathered that they were about to celebrate the advent
of the dark season with a feast.  From what I knew of their
character this seemed quite intelligible, and there was much beauty
and taste in the arrangements.  All were industrious and orderly,
and each one seemed most eager to assist his neighbor.  Indeed,
there seemed to be a friendly rivalry in this which at times 
amounted to positive violence; for more than once when a man was
seen carrying too large a burden, some one else would insist on
taking it from him.  At first these altercations seemed exactly
like the quarrels of workmen at home, but a closer inspection
showed that it was merely the persistent effort of one to help
another.  
 
  I learned that the feast was to take place as soon as the hall
was decorated, and that it would be attended by a great multitude. 
I felt a great interest in it.  There seemed something of poetic
beauty in this mode of welcoming the advent of a welcome season,
and it served to mitigate the horrible remembrance of that other
celebration, upon which I could not think without a shudder.  I
thought that it would be pleasant to join with them here, and
resolved to ask Almah to come with me, so that she might explain
the meaning of the ceremonies.  Full of this thought, I went to her
and told her my wish.  She looked at me with a face full of
amazement and misery.  In great surprise I questioned her eagerly. 

  "Ask me nothing," said she.  "I will answer nothing; but do not
think of it.  Do not go near it.  Stay in your room till the
fearful repast is over."  

  "Fearful?  How is it fearful?" I asked.  

  "Everything here is fearful," said Almah, with a sigh.  "Every
season it grows worse, and I shall grow at length to hate life and
love death as these people do.  They can never understand us, and
we can never understand them.  Oh, if I could but once more stand
in my own dear native land but for one moment--to see once more the
scenes and the faces that I love so well!  Oh, how different is
this land from mine!  Here all is dark, all is terrible.  There the
people love the light and rejoice in the glorious sun, and when the
dark season comes they wait, and have no other desire than long
day.  There we live under the sky, in the eye of the sun.  We build
our houses, and when the dark season comes we fill them with lamps
that make a blaze like the sun itself." 
 
  "We must try to escape," I said, in a low voice.  
 
  "Escape!" said she.  "That is easy enough.  We might go now; but
where?" 
 
  "Back," said I, "to your own country.  See, the sky is dotted
with stars: I can find my way by them." 
 
  "Yes," said she, "if I could only tell you where to go; but I 
cannot.  My country lies somewhere over the sea, but where, I know
not.  Over the sea there are many lands, and we might reach one
even worse than this." 
 
  "Perhaps," said I, "the Kohen might allow us to go away to your
country, and send us there.  He is most generous and most amiable. 
He seems to spend most of his time in efforts to make us happy. 
There must be many seamen in this nation who know the way.  It
would be worth trying." 
 
  Almah shook her head.  "You do not understand these people," said
she.  "Their ruling passion is the hatred of self, and therefore
they are eager to confer benefits on others.  The only hope of life
that I have for you and for myself is in this, that if they kill us
they will lose their most agreeable occupation.  They value us most
highly, because we take everything that is given us.  You and I now
possess as our own property all this city and all its buildings,
and all the people have made themselves our slaves." 
 
  At this I was utterly bewildered.  
 
  "I don't understand," said I.  
 
  "I suppose not," said Almah; "but you will understand better
after you have been here longer.  At any rate, you can see for
yourself that the ruling passion here is self-denial and the good
of others.  Every one is intent upon this, from the Kohen up to the
most squalid pauper." 
 
  "_Up_ to the most squalid pauper?" said I.  "I do not understand 
you.  You mean _down_ to the most squalid pauper." 

  "No," said Almah; "I mean what I say.  In this country 
the paupers form the most honored and envied class." 
 
  "This is beyond my comprehension," said I.  "But if this is
really so, and if these people pretend to be our slaves, why may we
not order out a galley and go?" 
 
  "Oh, well, with you in your land, if a master were to order his
slaves to cut his throat and poison his children and burn his
house, would the slaves obey?" 
 
  "Certainly not." 
 
  "Well, our slaves here would not--in fact could not--obey a
command that would be shocking to their natures.  They think that
we are in the best of all lands, and my request to be sent home
would be utterly monstrous." 
 
  "I suppose," said I, "they would kill us if we asked them to do
so?" 
 
  "Yes," said Almah; "for they think death the greatest blessing." 
 
  "And if at the point of death we should beg for life, would they
spare us?" 
 
  "Certainly not," said Almah.  "Would you kill a man who asked for
death?  No more would these people spare a man who asked for life."

  All this was so utterly incomprehensible that I could pursue the
subject no further.  I saw, however, that Almah was wretched,
dejected, and suffering greatly from home-sickness.  Gladly would
I have taken her and started off on a desperate flight by sea or
land--gladly would I have dared every peril, although I well knew
what tremendous perils there were; but she would not consent, and
believed the attempt to be useless.  I could only wait, therefore,
and indulge the hope that at last a chance of escape might one 
day come, of which she would be willing to avail herself.  
 
  Almah utterly refused to go to the feast, and entreated me not to
go; but this only served to increase my curiosity, and I determined
to see it for myself, whatever it was.  She had seen it, and why
should not I?  Whatever it might be, my nerves could surely stand
the shock as well as hers.  Besides, I was anxious to know the very
worst; and if there was anything that could surpass in atrocity
what I had already witnessed, it were better that I should not
remain in ignorance of it.  
 
  So at length, leaving Almah, I returned to the hall of the feast. 
I found there a vast multitude, which seemed to comprise the whole
city--men, women, children, all were there.  Long tables were laid
out.  The people were all standing an waiting.  A choir was singing
plaintive strains that sounded like the chant of the sacrifice. 
Those nearest me regarded me with their usual amiable smiles, and
wished to conduct me to some place of honor; but I did not care
about taking part in this feast.  I wished to be a mere spectator,
nothing more.  
 
  I walked past and came to the next cavern.  This seemed to be
quite as large as the other.  There was a crowd of people here
also, and at one end there blazed an enormous fire.  It was a
furnace that seemed to be used for cooking the food of this
banquet, and there was a thick steam rising from an immense
cauldron, while the air was filled with an odor like that of a
kitchen.

  All this I took in at a glance, and at the same instant I saw
something else.  There were several very long tables, which stood
at the sides of the cavern and in the middle, and upon each of
these I saw lying certain things covered over with cloths.  The
shape of these was more than suggestive--it told me all.  It was a
sight of horror--awful, tremendous, unspeakable!  For a moment I
stood motionless staring; then all the cavern seemed to swim around
me.  I reeled, I fell, and sank into nothingness.  
 
  When I revived I was in the lighted grotto, lying on a couch,
with Almah bending over me.  Her face was full of tenderest
anxiety, yet there was also apparent a certain solemn gloom that
well accorded with my own feelings.  As I looked at her she drew a
long breath, and buried her face in her hands.  
 
  After a time my recollection returned, and all came back to me. 
I rose to a sitting posture.  
 
  "Do not rise yet," said Almah, anxiously; "you are weak." 
 
  "No," said I; "I am as strong as ever; but I'm afraid that you
are weaker." 
 
  Almah shuddered.  
 
  "If you had told me exactly what it was, I would not have gone." 
 
  "I could not tell you," said she.  "It is too terrible to name. 
Even the thought is intolerable.  I told you not to go.  Why did
you go?"
 
  She spoke in accents of tender reproach, and there were tears in
her eyes.  
 
  "I did not think of anything so hideous as that," said I.  "I
thought that there might be a sacrifice, but nothing worse." 
 
  I now learned that when I fainted I had been raised most
tenderly, and the Kohen himself came with me as I was  carried
back, and he thought that Almah would be my most agreeable nurse. 
The Kohen was most kind and sympathetic, and all the people vied
with one another in their efforts to assist me--so much so that
there was the greatest confusion.  It was only by Almah's express
entreaty that they retired and left me with her.  
 
  Here was a new phase in the character of this mysterious people. 
Could I ever hope to understand them?  Where other people are cruel
to strangers, or at best indifferent, these are eager in their acts
of kindness; they exhibit the most unbounded hospitality, the most
lavish generosity, the most self-denying care and attention; where
others would be offended at the intrusion of a stranger, and
enraged at his unconquerable disgust, these people had no feeling
save pity, sympathy, and a desire to alleviate his distress.  And
yet--oh, and yet!--oh, thought of horror!--what was this that 
I had seen?  The abhorrent savages in the outer wilderness were
surely of the same race as these.  They too received us kindly,
they too lavished upon us their hospitality, and yet there followed
the horror of that frightful repast.  Here there had been kindness
and generosity and affectionate attention, to be succeeded by deeds
without a name.  Ah me! what an hour that was!  And yet it was as
nothing compared to what lay before me in the future.  
 
  But the subject was one of which I dared not speak--one from
which I had to force my thoughts away.  I took the violin and
played "Lochaber" till Almah wept, and I had to put it away.  Then
I begged her to play or sing.  She brought an instrument like a
lute, and upon this she played some melancholy strains.  
 
  At length the Kohen came in.  His mild, benevolent face never
exhibited more gentle and affectionate sympathy than now.  He
seated himself, and with eyes half closed, as usual, talked much;
and yet, with a native delicacy which always distinguished this
extraordinary man, he made no allusion to the awful _Mista Kosek_. 
For my own part, I could not speak.  I was absent-minded,
overwhelmed with gloom and despair, and at the same time full of
aversion towards him and all his race.  One question, however, I
had to put.  
 
  "Who were the victims of the _Mista Kosek_?" 
 
  "They?" said he, with an agreeable smile.  "Oh, they were the
victims of the sacrifice." 
 
  I sank in my seat, and said no more.  The Kohen then took Almah's
lute, played and sang in a very sweet voice, and at length, with
his usual consideration, seeing that I looked weary, he retired.  



Chapter XIV.  I Learn My Doom
 
Horror is a feeling that cannot last long; human nature is
incapable of supporting it.  Sadness, whether from bereavement, or
disappointment, or misfortune of any kind, may linger on through
life.  In my case, however, the milder and more enduring feeling of
sadness had no sufficient cause for existence.  The sights which I
had seen inspired horror, and horror only.  But when the first rush
of this feeling had passed there came a reaction.  Calmness
followed, and then all the circumstances of my life here conspired
to perpetuate that calm.  For here all on the surface was pleasant
and beautiful; all the people were amiable and courteous and most
generous.  I had light and luxury and amusements.  Around me there
were thousands of faces, all greeting me with cordial affection,
and thousands of hands all ready to perform my slightest wish. 
Above all, there was Almah. Everything combined to make her most
dear to me.  My life had been such that I never before had seen any
one whom I loved; and here Almah was the one congenial associate in
a whole world of aliens: she was beautiful and gentle and
sympathetic, and I loved her dearly, even before I understood what
my feelings were.  One day I learned all, and found that she was
more precious to me than all the world.   

  It was one _jom_ when she did not make her appearance as usual. 
On asking after her I learned that she was ill.  At this
intelligence there came over me a feeling of sickening anxiety and
fear.  Almah ill!  What if it should prove serious?  Could I endure
life here without her sweet companionship?  Of what value was life
without her?  And as I asked myself these questions I learned that
Almah had become dearer to me than life itself, and that in her was
all the sunshine of my existence.  While she was absent, life was 
nothing; all its value, all its light, its flavor, its beauty, were
gone.  I felt utterly crushed.  I forgot all else save her illness,
and all that I had endured seemed as nothing when compared with
this.   

  In the midst of my own anxiety I was surprised to find that the
whole community was most profoundly agitated.  Among all classes
there seemed to be but one thought--her illness.  I could overhear
them talking I could see them wait outside to hear about her.  It
seemed to be the one subject of interest, beside which all others
were forgotten.  The Kohen was absorbed in her case; all the
physicians of the city were more or less engaged in her behalf; and
there came forward as volunteers every woman in the place who had
any knowledge of sick-duties.  I was somewhat perplexed, however, 
at their manner.  They were certainly agitated and intensely
interested, yet not exactly sad.  Indeed, from what I heard it
seemed as though this strange people regarded sickness as rather a
blessing than otherwise.  This, however, did not interfere in the
slightest degree with the most intense interest in her, and the
most assiduous attention.  The Kohen in particular was devoted to
her.  He was absent-minded, silent, and full of care.  On the
whole, I felt more than ever puzzled, and less able than ever to
understand these people.  I loved them, yet loathed them; for the
Kohen I had at once affection and horror.  He looked like an
anxious father, full of tenderest love for a sick child--full also
of delicate sympathy with me; and yet I knew all the time that he
was quite capable of plunging the sacrificial knife in Almah's 
heart and of eating her afterwards.   

  But my own thoughts were all of Almah.  I learned how dear she
was.  With her the brightness of life had passed; without her
existence would be intolerable.  Her sweet voice, her tender and
gracious manner, her soft touch, her tender, affectionate smile,
her mournful yet trustful look--oh, heavens! would all these be
mine no more?  I could not endure the thought.  At first I wandered
about, seeking rest and finding none; and at length I sat in my own
room, and passed the time in listening, in questioning the
attendants, in wondering what I should do if she should be taken
from me.  

  At length on one blessed _jom_, the Kohen came to me with a
bright smile.   

  "Our darling Almah is better," said he.  "Eat, I beseech you. 
She is very dear to all of us, and we have all felt for her and for
you.  But now all danger is past.  The physicians say that she will
soon be well." 
 
  There were tears in his eyes as he spoke.  It may have been
caused by the bright light, but I attributed this to his loving
heart, and I forgot that he was a cannibal.  I took his hands in
mine and pressed them in deep emotion.  He looked at me with a
sweet and gentle smile.   

  "I see it all," said he, in a low voice; "you love her, Atam-or."

  I pressed his hands harder, but said nothing.  Indeed, I could
not trust myself to speak.   

  "I knew it," said he; "it is but natural.  You are both of a
different race from us; you are both much alike, and in full
sympathy with one another.  This draws you together.  When I first
saw you I thought that you would be a fit companion for her
here--that you would lessen her gloom, and that she would be
pleasant to you.  I found out soon that I was right, and I felt
glad, for you at once showed the fullest sympathy with one another. 
Never till you came was Almah happy with us; but since you have
come she has been a different being, and there has been a
joyousness in her manner that I never saw before.  You have made
her forget how to weep; and as for yourself, I hope she has made
your life in this strange land seem less painful, Atam-or." 
 
  At all this I was so full of amazement that I could not say one
word.  
 
  "Pardon me," continued he, "if I have said anything that may seem
like an intrusion upon your secret and most sacred feelings.  I
could not have said it had it not been for the deep affection I
feel for Almah and for you, and for the reason that I am just now
more moved than usual, and have less control over my feelings." 
 
  Saying this, he pressed my hand and left me.  It was not the
custom here to shake hands, but with his usual amiability he had
adopted my custom, and used it as naturally as though he had been
to the manner born.   

  I was encouraged now.  The mild Kohen came often to cheer me.  He
talked much about Almah--about her sweet and gracious disposition,
the love that all felt for her, the deep and intense interest which
her illness had aroused.  In all this he seemed more like a man of
my own race than before, and in his eager desire for her recovery
he failed to exhibit that love for death which was his nature.  So
it seemed: yet this desire for her recovery did not arise out of 
any lack of love for death; its true cause I was to learn
afterwards; and I was to know that if he desired Almah's recovery
now, it was only that she might live long enough to encounter death
in a more terrific form.  But just then all this was unknown, and
I judged him by myself.  

(End of the ninth installment)

(Prepared by Laurence Roberts)
(Proofread by Virginia Conn)