A Far Sunset

THIRTY-SEVEN

He was in a darkened room, lit only by a few flickering oil lamps. A man with a white hood over his face peered at him through narrow eye-slits.

‘Who are you?’ The words came like gun-shot.

‘I am Poul Mer Lo,’ Paul managed to say, ‘a stranger, now and always.’

The man in the white hood stared at him intently. ‘Drink this.’ He held out a small calabash.

Obediently, Paul took the calabash and raised it to his lips. The liquid was like fire—fire that consumed rather than burned.

Something exploded in his head, and then he felt as if he were being dragged down into a maelstrom. And then he felt as if he were floating freely in space.

When he became conscious again, he realized vaguely that he was being supported by two guards.

‘Who are you?’ shouted the man in the white hood.

Paul felt an almost Olympian detachment. The situation was curious, but amusing. For all his aggressiveness, the man in the white hood was definitely dull-witted.

‘I am Poul Mer Lo,’ repeated Paul carefully and with a little difficulty, ‘a stranger, now and always.’

‘Drink this,’ commanded the inquisitor. He held out the calabash.

Once more Paul took it and raised it to his lips. The fire flowed through his body, roaring and all-consuming. His thoughts became tongues of flame. A curtain of flame danced and drifted before his eyes, slowly burning itself away to reveal a great bird, covered in brilliant plumage, with iridescent feathers of blue and red and green and gold.

But the bird did not move. It had no head.

Once more the maelstrom dragged him down. Once more he felt as if he were floating freely in space. This time there were stars. They whirled about him as if he were the still pivot of a turning universe. The stars were whispering, and their message was important, but he could not hear the words. All he could do was to watch the speeding gyrations, the beautiful cosmic merry-go-round, until time itself drowned in the broad black ocean of eternity…

Until he was suddenly aware once more of a darkened room and a few flickering lamps. And a man with a white hood over his face.

The headless bird had disappeared. And yet… and yet he was still aware of its presence.

Who are you?' The words rolled like waves, like thunder.

He did not know what to say, what to do, what to think, what to feel. He did not know what to believe; for identity had been lost and he seemed now to be nothing more than the vaguest thought of a thought.

Who are you?’ The waves crashed on the farther shore. The thunder rolled over a distant land.

And then came answering thunder.

And a voice from far, far away said: ‘There shall come a man among you, who yet has no power and whose power will be absolute. And because no man may wield such power, the man shall be as a king. And because none may live for ever, the king shall be as a god. Each year the king must die that the god may be reborn … Hear, now, the cry of a bird that has never flown … Behold the living god—whose name is Enka Ne!’

He listened to the voice in wonder, feeling the words beat upon him like hammer blows. He listened to the words and submitted to the voice—knowing at last that it was his. He moved, and there was a strange rustling. He looked down at the blue and gold feathers covering his arms.

From somewhere another voice, old and high and thin, uttered a wild bird cry. ‘He is the one! ’

Then the man in the white hood cried: ‘Behold the living god!’ And sank down to prostrate himself at the feet of one who had once been known by the name of Poul Mer Lo.