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FreeThe King of the World
A. E. (Alfred Edgar) Coppard
Adapt
In the days of King Sennacherib, a young Assyrian captain—valiant and desirable, but more hapless than either—fled into the desert during the strange rout of the armies against Judah. Day by day his company dwindled, until he alone, astride a camel, searched desperately through the boundless sands for the beloved plains of Shinar, sweet with flocks and rich with glittering cities. The desolation of ironic horizons, which he could never hope to pierce, hung hopelessly in remote, unattainable distances, endless as the blue sky. The fate of his comrades had left him with a small pack of figs and wine, but in that uncharted wilderness it was but a pitiful defense against death's final stroke. There was no relief in that empty sky; blue as sapphires it was, but savage with rays that scourged like flaming brass. The earth itself was no less empty, and the loneliness of his days grew ever more bitter.
He was so deeply forgotten by men, so removed from the savor of life, from his lost country, from the men he knew, the women he loved, their temples, their markets, their homes, that it seemed the gods had drawn that sweet and easy world away from his entangled feet.
But at last, one day, he was astonished and cheered by the sight of a black butterfly flickering in the air before him, and towards evening he spied a giant mound lying lonely in the east. He drove his camel toward it, but found only a hill of sand whirled up by strange desert winds. He threw himself from the camel's back and lay miserably in the dust. His grief was extreme, but in time he tended his weary beast and camped in the shadow of the hill. When he gave himself up to sleep, the night covering them was very calm and beautiful, the sky soft and streaming with stars; to his saddened mind it seemed the desert and the deep earth were indeed dead, and life and love lived only in that calm, enduring sky. But at midnight a storm arose with quickening furies that smote the desert to its unseen limits, and the ten thousand stars were flung into oblivion.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-65981d935b71401f975af6966aa5b0e6
# book_title: The King of the World
# chapter_id: 1-the-king-of-the-world
# chapter_title: The King of the World
# book_page: 1 / 7
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
In the days of King Sennacherib, a young Assyrian captain—valiant and desirable, but more hapless than either—fled into the desert during the strange rout of the armies against Judah. Day by day his company dwindled, until he alone, astride a camel, searched desperately through the boundless sands for the beloved plains of Shinar, sweet with flocks and rich with glittering cities. The desolation of ironic horizons, which he could never hope to pierce, hung hopelessly in remote, unattainable distances, endless as the blue sky. The fate of his comrades had left him with a small pack of figs and wine, but in that uncharted wilderness it was but a pitiful defense against death's final stroke. There was no relief in that empty sky; blue as sapphires it was, but savage with rays that scourged like flaming brass. The earth itself was no less empty, and the loneliness of his days grew ever more bitter.
He was so deeply forgotten by men, so removed from the savor of life, from his lost country, from the men he knew, the women he loved, their temples, their markets, their homes, that it seemed the gods had drawn that sweet and easy world away from his entangled feet.
But at last, one day, he was astonished and cheered by the sight of a black butterfly flickering in the air before him, and towards evening he spied a giant mound lying lonely in the east. He drove his camel toward it, but found only a hill of sand whirled up by strange desert winds. He threw himself from the camel's back and lay miserably in the dust. His grief was extreme, but in time he tended his weary beast and camped in the shadow of the hill. When he gave himself up to sleep, the night covering them was very calm and beautiful, the sky soft and streaming with stars; to his saddened mind it seemed the desert and the deep earth were indeed dead, and life and love lived only in that calm, enduring sky. But at midnight a storm arose with quickening furies that smote the desert to its unseen limits, and the ten thousand stars were flung into oblivion.Winds rushed upon him with a passion more bitter than a million waves, a terror greater than hosts of immediate enemies. They grasped him and plunged him into gulfs of darkness, heaped mountains upon him, lashed him with thongs of snakes, and scattered him with scimitars of unspeakable fear. His soul was tossed in the void like a crushed star, and his body beaten into the dust with no breath left to bemoan his fate. Nevertheless, by a miracle, his soul and body lived on.
It was day again when he recovered, a day in the likeness of yesterday, horizons still infinitely far. Long past noon, the sun had turned in the sky; he was alone. The camel was surely buried in the depths from which he himself had escaped, but a surprising wonder greeted his half-blinded eyes: the hill of sand was gone, utterly blown away into the eternal waste, and in its place stood a strange thing—a shrine. There was a great unroofed pavement of onyx and blue jasper, large enough for the floor of a temple, with many life-size figures, both men and women, standing upon it, all carved in rock and facing, at the sacred end, a giant pillared in black basalt, seven times the height of a man. The sad captain knew at once that this was the lost shrine of Namu-Sarkkon, the dead god of whom tradition spoke in the ancient litanies of his country.
He heaved himself painfully from the grave of sand in which he had lain half-buried, and staggering to the pavement, leaned in the shade of one of those figures fronting the dead god. In a little time he recovered, ate some figs from a leather bag at his hip, plucked the sand from his eyes and ears, loosened his sandals and gear. Then he bowed himself for a moment before the black immobile idol, knowing that he would tarry here now until he died.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-65981d935b71401f975af6966aa5b0e6
# book_title: The King of the World
# chapter_id: 1-the-king-of-the-world
# chapter_title: The King of the World
# book_page: 2 / 7
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Winds rushed upon him with a passion more bitter than a million waves, a terror greater than hosts of immediate enemies. They grasped him and plunged him into gulfs of darkness, heaped mountains upon him, lashed him with thongs of snakes, and scattered him with scimitars of unspeakable fear. His soul was tossed in the void like a crushed star, and his body beaten into the dust with no breath left to bemoan his fate. Nevertheless, by a miracle, his soul and body lived on.
It was day again when he recovered, a day in the likeness of yesterday, horizons still infinitely far. Long past noon, the sun had turned in the sky; he was alone. The camel was surely buried in the depths from which he himself had escaped, but a surprising wonder greeted his half-blinded eyes: the hill of sand was gone, utterly blown away into the eternal waste, and in its place stood a strange thing—a shrine. There was a great unroofed pavement of onyx and blue jasper, large enough for the floor of a temple, with many life-size figures, both men and women, standing upon it, all carved in rock and facing, at the sacred end, a giant pillared in black basalt, seven times the height of a man. The sad captain knew at once that this was the lost shrine of Namu-Sarkkon, the dead god of whom tradition spoke in the ancient litanies of his country.
He heaved himself painfully from the grave of sand in which he had lain half-buried, and staggering to the pavement, leaned in the shade of one of those figures fronting the dead god. In a little time he recovered, ate some figs from a leather bag at his hip, plucked the sand from his eyes and ears, loosened his sandals and gear. Then he bowed himself for a moment before the black immobile idol, knowing that he would tarry here now until he died.Namu-Sarkkon, the priestless god, had once been praised above all for his gifts of joy. Worshippers had gathered from the cities of Assyria to this, his only shrine, offering their souls for a gift from him who, in his time and wisdom, granted their desires. But Namu-Sarkkon, like other gods, was a jealous god, and because the hearts of mankind are vain and destined to betrayal, he turned the bodies of his devotees into rock and kept them imprisoned in stone for a hundred years, or for a thousand, according to their desires. Then, if their longing were worthy and just, the rock would become a living fire, the blood of eternity quicken the limbs, and the god release the body full of youth and joy. But what god lives forever? Not Namu-Sarkkon. He grew old and forgetful; his oracle was defamed. Stronger gods supplanted him, until at last all power departed save that of one of his eyes.
That eye still held the favor of eternity, but so faintly that a worshipper, when freed from his trap of stone, might live at longest but a day—some said even but an hour. None could be found to exchange the enduring world for such brief happiness. His worship ceased, Namu-Sarkkon was dead, and the remote shrine, lost to men's hearts, was lost to their eyes. Even the tradition of its time and place became mere fantasy, but the whirlwinds of unnumbered years, sowing sand about the shrine, had left it blameless and unperishable, if impotent.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-65981d935b71401f975af6966aa5b0e6
# book_title: The King of the World
# chapter_id: 1-the-king-of-the-world
# chapter_title: The King of the World
# book_page: 3 / 7
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Namu-Sarkkon, the priestless god, had once been praised above all for his gifts of joy. Worshippers had gathered from the cities of Assyria to this, his only shrine, offering their souls for a gift from him who, in his time and wisdom, granted their desires. But Namu-Sarkkon, like other gods, was a jealous god, and because the hearts of mankind are vain and destined to betrayal, he turned the bodies of his devotees into rock and kept them imprisoned in stone for a hundred years, or for a thousand, according to their desires. Then, if their longing were worthy and just, the rock would become a living fire, the blood of eternity quicken the limbs, and the god release the body full of youth and joy. But what god lives forever? Not Namu-Sarkkon. He grew old and forgetful; his oracle was defamed. Stronger gods supplanted him, until at last all power departed save that of one of his eyes.
That eye still held the favor of eternity, but so faintly that a worshipper, when freed from his trap of stone, might live at longest but a day—some said even but an hour. None could be found to exchange the enduring world for such brief happiness. His worship ceased, Namu-Sarkkon was dead, and the remote shrine, lost to men's hearts, was lost to their eyes. Even the tradition of its time and place became mere fantasy, but the whirlwinds of unnumbered years, sowing sand about the shrine, had left it blameless and unperishable, if impotent.Recalling this, the soldier gazed long at the dead idol. Its smooth, huge bulk, wonderfully carved, was still unblemished and utterly clean of sand. The strange, squat body with the benign face stood on stout legs, one advanced as if about to stride toward the worshipper, and one arm outstretched offering the sacred symbol. Then, in a moment, the Assyrian's heart leaped within him; he had been staring at the mild eyes of the god—surely there was a movement in one of the eyes! He stood erect, trembling, then flung himself prostrate before Namu-Sarkkon, the living god! He lay long, waiting for his doom to eclipse him, the flaming swords of the sun scathing his weary limbs, sweat from his temples dripping in tiny pools beside his eyes. At last he moved, knelt up, and shielding his stricken eyes with one arm, gazed at the god—and then saw clearly a black butterfly resting on the lid of one of Sarkkon's eyes, gently moving its wings.
He grunted in comprehension and relief, rose, and went among the other figures. Close at hand they seemed fashioned of soft material, like camphor or wax, slowly dissolving, leaving them little more than stooks of clay, rough, clod-like shapes of people—all but one figure, which seemed fixed in colored marble, a woman of such wondrous beauty that the Assyrian bowed his head in praise before her, though she was but an image of stone. When he looked again, the black butterfly from the eyelid of the god fluttered between them and settled for a moment on the girl's delicately carved lips, then flew away. Amazedly he watched it return to the idol, then heard a movement and a sigh behind him. He leaped away, muscles tense, fingers outstretched, fear bursting in his eyes. The beautiful figure had moved a step toward him, holding out a caressing hand, calling him by his name, his name!
“Talakku! Talakku!”
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-65981d935b71401f975af6966aa5b0e6
# book_title: The King of the World
# chapter_id: 1-the-king-of-the-world
# chapter_title: The King of the World
# book_page: 4 / 7
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Recalling this, the soldier gazed long at the dead idol. Its smooth, huge bulk, wonderfully carved, was still unblemished and utterly clean of sand. The strange, squat body with the benign face stood on stout legs, one advanced as if about to stride toward the worshipper, and one arm outstretched offering the sacred symbol. Then, in a moment, the Assyrian's heart leaped within him; he had been staring at the mild eyes of the god—surely there was a movement in one of the eyes! He stood erect, trembling, then flung himself prostrate before Namu-Sarkkon, the living god! He lay long, waiting for his doom to eclipse him, the flaming swords of the sun scathing his weary limbs, sweat from his temples dripping in tiny pools beside his eyes. At last he moved, knelt up, and shielding his stricken eyes with one arm, gazed at the god—and then saw clearly a black butterfly resting on the lid of one of Sarkkon's eyes, gently moving its wings.
He grunted in comprehension and relief, rose, and went among the other figures. Close at hand they seemed fashioned of soft material, like camphor or wax, slowly dissolving, leaving them little more than stooks of clay, rough, clod-like shapes of people—all but one figure, which seemed fixed in colored marble, a woman of such wondrous beauty that the Assyrian bowed his head in praise before her, though she was but an image of stone. When he looked again, the black butterfly from the eyelid of the god fluttered between them and settled for a moment on the girl's delicately carved lips, then flew away. Amazedly he watched it return to the idol, then heard a movement and a sigh behind him. He leaped away, muscles tense, fingers outstretched, fear bursting in his eyes. The beautiful figure had moved a step toward him, holding out a caressing hand, calling him by his name, his name!
“Talakku! Talakku!”She stood thus, almost as if turned to stone again, until his fear left him and he saw only her beauty, knew only her living loveliness in a tunic of sacred purple fringed with tinkling discs, clipped at the waist with a golden zone, and veiling, even in stone, her secret hips and knees. Her slender feet were shod in crimson slippers. Green agates strung on silver hung beside her brows from a jeweled fillet that crowned and confined her tightly curled black locks. Buds of amber and coral adorned her dusky wrists, bound with copper threads, and between her brown breasts hung an amulet of beryl, like a blue and gentle star, from a necklace of opal balls linked with amethysts.
“Wonder of god! Who are you?” whispered the warrior, but she ran past him, sweet as an antelope, to the dark god. He heard the clicking of her beads and gems as she knelt in reverence, kissing the huge stone feet of Sarkkon. He dared not approach her, though her presence filled him with rapture; he watched her bow at the shrine and saw that one of her crimson slippers had slipped from her heel. What was she—girl or goddess, phantom, spirit of the stone, or some desert lunatic? Whatever she was, it was marvelous, and the marvel shocked him; time seemed to seethe in every vein. He heard her call his name again, as if from far away.
“Talakku!”
He hastened to lift her from the pavement, and conquering his tremors, grasped and lifted her roughly, as a victor might seize a captive.
“Pretty antelope, who are you?”
She turned her eyes slowly upon his—this was no captive, no phantom—and his brave arms fell back weakly to his sides.
“You will not know me, O brave Assyrian captain,” she said gravely. “I was a weaver in the city of Eridu...”
“Eridu!” It was an ancient city, known only in the old poems of his country, as fabulous as snow in Canaan.
“Ai... it is long since riven to dust. I was a slave in Eridu, not... not a slave in spirit...”
“Beauty so rare is nobility enough,” he said shyly.
“I worshipped Namu-Sarkkon—behold his shrine. Whoever loves him becomes what he wishes to become, gains what he wishes to gain.”
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-65981d935b71401f975af6966aa5b0e6
# book_title: The King of the World
# chapter_id: 1-the-king-of-the-world
# chapter_title: The King of the World
# book_page: 5 / 7
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
She stood thus, almost as if turned to stone again, until his fear left him and he saw only her beauty, knew only her living loveliness in a tunic of sacred purple fringed with tinkling discs, clipped at the waist with a golden zone, and veiling, even in stone, her secret hips and knees. Her slender feet were shod in crimson slippers. Green agates strung on silver hung beside her brows from a jeweled fillet that crowned and confined her tightly curled black locks. Buds of amber and coral adorned her dusky wrists, bound with copper threads, and between her brown breasts hung an amulet of beryl, like a blue and gentle star, from a necklace of opal balls linked with amethysts.
“Wonder of god! Who are you?” whispered the warrior, but she ran past him, sweet as an antelope, to the dark god. He heard the clicking of her beads and gems as she knelt in reverence, kissing the huge stone feet of Sarkkon. He dared not approach her, though her presence filled him with rapture; he watched her bow at the shrine and saw that one of her crimson slippers had slipped from her heel. What was she—girl or goddess, phantom, spirit of the stone, or some desert lunatic? Whatever she was, it was marvelous, and the marvel shocked him; time seemed to seethe in every vein. He heard her call his name again, as if from far away.
“Talakku!”
He hastened to lift her from the pavement, and conquering his tremors, grasped and lifted her roughly, as a victor might seize a captive.
“Pretty antelope, who are you?”
She turned her eyes slowly upon his—this was no captive, no phantom—and his brave arms fell back weakly to his sides.
“You will not know me, O brave Assyrian captain,” she said gravely. “I was a weaver in the city of Eridu...”
“Eridu!” It was an ancient city, known only in the old poems of his country, as fabulous as snow in Canaan.
“Ai... it is long since riven to dust. I was a slave in Eridu, not... not a slave in spirit...”
“Beauty so rare is nobility enough,” he said shyly.
“I worshipped Namu-Sarkkon—behold his shrine. Whoever loves him becomes what he wishes to become, gains what he wishes to gain.”“I have heard of these things,” exclaimed the Assyrian. “What did you gain? What did you wish to become?”
“I worshipped here, desiring in my heart to be loved by the King of the World.”
“Who is he?”
She cast her proud glances to the ground before him.
“Who was this King of the World?”
Still she made no reply, nor lifted her eyes.
“Who are these figures that stand with us here?” he asked.
“Dead, all dead,” she sighed. “Their destinies have closed. Only I renew the destiny.”
She took his hand and led him among the wasting images.
“Merchants and poets, dead; princesses and slaves, dead; soldiers and kings—they look upon us with eyes of dust. Dead, all dead. I alone of Sarkkon's worshippers live on enduringly; I desired only love. I feed my spirit with new desire. I am the beam of his eye.”
“Come,” said the Assyrian suddenly. “I will carry you to Shinar; set but my foot on that lost track... will you?”
She shook her head gravely. “All roads lead to Sarkkon.”
“Why do we tarry here? Come.”
“Talakku, there is no way hence—no way for you, no way for me. We have wandered into the boundless. What star returns from the sky, what drop from the deep?”
Talakku looked at her with wonder, until the longing in his heart lightened the shadow of his doom.
“Tell me what I must do,” he said.
She turned her eyes toward the dark god. “He knows,” she cried, seizing his hands and drawing him toward the idol. “Come, Talakku.”
“No, no!” he said in awe. “I cannot worship there. Who can deny the gods of his home and escape vengeance? In Shinar, beloved land, not one bee goes unhived, nor a bird without a bower. Shall I cast off my allegiance at every gust of the desert?”
For a moment anguish appeared in her eyes.
“But if you will not leave this place,” he continued gently, “suffer me to stay.”
“Talakku, in a while I must sink again into the stone.”
“By all the gods, I will keep you till I die,” he said. “One day at least I will walk in Paradise.”
“Talakku, not a day, not an hour; moments, moments only, there are but moments now.”
“Then I am but dead,” he cried, “for in that stone your sleeping heart will never dream of me.”
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-65981d935b71401f975af6966aa5b0e6
# book_title: The King of the World
# chapter_id: 1-the-king-of-the-world
# chapter_title: The King of the World
# book_page: 6 / 7
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
“I have heard of these things,” exclaimed the Assyrian. “What did you gain? What did you wish to become?”
“I worshipped here, desiring in my heart to be loved by the King of the World.”
“Who is he?”
She cast her proud glances to the ground before him.
“Who was this King of the World?”
Still she made no reply, nor lifted her eyes.
“Who are these figures that stand with us here?” he asked.
“Dead, all dead,” she sighed. “Their destinies have closed. Only I renew the destiny.”
She took his hand and led him among the wasting images.
“Merchants and poets, dead; princesses and slaves, dead; soldiers and kings—they look upon us with eyes of dust. Dead, all dead. I alone of Sarkkon's worshippers live on enduringly; I desired only love. I feed my spirit with new desire. I am the beam of his eye.”
“Come,” said the Assyrian suddenly. “I will carry you to Shinar; set but my foot on that lost track... will you?”
She shook her head gravely. “All roads lead to Sarkkon.”
“Why do we tarry here? Come.”
“Talakku, there is no way hence—no way for you, no way for me. We have wandered into the boundless. What star returns from the sky, what drop from the deep?”
Talakku looked at her with wonder, until the longing in his heart lightened the shadow of his doom.
“Tell me what I must do,” he said.
She turned her eyes toward the dark god. “He knows,” she cried, seizing his hands and drawing him toward the idol. “Come, Talakku.”
“No, no!” he said in awe. “I cannot worship there. Who can deny the gods of his home and escape vengeance? In Shinar, beloved land, not one bee goes unhived, nor a bird without a bower. Shall I cast off my allegiance at every gust of the desert?”
For a moment anguish appeared in her eyes.
“But if you will not leave this place,” he continued gently, “suffer me to stay.”
“Talakku, in a while I must sink again into the stone.”
“By all the gods, I will keep you till I die,” he said. “One day at least I will walk in Paradise.”
“Talakku, not a day, not an hour; moments, moments only, there are but moments now.”
“Then I am but dead,” he cried, “for in that stone your sleeping heart will never dream of me.”“Oh, you whip me with rods of lilies. Quick, Talakku.” He knew from her urgent voice the hope with which she wooed him. Alas for the Assyrian, he was but a man whose dying lips are slaked with wise honey. He embraced her as in a dream under the knees of towering Sarkkon. Her kisses, wrapped in the delicate veils of love—not the harsh, brief glister of passion—were more soothing than a thousand songs of lost Shinar, but time's swift sweetness pursued them. Her fleeting life had flown like a rushing star, swift and delightful but doomed. From the heel of the god, a beetle of green lustre began to creep toward them.
“Farewell, Talakku,” cried the girl. She stood again in her place before Namu-Sarkkon. “Have no fear, Talakku, prince of my heart. I will lock up in your breast all my soft, unsundering years. Like the bird of fire, they will surely spring again.”
He waited, speechless, beside her, and suddenly her limbs hardened into stone once more. At the touch of his awestruck fingers, her breast burned with the heat of the sun instead of the wooing blood. Then the vast silence of the world returned upon him; he looked in trembling loneliness at the stark sky, the unending desert, and the black god whose eye seemed to flicker balefully. Talakku turned to the lovely girl, but amazement gathered in his veins. No longer stood her figure there—in its place he beheld only a stone image of himself.
“This is the hour, O beauteous one!” murmured the Assyrian, and turning again toward the giant, he knelt in humility. His body wavered, faltered, suddenly stiffened, and then dissolved into a little heap of sand.
The same wind that had uncovered Namu-Sarkkon and his shrine, returning again at evening, covered anew the idol and its figures, and the dust of the Assyrian captain became part of the desert forevermore.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-65981d935b71401f975af6966aa5b0e6
# book_title: The King of the World
# chapter_id: 1-the-king-of-the-world
# chapter_title: The King of the World
# book_page: 7 / 7
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
“Oh, you whip me with rods of lilies. Quick, Talakku.” He knew from her urgent voice the hope with which she wooed him. Alas for the Assyrian, he was but a man whose dying lips are slaked with wise honey. He embraced her as in a dream under the knees of towering Sarkkon. Her kisses, wrapped in the delicate veils of love—not the harsh, brief glister of passion—were more soothing than a thousand songs of lost Shinar, but time's swift sweetness pursued them. Her fleeting life had flown like a rushing star, swift and delightful but doomed. From the heel of the god, a beetle of green lustre began to creep toward them.
“Farewell, Talakku,” cried the girl. She stood again in her place before Namu-Sarkkon. “Have no fear, Talakku, prince of my heart. I will lock up in your breast all my soft, unsundering years. Like the bird of fire, they will surely spring again.”
He waited, speechless, beside her, and suddenly her limbs hardened into stone once more. At the touch of his awestruck fingers, her breast burned with the heat of the sun instead of the wooing blood. Then the vast silence of the world returned upon him; he looked in trembling loneliness at the stark sky, the unending desert, and the black god whose eye seemed to flicker balefully. Talakku turned to the lovely girl, but amazement gathered in his veins. No longer stood her figure there—in its place he beheld only a stone image of himself.
“This is the hour, O beauteous one!” murmured the Assyrian, and turning again toward the giant, he knelt in humility. His body wavered, faltered, suddenly stiffened, and then dissolved into a little heap of sand.
The same wind that had uncovered Namu-Sarkkon and his shrine, returning again at evening, covered anew the idol and its figures, and the dust of the Assyrian captain became part of the desert forevermore.
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