Red Eve | Page 4

N.B.

RED EVE

MURGH THE DEATH
They knew nothing of it in England or all the Western countries in
those days before Crecy was fought, when the third Edward sat upon
the throne. There was none to tell them of the doom that the East,
whence come light and life, death and the decrees of God, had loosed
upon the world. Not one in a multitude in Europe had ever even heard
of those vast lands of far Cathay peopled with hundreds of millions of
cold- faced yellow men, lands which had grown very old before our
own familiar states and empires were carved out of mountain, of forest,
and of savage-haunted plain. Yet if their eyes had been open so that
they could see, well might they have trembled. King, prince, priest,

merchant, captain, citizen and poor labouring hind, well might they all
have trembled when the East sent forth her gifts!
Look across the world beyond that curtain of thick darkness. Behold! A
vast city of fantastic houses half buried in winter snows and reddened
by the lurid sunset breaking through a saw-toothed canopy of cloud.
Everywhere upon the temple squares and open spaces great fires
burning a strange fuel--the bodies of thousands of mankind. Pestilence
was king of that city, a pestilence hitherto unknown. Innumerable
hordes had died and were dying, yet innumerable hordes remained. All
the patient East bore forth those still shapes that had been theirs to love
or hate, and, their task done, turned to the banks of the mighty river and
watched.

Down the broad street which ran between the fantastic houses advanced
a procession toward the brown, ice-flecked river. First marched a
company of priests clad in black robes, and carrying on poles lanterns
of black paper, lighted, although the sun still shone. Behind marched
another company of priests clad in white robes, and bearing white
lanterns, also lighted. But at these none looked, nor did they listen to
the dirges that they sang, for all eyes were fixed upon him who filled
the centre space and upon his two companions.
The first companion was a lovely woman, jewel-hung, wearing false
flowers in her streaming hair, and beneath her bared breasts a kirtle of
white silk. Life and love embodied in radiance and beauty, she danced
in front, looking about her with alluring eyes, and scattering petals of
dead roses from a basket which she bore. Different was the second
companion, who stalked behind; so thin, so sexless that none could say
if the shape were that of man or woman. Dry, streaming locks of
iron-grey, an ashen countenance, deep-set, hollow eyes, a beetling,
parchment-covered brow; lean shanks half hidden with a rotting rag,
claw-like hands which clutched miserably at the air. Such was its awful
fashion, that of new death in all its terrors.
Between them, touched of neither, went a man, naked save for a red

girdle and a long red cloak that was fastened round his throat and hung
down from his broad shoulders. There was nothing strange about this
man, unless it were perhaps the strength that seemed to flow from him
and the glance of his icy eyes. He was just a burly yellow man, whose
age none could tell, for the hood of the red cloak hid his hair; one who
seemed to be far removed from youth, and yet untouched by time. He
walked on steadily, intently, his face immovable, taking no heed.
Only now and again he turned those long eyes of his upon one of the
multitude who watched him pass crouched upon their knees in solemn
silence, always upon one, whether it were man, woman, or child, with a
glance meant for that one and no other. And ever the one upon whom it
fell rose from the knee, made obeisance, and departed as though filled
with some inspired purpose.
Down to the quay went the black priests, the white priests, and the
red-cloaked man, preceded by rose life, followed by ashen death.
Through the funeral fires they wended, and the lurid sunset shone upon
them all.
To the pillars of this quay was fastened a strange, high-pooped ship
with crimson sails set upon her masts. The white priests and the black
priests formed lines upon either side of the broad gangway of that ship
and bowed as the red-cloaked man walked over it between them quite
alone, for now she with the dead roses and she of the ashen
countenance had fallen back. As the sun sank, standing on the lofty
stern, he cried aloud:
"Here the work is done. Now I, the Eating Fire, I the Messenger, get me
to the West. Among you for a while I cease to burn; yet remember me,
for I shall come again."