E. Hoffmann Price's Fables of Ismeddin MEGAPACK® Read online

  “Now, if I only had music…”

  From the encampment below there came, renewed, the chanting of Landon’s men, and the pulsing of an atabal. But the rhythm was unlike any that Landon had ever heard his men play: a compelling, hypnotic cadence, a throbbing sorcery that rippled up and down his spine in waves of fire and frost, cutting into him like a sword-thrust.

  The girl’s tiny feet seemed to trace the figures of the Bijar rug on which they stepped; her body rippled and swayed; and her silver-white limbs seemed jointless and serpentine.

  Landon noted that where she had spilled that unearthly perfume, there was now a circle of small, quivering, lapping flames; vibrant, incredible flames, bluer than the burning of sulfur.

  She paused in her dance.

  “There are three tablets which you will pry from the base of the altar, saidi. And from the corner of one a piece is broken, so that no man can read the inscription completely. But I will tell you the hidden name of the Infidel’s Daughter, the one secret name of her many names, so that you can call her from across the Border.”

  With her lips to his ear, the girl whispered a word, and twice repeated it.

  “Do not forget, saidi… And this one kiss, this first, shall lead you to seek the hundred that follow.”

  Then, as she resumed her dance, the girl chanted a song of unearthly desires and tormenting delights, of the Hundred and One Kisses with which Sarpanit had caressed Naram-sin, who had been a king in Agade, and who had ruled in Babîl. Landon nodded to the cadence of the muttering drums, dizzied by the flickering swiftness of her feet…

  A wisp of silk was vanishing through the door of the pavilion. A low laugh rippled in from the darkness. The sweetness was vanishing, and the blue flames had died. Landon started, rubbed his eyes, shivered. Then he drew his pistol and with its butt smote the small brazen gong at his side; paused, and struck a second and third time. Haaj Ismeddin appeared before its last vibration had ceased.

  “What of the sentries, Haaji?” demanded Landon, ignoring the old man’s salaam.

  “On their posts, saidi. And awake,” he added; unnecessarily, surely, for it was too early for sentries to sleep on post.

  Together they inspected the sentries, much to the old man’s amazement. And more to his amazement, Landon took an electric torch and closely scrutinized the earth that marked the patrolled boundaries of the encampment. Then, returning to his pavilion, he repeated that same close examination of the surrounding earth.

  Ismeddin held his peace, and refrained from inquiring what the master had lost. One can never tell just what may be lost by one who wanders too long in the desert and among ruins; so that it is not wise to ask questions. Yet it seemed that the master was looking for footprints which he could not find.

  “The earth is very firm here, and a light tread might fail to leave an imprint,” he commented as he finally entered the pavilion.

  “Even so, saidi.”

  “And a stealthy, agile person might indeed have passed vigilant sentries.”

  “Even so, saidi,” agreed Ismeddin.

  Landon smoked in silence until his cigarette seared his fingertips.

  “Where are we going, Haaji?” he snapped.

  The old man stared, perplexed; for that question was out of order. The ritual had already been complied with. But habit asserted itself:

  “Where the will of Allah leads us, in search of we know not what—”

  “Ah, but now we do know, Haaji,” interrupted Landon. “Listen: tomorrow we start northward, into the uttermost limits of Kurdistan, and then still farther north to Djeb el Kafir, on whose crest there is a curious shrine—”

  “No, master, there we will not go,” contradicted Ismeddin.

  “What?”

  “I have spoken. We will not go.”

  “Why not?” questioned Landon, amazed at the old man’s contradiction.

  “It is a place of evil, saidi, where the Infidel’s Daughter dances to the evening star.”

  “What do you know of the Infidel’s Daughter?”

  “Too much. Too much entirely. So that I do not care to learn more. And we will not go.”

  “Haaji!” snapped Landon.

  The old man glanced up and met the relentless, adamantine fire of Landon’s unwavering stare; quivered under that pulsating, merciless will conveyed by the master’s predatory eyes; shivered…shrank…yielded.

  “We will go, Haaji,” came the slow, deliberate voice of the master.

  “Even so, saidi,” conceded the old man, admitting defeat.

  “Yes. I will go, and you with me; for there will be words which I can not speak, and scripts which I can not read, and calculations which I can not make; and in all this you shall serve me. That is all, Haaji.”

  Ismeddin bowed himself from the master’s presence. Once without the pavilion and beyond the view of its interior, he halted, lifted his eyes, searching for some constellation, until his gaze rested on a scintillant, evilly flaming, ruddy star that dominated the southeastern quarter of the heavens.

  “Playmate and brother of the Infidel’s Daughter, may Allah drown your fires in nethermost hell! And you, Infidel’s Daughter, by what right do you walk the earth again? Who called you from Aralû?”

  Then, head bowed, Ismeddin sought his quarters, where he finally cursed and muttered himself into a troubled sleep.

  * * * *

  In the morning the caravan began its march to the north of Kurdistan, bound for the Yuruk Mountains, and beyond, into that wild land of uncertainty that lies south of Trebizond, where strange gods make their homes; where Anaitis is worshiped with curious rites, and where Malik Taûs spreads his painted fan, where Djeb el Kafir towers loftily to an evil eminence, crowned by the seldom-sought shrine of the Infidel’s Daughter.

  Bint el Kafir they called her in the south, on the plain of Babîl, a flickering apparition that beguiled wanderers, and dabbling necromancers who sought to reach across the Border; seduced them from their senses, and led them to their doom with her song of the Hundred and One Strange Kisses, and of the indescribable pleasures and joyous torments she once lavished on Naram-sin of Agade. And thinking on all this, Landon’s men no longer sang to the beating of atabals when they made camp of an evening; desertion thinned the ranks of the caravan to a handful, so that there remained but the faithful few, headed by Landon and the sombre-eyed Haaj Ismeddin, to push on through the passes of the Yuruk Mountains, bribed by the master’s gold, and beaten by his fierce, exultant eye.

  Finally, one evening after the tents had been pitched, Ismeddin entered the master’s pavilion and announced, “We are at the foot of Djeb el Kafir. Just before us, and high above, is the shrine of the Infidel’s Daughter. Behind us is the source of the Tigris; and close at hand is…our doom, saidi. Turn back!”

  Landon in his exultation dispensed with the remainder of the recital; for now that he knew what he sought, the overpowering madness of his knowledge veiled the memory of his years of wandering, so that the uncounted domes of prodigious Atlânaat, the incredible bulk of Angkor, and red walls of holy Marrakesh were as nothing, and less than nothing.

  “Turn back, saidi!”

  “No, Ismeddin,” replied Landon, gently, as one who reproves an erring child. “Have we two ever before turned back? And the doom will be mine, will it not?”

  The next morning Landon, on foot and attended only by Ismeddin, began the ascent of the final peak of Djeb el Kafir. All day long they fought their way up the pathless, perilous sides of the mountain, until at last, shortly before sunset, they attained their goal, and halted before a great, conical mass of black rock that rose out of the thin earth of the crest of Djeb el Kafir. In color and texture and luster it was different from the stones in the vicinity: a black outlaw among the gray natives.

  “The
shrine, saidi. The house of Bint el Kafir. Ages ago it fell from heaven, white, lustrous, dazzling; but the memory of her untold iniquities blackens it.”

  “A meteorite,” thought Landon, recognizing the texture and dark color.

  As they approached, they noted the sculptures in low relief; smooth, polished by the winds of ages, almost obliterated. At the sight of them Ismeddin stroked his beard and muttered; and Landon wondered if after all that conical rock might not be the topmost pinnacle of the palace of Iblis, reaching up and passing the surface of the earth.

  Then, rounding the circumference of the rock, they saw that the sheltered sides were more finely and clearly sculptured. The figures over the low arched entrance were minutely detailed; and the panels at either side were as delicately carved as a cleanly struck medal. A woman of incredible beauty was mounted on a lion, and received the adoration of bearded, kneeling kings. And then there were panels not as easily or explicitly described; tormented and curiously interlaced figures depicting things which, even if allegorical, were grotesque and outlandish beyond all imagining.

  “Let us return, saidi,” urged the old man. “It is not good to look upon such things.” And Ismeddin indicated the unholy sculptures that flanked the doorway of that black, conical shrine that pointed upward like a pudgy, misshapen index finger.

  But instead of replying, Landon drew from his belt a flashlight and entered the low archway, shaking off the restraining hand of Ismeddin. The old darvish, foot on the threshold, about to enter, shrank back. Loyalty to the master had its limits.

  As Ismeddin paced to and fro at the entrance, he noted the indirect glow of the master’s flashlight; heard the tinkle of tiny bells, and the snapping of exceedingly dry wood; heard Landon’s footsteps as he prowled about in that awful shrine; became aware of an overpowering, deathly sweetness, as of all the sandalwood of the Indies and all the roses of Naishapur blended into one compelling fragrance. The old man shuddered and wondered what djinn or afreet would materialize and drive them both stark mad.

  “Christ above! Skin and bones!” came the wide-spaced accents of Landon from within. And an instant later he stumbled out of the shrine, bearing in his hand three clay tablets. In the other he grasped a small kettle-drum, and a glittering object of silver filigree and saw-piercing: a curiously wrought diadem.

  Ismeddin saw that the master’s dark bronze had paled to a sickly yellow; that his hands trembled, and that his lips twitched; not with terror, but rather unbelief, awe, incredulity beyond expression.

  “Skin and bones, Ismeddin,” he repeated, speaking to himself rather than to his companion. “A king lying on a lofty dais. And on his forehead was the print of rouged lips. On his face the look of him who had lived in an instant all the wonders and bliss ever known in the whole mad lifetime of those who eat hasheesh…”

  Ismeddin followed the master’s footsteps down the pathless slope.

  “He seemed asleep… I shook him by the shoulder…my hand met not the substantial form of a man, but a hollow shell, skin and bones…as the shell of an insect, dried in the sun…”

  “You saw that, master?”

  “Even so, Haaji. And she herself was there, but I could not see her.”

  Darkness had fallen. Ismeddin and the master made camp.

  “Saidi, do you know what you saw?”

  “I do, and yet, I do not, quite.”

  “You saw one who sought the Hundred and First Kiss. And found it.” Then, noting the plunder: “What have you there?”

  “Three clay tablets, which you must teach me to read; a drum with a head of serpent’s hide, which I must learn to play; and this diadem, the like of which I have seen only once before.”

  “And where did you see it before?”

  “In my tent on the mound near Koyunjik. Where she danced before me.”

  “Ah!” The old man understood. “Saidi, break the tablets into small pieces; toss the drum into this fire; and drop the diadem into a deep well.”

  “No, Haaji. And to see that you do not do that, sleep, while I stand watch tonight.”

  * * * *

  At noon the next day Landon and Ismeddin rejoined the train at the encampment at the foot of Djeb el Kafir; and then, on the following morning; they started on the return trip to the south, toward the source of the Tigris, and thence eastward, with Syria as their ultimate destination. And in Damascus the caravan disbanded, leaving Landon and Ismeddin in that ancient city to recuperate from the long march.

  “Since you insist, I will read the wedge-shaped characters on those accursed tablets,” Ismeddin finally agreed. “It is the old, forgotten language of the hills, older than that spoken by the infidels who once ruled on the plains of Babîl; a different language, but written in the same letters. Naram-sin of Agade learned it. And summoned her from across the Border. You saw what was left of him. You will surely follow. Forget it.”

  “No, Ismeddin. All these years of adventure have brought me everything but content. So let me track this madness to its finish. I will call her from across the Border. Spell me the first line!”

  “Saidi,” began the old man, many days later, when the tablets had finally been transcribed, “many years have passed since these words were written. In the days of Naram-sin, the proper place from which to call her was near Mosul. And to this day there are legends of the great tower, that ziggurât which he built for her.”

  “But where shall I build?”

  “I can not say, yet. But on a different site. It depends on the positions of the planets, and on celestial configurations. Offhand, I can not say where.”

  “But what difference, Ismeddin?”

  “It is so written. Not only must you pronounce the proper words, and have built the ziggurât, correct in location as well as structure, but also have gone through rites of purification, ending by passing through bit nûri, the bath of fire. And even then she will cross the Border only under certain conditions which you will learn from these tablets,” explained the old man. “And whether the experiment can ever succeed is not assured.” Ismeddin indicated the broken corner of one of the tablets. “Some of the text is missing. Her hidden and secret name is lacking. Without it—”

  “But I know that name!” exulted Landon. “So describe me the ziggurât. We will outbuild Naram-sin.”

  “But how do you know that lost name?”

  “I know what I know. That, of all things, I do know.”

  “What is it, saidi?”

  “You are my teacher, not I, yours. That word was lost so that none could call her before me. It was revealed to me.”

  “Where? In the shrine?”

  “Who can say?” evaded Landon. “So get to work on your calculations.”

  And Landon left the darvish to mutter and fret over the tablets, to compute and predict planetary aspects.

  * * * *

  Day after day Ismeddin labored with his calculations, growing more and more sombre, sullen, and morose; ever seeking to dissuade Landon from his madness. And then, finally, he brightened, apparently resigning himself to the fatal folly of his master.

  “It is solved, saidi,” announced Ismeddin one day. “But it remains to be seen whether you can call her. Time has passed, and the signs of heaven have shifted, so that instead of on the plains of Babîl, you must build the ziggurat in Feringhistan.”

  “That’s a bit indefinite,” protested Landon. “Feringhistan covers a lot of ground. Really now, Ismeddin—”

  “Patience, saidi, patience! I have calculated the exact site of the ziggurât.” Whereupon the old man turned to a mercator’s projection of the world and laid off the latitude and longitude of the calculated point, marking its position with a pin. “There you are, my lord. Now pronounce me the outlandish name of that barbarous corner of Feringhistan.”

  “I suppo
se I ought to bust your jaw after the Feringhi fashion, and then make you spend the rest of the day singing Columbia the Gem of the Ocean.” Then, laughing at Ismeddin’s perplexity, Landon continued. “You’ve picked the United States of America, and that particular state where I spent my younger days… until I left for my health…”

  “Ah! Then perhaps your health would not permit your returning? Anyway, even your great wealth would not be enough to build a ziggurât in that mad land where workmen are paid such prodigious sums for their labor.”

  “It’s been a good many years now, and I’ll chance my health. As to expenses, we have the money to back us. Neither objection holds; and the next boat will take us to my native land—”

  “Native, saidi, but as foreign to you as to me. Go back to Herat, to your own great house where the daughter of Abdulrahman el Durani awaits you. Forget this luminous peril, this alluring apparition. You hasten to meet your doom.”

  “All of which I know and accept; so that I shall seek Sarpanit, the Infidel’s Daughter, and find her, and whatever doom she may bring. Tomorrow we leave for Beirut, and then on the first boat we shall sail for America. And this is the law, Ismeddin; so forget your objections, and serve me as faithfully in Feringhistan as you have in the lands of Islam.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The scaffolding and debris incident to construction had finally been cleared away; the workmen had departed; and now, from the crest of a distant knoll, Landon contemplated the colossal bulk of the tower that rose loftily above the rolling plain. Its first stage of black masonry just topped the tallest trees of the surrounding grove; its successive stages, of diverse colors, ascended in terraces and culminated in a seventh and topmost stage of gleaming white, which from its great height commanded the plain and near-by town: a lordly, monumental work, modeled after, but surpassing, that tower which long ago had been reared from the plain of Babîl to pierce the skies and provide man with a stairway to the abode of the gods.