King Errant Part 19

And doubtless Babar heard the oft told tale of the Muazzim of Kar, and of the minaret of the mosque which the sand can never hide for long; which even in these later days the dry biting winds of the desert lay bare, ever and anon, until the golden final of its blue dome s.h.i.+nes bright as ever over the wide plain.

Perhaps,--being a poet born--he may have tried to put the legend into verse with better success than the following:

The Preacher preached; his words were austere So was his Life. "Oh! sinners, hear!

I oft have warned you--oft and amain, Gentle and stern; yet all in vain.

From off my feet by order of G.o.d Shake I the dust in which I've trod.

I rend my garments, go on my way.

Not for my soul His Judgment Day.

No more I preach, no more will I warn; Wait till the resurrection morn!"

He left the pulpit; garments he rent; Forth from the Lord's own House he went.

"Thou com'st with me," he said as he strode Past the Muazzim. "Thine the road Of Mercy too." The singer bowed, Bit at his lips, then said aloud: "The Grace of G.o.d I cannot gainsay, Fain would I go, fain would I stay, Once more I'd waken sinners to prayer."

Frowning the Priest said "Fool! beware Our G.o.d is Fire! He burns and He rends, Message of Peace, once only sends."

The singer s.h.i.+vered. "So be it, yet Prayers must be called from the minaret.

Yet once again singing must rise Out of the night to dawning skies."

The Preacher spat. "It lies on thy head."

Gripped at his purse; smiled as he fled.

The minaret was slender and high, Blue was its dome; blue like the sky, Its gilded finial shone like a star Over the sinful town of Kar.

The singer climbed its narrowing stair, Stood in his place, then breathed a prayer: "O G.o.d, most great, no atom of sand Slips through Thy Fingers' grip; Thy Hand Heeds not man's worth. Thou fillest his need.

Wake those who sleep, Dear G.o.d I plead!"

No star, no moon, the gloom of the night Making the snow peaks rim with light The purpling sky, the darkening world.

Was it a sand grain sharp that whirled To touch the watcher keen on his cheek?

Waiting so patient until a streak Of cold grey dawn should come to the sky Bringing the time for clamant cry "_Ul-sul-lah-to-khair-un-mun-nun-nu!_ _Sleepers! awake! Prayer time has come to you!_ _Awake! Far better Prayer than Sleep to you!_ _Ul-sul-lah-to-khair-un-mun-nun-nu!_"

The night was silent: that was a gust Wind hot as fire, laden with dust.

The singer wiped salt tears from his eyes-- G.o.d! if the sand-storm should arise, The storm of sand that comes like a pall Gliding soft as snow flakes to fall On good, on bad. "Oh! sleepers awake!

Waken and fly!" His voice could make Small sound against the sound of the storm Whistling the sand grains, "Rise and form In serried order! carry the town!

Bury each fool, knave, sinner, clown, Who sleeps unheeding G.o.d's gracious grace, Mercy is tired. Go! leave no trace Of saint or sinner within this place."

The singer fought for breath as he prayed.

"Lord! give me one more chance," he said.

And lo! the sand-storm faltered away; Still as the grave the city lay.

The singer he sang as never before, Piercing through gateway, wall and door The clamant cry. "Oh! sleepers rise!

Better is prayer than sleep! Be wise!"

Awakened all; they saw and they fled Forth from the town, bewildered Forth from the town, bewildered To seek for refuge far from the sands Out of the wind. But still he stands And still he sings. Perchance there be one Soul in the town who might be won!

The storm fresh-gathered swept on its task, Covered all things with deadly mask Of sand high-piled like waves of the sea Till there was naught save sand to see.

No soul was left; no need for him more!

Downwards he crept. He found the door Was blocked by sand waves! Merciful Heav'n!

Not for his soul was ransom given!

So back he went to the minaret --Stood in the wind, the sandy fret-- Giving the call. It echoes yet O'er wastes of sand when the sun has set.

When s.h.i.+fting winds in gusts and in whirls Part of the dead town's shroud unfurls, When dimly blue the minaret shows Dim as a lamp its finial glows, And soft and low and faint as a sigh Comes to the ear that clamant cry, "_Ul-sul-lah-to-khair-un-mun-nun-nu!_ _Awake! Awake! Prayer time has come to you!_ _Awake! Better Prayer than Sleep to you!_ _Ul-sul-lah-to-khair-un-mun-nun-nu!_"

BOOK II BLOSSOM TIME 1504 TO 1511

CHAPTER I

"Youth asked the lark, 'Why dost thou sing When clouds are darkling?'

Replied the lark, 'Behind the dark The light is sparkling.'

Youth begged the Hours Death not to bring Though clouds were lowering.

Replied the Hours, 'In Heaven's bowers Roses are flowering.'"

"To-day I will shave," said Babar with conviction; and his long, fine fingers felt his rather ragged young beard reflectively.

He was altogether a bit ragged after his long wanderings. But he had come back from them wiser, steadier in mind, still stronger in body.

The record of years of clean, hard living showed in his bright hazel eyes, and the general alertness of his lithe young body.

But he _was_ ragged! The brilliant June suns.h.i.+ne poured down on the sorry encampment set out on the summer pasturage of the high alps of Ilak, and revealed the rents and patches of the two tents which were all that Babar possessed; his own, terribly tattered in its royalty, reserved for his mother's use; a common felt tilt, flexible in its cross-poles, for his own.

And then his followers! Some two hundred in all; mostly on foot with brogues to them: blanket frocks over their shoulders; clubs in their hands. A miserable court, indeed, for a Prince of the Blood Royal!

Yet the sense of Kings.h.i.+p rose stronger than ever in the young mind.

"Yea! I will be shaven!" he said, magisterially, and summoned the court barber. He came running barefoot with a tin basin.

"There should be ceremonials and entertainments," said the Khanum, his mother, plaintively. "Even at my brothers' first shavings there were ever illuminations and feastings, and thou art King; but what will you, here in the wilderness?"

Babar laughed. "One King is as like another King as split peas, when there is lather to his face, motherling; so quick, barber, image me to Sulaiman-the-Wise, or Haroun-ul-Raschid. Lo! I could be Emperor as well as they, were fate but kind."

So, out in the June suns.h.i.+ne, the young man sat while the white lather foamed up into his eyes and made them smart.

"Have a care! slave," he said sharply. "Lo! I shall see things cloudy--and I would fain see clear."

See clear! Aye! that was what he wanted. The past was leaving him--with his beard! He had made up his mind to that. Never again would he quarrel possession of that sweet valley on the extreme limits of the habitable world. He would go farther afield; how far depended--On what? On himself chiefly. So for the present he was on his way to Khorasan, the centre of civilisation.

Ay! Bare feet and blanket frocks were well enough in boyhood; but when a man came to his own there were other Kings.h.i.+ps to be fought for besides those which involved a temporal throne. There was Kings.h.i.+p in thought, Kings.h.i.+p in Art; a dozen or more Kings.h.i.+ps ready to be gripped.

The razor sweeping backwards and forwards, seemed to be shaving away all the disappointments of his past life; he leapt to his feet when the business was over and stretched his strong young arms out as if to embrace the whole world.