The Daughter of Brahma by I. A. R. Wylie (to read list txt) 📕

In the second court one central pillar towered above its fellows, and from its summit a flame flickered like a red, twisting tongue, and cast a lurid glare over the dense mass beneath, which moved and swayed as a corn-field sways in a high wind, to the sound of a weird, monotonous music. The wailing tones seemed to rise from the bowels of the earth and swept phantom- , like over the plateau down to the distant jungle which lapped the sides of the mountains in dark, sullen anger.

"Glory to Brahma! Thou art the Veda. Thou art the Truth. Thou art the Supreme Being! Thy face is marvellous. Thou art the face of the world. We offer thee our adoration!"

The loud voice died into silence. David Hurst had stumbled across the intervening space, creeping from pillar to pillar till he reached the entrance of the second court. The shadow of the Gopura hid him. He saw then that the swaying mass was a serried crowd of men and women who knelt before the altar at the base of the central pillar, their faces bowed to the ground, their hands spread out in an attitude of supplication. One figure alone stood upright, a man's figure, clad in some white, priestly garment which accentuated the dignity and power of his bearing. His face was turned away towards the open space at the west, but his voice rang out sonorously above the discordant music.

"Daughter of Brahma, beloved of the gods, thou who hast deigned to revisit thy altars, appear unto us now, who worship thee!"

Then there was silence, intense and oppressive. As though the wind which had swayed them lulled for a moment, the kneeling crowd remained motionless, their heads lifted and turned towards the low-built sanctuary at the end of the court. Hitherto it had been wrapped in shadow, apparently deserted, forgotten; now, as the Brahman raised his hand, the doors were opened and a flood of torch-light poured out into the semi-darkness, struggling with the white moon-rays and throwing distorted reflections on the mighty pillars. The dark, illuminated faces were tense, frozen with expectancy; but still there was no sound, no ripple of movement passed over the serried ranks of worshippers. Then, swiftly, the torch-light was blotted out, lithe, graceful figures glided out into the open space, their hands clasped above their heads, their bodies moving rhythmically to the soft music of the bells which were fastened to their slender limbs. Moonlight, the flame behind and the grey reflection from the high pillar illuminated them, revealing every feature, every line which the clinging draperies betrayed rather than concealed.

The dancers came on, swaying from the ankles, their steps almost imperceptible, till they stood within a few feet of the altar. There they stopped. Their feet seemed rooted to the ground, but their movements grew swifter; there was a suppressed, terrible violence in their gestures which appalled and fascinated. A band of musicians had followed them out of the sanctuary, but they did not play. In silence save for the tinkle of the bells, the Temple Dancers swayed backwards and forwards, their dark faces lifted unsmilingly to the moonlight which flooded down upon them in cold splendour.

David Hurst shivered; but the fear which possessed him was a new thing. Though he trembled, his blood was on fire. He would have turned and fled, but he was held powerless by a mysterious fascination. There was frenzy in the air. It had its fierce source in the expressionless women's faces and in the dark eyes raised to the heavens in sombre, unfathomable contemplation. It passed like an electric current through the kneeling, watching crowd; it hung above them like a fiery spectre, waiting for the moment when it should break out in all its maddening, consuming force. It was the spirit of the Horrible, yet mingled with the Sublime, and no man in that moment could have told whether it were God or the devil who had inspired the fantastic scene before him. It was lovely and hideous, like the faces of the dancing girls, who were not beautiful, but transfigured by that same sinister, smothered passion; it intoxicated the senses and benumbed the mind; the order of things, purity, truth, mercy, were swept into a wild, shoreless sea; all thought, all humanity, were lost.

And the boy watching, suddenly forgot his fear either of the real danger or of himself; the spell held him. He waited as one waited for the final scene in some great drama, for the climax in some stormy symphony, breathless, self-forgetful.

"Daughter of Brahma, bride of Siva, appear unto us. who wait in patience for thee!"

The Temple Dancers divided into two lines and fell back on either side; a wailing note of music broke on the palpitating silence, and suddenly a great cry, which might have come from one throat, burst from the multitude:

"Daughter of Brahma, Sarasvati, hear us!"

They fell forward on their faces and David Hurst crouched against the cold stone wall of the Gopura as though swept back by some wild tide of convulsive emotion; but his eyes never left the torch-lit door of the sanctuary. The flaming entrance was once more blotted out; a shadow, immense and loathsome in its outline, passed out into the moonlight, and advanced slowly towards the altar. A dozen staggering natives bore the idol on their shoulders, but in that moment it was more than a mere brazen image: it was the embodiment of the Horror which hung intangible in the oppressive atmosphere, a living fiend whose hideous features, distorted and animated by the flickering light, grimaced at the distant shadows; and whose ruby eyes, behind which burnt a secret fire, glared, blood-shot and hate-filled, over the heads of the worshippers. The symbolic trident was poised aloft by one mighty arm as though awaiting the moment when it should be plunged into the heart of a quivering victim. Cruelty, Frenzy, Devilment had built themselves a monument to all eternity.

"Hail, Siva, Lord of the Worlds."

It seemed to David that the lips of the idol twisted into a jeering smile, which changed slowly to a straight impassive line of cruel purpose as the bearers placed their burden cautiously on the ground. But still the terrific figure towered above the worshippers, who knelt motionless and silent, and the priest at the altar bowed his head.

"Siva, behold the bride whom the gods give thee!" A deep sigh, rising up from the heart of the earth trembled in the air. A thousand distraught faces were raised in straining expectation. Only the idol remained impassive. And yet in that moment its sinister power wavered. Something had come which changed the course of the seething passions, turning, if only for a little breathing-space, cruelty to pity, horror to an awe-struck wonder.

As the fiendish in that strange scene had taken visible shape, so also the sublime, the beautiful, had arisen in tender majesty and for the moment conquered. It was a child's face which gazed out from the gorgeous, bejewelled palanquin over the bowed heads of the multitude. The moon, now at her zenith, sent a full stream of light on to the exquisite features, set in grave, gentle composure, and lent an additional splendour to the magnificence which bore down the childish shoulders. A shawl, of golden thread, covered in part the dark head, and fell in glittering folds to the waist; emeralds clustered across the forehead, hung from the tiny ears, and weighed down the baby hands clasped sweetly upon her knees. There were blood-red rubies in her girdle and about her neck; the stones sent out a reflection which surrounded her in a fiery halo; but it was not their beauty which held the eye. It was, above all, the face, with its perfect innocence, its ineffable sweetness. The tender mouth seemed to smile, but the eyes were fixed far ahead, and were full of a wondrous wisdom which was not the wisdom of earth. They seemed to linger over the memories of things seen not long before in a sphere whence she had come unconscious of the looming future, of life itself. So might the child Madonna have gazed back into her dreams, upheld by the same dignity, the same divine purity and grace.

David Hurst took an unconscious step forwards. He put his hand to his cheek, and found that it was wet with an emotion which lifted him for ever out of his own childhood. He had seen something more lovely than his mother, more lovely than the hungry pictures of his imagination. The barriers which had surrounded his young life had been broken down, and a new, undiscovered world lay before him, rich in promise. The crushing loneliness was gone; intuitively he recognised a loneliness greater than his own.

"Daughter of Brahma, behold thy consort!"

The full, sonorous voice broke the spell. David Hurst crept back into his hiding-place. The Temple Dancers swayed forward and surrounded the bronze god and the living goddess, who had been placed side by side. Their dance had grown wilder, as though the hideous face that glared upon them had rekindled the smouldering fire of demoniac passion to a blaze; but the child seemed not to see them. The grave eyes still gazed over to the lake, now sinking into shadow, the peaceful smile still hovered about the lovely baby mouth. And suddenly the dance stopped, the wailing music sank to silence. It seemed to David that God and the devil had fought, and that God had again won.

But the pause was short-lived. For priests, bearing in their hands lamps whose four-fold flame added to the uncertain light, advanced and took their stand beside the two raised figures. A brazier had been lighted before the idol, and a sweet smell of incense rose in the heavy, stifling air. The High Priest left his place at the foot of the altar, and, mounting the steps, held in readiness, touched the hand of the god with some golden ornament.

"Siva, thus shalt thou give unto thy bride the sacred tali!"

The blazing, jewelled eyes flashed as the lamps were raised for a moment above the bearers' heads : it seemed a sinister answer had been given. The priest turned and fastened the emblem about the child's neck.

"Sarasvati, the tali is bound about thee as a sign for ever. Daughter of Brahma, behold thy Lord!"

But she did not move; the deep eyes saw nothing of the hideous graven face beside her; the tiny hands lay loosely clasped in an attitude of unprotesting helplessness. And there was a dignity in the surrender which made the piteous mockery of it all less pitiable.

"Daughter of Brahma, receive our sacrifices! Flowers and sweet perfumes bring we unto thee. Saffron and sandalwood, rice and betel, are thine. Hear us when we pray. For we have waited long for thy coming, O Holy One. Evil has been done to thy anointed; the undefiled son of thy priesthood has been defiled, and thy revenge has tarried long. But thy hour cometh, and, when it comes, be strong and strike till the shame be washed out in the blood of thy enemies."

A murmur arose, at first low, but gathering volume as the Temple Dancers advanced, in their raised hands rich clusters of flowers, whose intoxicating perfume mingled with the incense.

"Sarasvati! Sarasvati!"

The murmur became a shout, a triumphant, passionate outcry, in which the note of frenzy sounded louder and more threatening. The kneeling crowd rose, and, like a sea breaking suddenly through a restraining dam, surged and eddied round the two central figures, their dark, distorted faces raised to the god who mocked at them and the child who saw them not. It seemed to the