The Haunting of Low Fennel Read online

  The Curse of a Thousand Kisses

  Introductory

  Saville Grainger will long be remembered by the public as a brilliantjournalist and by his friends as a confirmed misogynist. His distastefor the society of women amounted to a mania, and to Grainger a prettyface was like a red rag to a bull. This was all the more extraordinaryand, for Grainger, more painful, because he was one of the mosthandsome men I ever knew--very dark, with wonderful flashing eyes andthe features of an early Roman--or, as I have since thought, of anaristocratic Oriental; aquiline, clean-cut, and swarthy. At any mixedgathering at which he appeared, women gravitated in his direction asthough he possessed some magnetic attraction for the sex; and Graingerinvariably bolted.

  His extraordinary end--never explained to this day--will be rememberedby some of those who read of it; but so much that affected wholecontinents has occurred in the interval that to the majority of thepublic the circumstances will no longer be familiar. It created aconsiderable stir in Cairo at the time, as was only natural, butwhen the missing man failed to return, the nine days' wonder of hisdisappearance was forgotten in the excitement of some new story oranother.

  Briefly, Grainger, who was recuperating at Mena House after a rathersevere illness in London, went out one evening for a stroll, wearing alight dust-coat over his evening clothes and smoking a cigarette. Heturned in the direction of the Great Pyramid--and never came back. Thatis the story in its bald entirety. No one has ever seen him since--orever reported having seen him.

  If the following story is an elaborate hoax--perpetrated by Graingerhimself, for some obscure reason remaining in hiding, or by another wellacquainted with his handwriting--I do not profess to say. As to how itcame into my possession, that may be told very briefly. Two years afterGrainger's disappearance I was in Cairo, and although I was not stayingat Mena House I sometimes visited friends there. One night as I cameout of the hotel to enter the car which was to drive me back to theContinental, a tall native, dressed in white and so muffled up thatlittle more of his face than two gleaming eyes was visible, handed mea packet--a roll of paper, apparently--saluted me with extraordinaryformality, and departed.

  No one else seemed to have noticed the man, although the chauffeur, ofcourse, was nearly as close to him as I was, and a servant from thehotel had followed me out and down the steps. I stood there in the dusk,staring at the packet in my hand and then after the tall figure--alreadyswallowed up in the shadow of the road. Naturally I assumed that the manhad made some mistake, and holding the package near the lamp of the carI examined it closely.

  It was a roll of some kind of parchment, tied with a fragment of thinstring, and upon the otherwise blank outside page my name was writtenvery distinctly!

  I entered the car, rather dazed by the occurrence, which presentedseveral extraordinary features, and, unfastening the string, beganto read. Then, in real earnest, I thought I must be dreaming. Since Iappend the whole of the manuscript I will make no further reference tothe contents here, but will content myself with mentioning that it waswritten--with dark-brown ink--in Saville Grainger's unmistakable handupon some kind of parchment or papyrus which has defied three differentexperts to whom I have shown it, but which, in short, is of unknownmanufacture. The twine with which it was tied proved to be of finelyplaited reed.

  That part of Grainger's narrative, if the following amazing statementis really the work of Grainger, which deals with events up to the timethat he left Mena House--and the world--I have been able to check. Thedragoman, Hassan Abd-el-Kebir, was still practising his profession atMena House at the time of my visit, and he confirmed the truth ofGrainger's story in regard to the heart of lapis-lazuli, which he hadseen, and the meeting with the old woman in the Muski--of which Graingerhad spoken to him.

  For the rest, the manuscript shall tell Grainger's story.

  THE MANUSCRIPT

  I

  Two years have elapsed since I quitted the world, and the presence inEgypt of a one-time colleague, of which I have been advised, prompts meto put on record these particulars of the strangest, most wonderful, andmost beautiful experience which has ever befallen any man. I do notexpect my story to be believed. The scepticism of the material world ofFleet Street will consume my statement with its devouring fires. But Ido not care. The old itching to make a "story" is upon me. As a "story"let this paper be regarded.

  Where the experience actually began I must leave to each reader to judgefor himself. I, personally, do not profess to know, even now. But thecurtain first arose upon that part of the story which it is my presentpurpose to chronicle one afternoon near the corner of the Streetof the Silversmiths in Cairo. I was wandering in those wonderfulnarrow, winding lanes, unaccompanied, for I am by habit a solitarybeing; and despite my ignorance of the language and customs of thenatives I awakened to the fact that a link of sympathy--of silentunderstanding--seemed to bind me to these busy brown men.

  I had for many years cherished a secret ambition to pay a protractedvisit to Egypt, but the ties of an arduous profession hitherto hadrendered its realisation impossible. Now, a stranger in a strange land,I found myself _at home_. I cannot hope to make evident to my readersthe completeness of this recognition. From Shepheard's, with its throngsof cosmopolitan travellers and its hosts of pretty women, I had earlyfled in dismay to the comparative quiet of Mena House. But the only realhappiness I ever knew--indeed, as I soon began to realise, had everknown--I found among the discordant cries and mingled smells of perfumeand decay in the native city. The desert called to me sweetly, but itwas the people, the shops, the shuttered houses, the noise and thesmells of the Eastern streets which gripped my heart.

  Delightedly I watched the passage of those commercial vehicles, narrowand set high upon monstrous wheels, which convey loads of indescribablevariety along streets no wider than the "hall" of a small suburbanresidence. The Parsees in the Khan Khalil with their carpets andshining silk-ware, the Arab dealers, fierce swarthy tradesmen from thedesert, and the smooth-tongued Cairenes upholding embroidered cloths andgauzy _yashmaks_ to allure the eye--all these I watched with a kind ofgladness that was almost tender, that was unlike any sentiment I hadever experienced toward my fellow-creatures before.

  Mendicants crying the eternal "_Bakshish!_", _Sakhas_ with their skinsof Nile water, and the other hundred and one familiar figures of thequarter filled me with a great and glad contentment.

  I purposely haunted the Muski during the heat of the day because atthat hour it was comparatively free from the presence of Europeans andAmericans. Thus, on the occasion of which I write, coming to the endof the street in which the shops of the principal silversmiths aresituated, I found myself to be the only white man (if I except theGreeks) in the immediate neighbourhood.

  A group of men hurrying out of the street as I approached it firstattracted my attention. They were glancing behind them apprehensivelyas though at a rabid dog. Then came a white-bearded man riding a tinydonkey and also glancing back apprehensively over his shoulder. He allbut collided with me in his blind haste; and, stepping quickly aside toavoid him, I knocked down an old woman who was coming out of the street.

  The man who had been the real cause of the accident rode off at headlongspeed and I found myself left with the poor victim of my clumsinessin a spot which seemed miraculously to have become deserted. If theshopkeepers remained in their shops, they were invisible, and musthave retreated into the darkest corners of the caves in the wall whichconstitute native emporiums. Pedestrians there were none.

  I stooped to the old woman, who lay moaning at my feet ... and as I didso, I shrank. How can I describe the loathing, the repulsion which Iexperienced? Never in the whole of my career had I seen such a hideousface. A ragged black veil which she wore had been torn from its brassfastenings as she fell, and her countenance was revealed in all itsappalling ugliness. Yellow, shrivelled, toothless, it was scarcelyhuman; but, above all, it repelled because of its aspect of _extremeage_. I do not mean that it was like the face of a woman of eight
y;it was like that of a woman who had miraculously survived decease forseveral centuries! It was a witch-face, a deathly face.

  And as I shrank, she opened her eyes, moaning feebly, and groping withclaw-like hands as if darkness surrounded her. Furthermore I saw a newpain, and a keener pain, light up those aged eyes. She had detected myinvoluntary movement of loathing.

  Those who knew me will bear testimony to the fact that I was not anemotional man or one readily impressionable by any kind of human appeal.Therefore they will wonder the more to learn that this pathetic light inthe old woman's eyes changed my revulsion to a poignant sorrow. I hadroughly knocked her from her feet and now hesitated to assist her torise again! Truly, she was scorned and rejected by all. A wave oftenderness, that cannot be described, that could not be resisted, sweptover me. My eyes grew misty and a great remorse claimed me.

  "Poor old soul!" I whispered.

  Stooping, I gently raised the shrivelled, ape-like head, resting itagainst my knee; and, bending down, I kissed the old woman on the brow!

  I record the fact, but even now, looking back upon its happening, andseeking to recapture the cold, solitary Saville Grainger who has leftthe world, I realise the wonder of it. That _I_ should have given reinto such an impulse! That such an impulse should have stirred me! Whichphenomenon was the more remarkable?

  The result of my act--regretted as soon as performed--was singular. Theaged, hideous creature sighed in a manner I can never forget, and anexpression that almost lent comeliness to her features momentarily creptover her face. Then she rose to her feet with difficulty, raised herhands as if blessing me, and muttering something in Arabic wentshuffling along the deserted street, stooping as she walked.

  Apparently the episode had passed unnoticed. Certainly if anyonewitnessed it he was well concealed. But, conscious of a strangeembarrassment, with which were mingled other tumultuous emotions, Iturned out of the Street of the Silversmiths and found myself amid thenormal activities of the quarter again. The memory of the Kiss wasrepugnant, I wanted to wipe my lips--but something seemed to forbid theact; a lingering compassion that was almost a yearning.

  For once in my life I desired to find myself among normal, healthy,moderately brainless Europeans. I longed for the smell of cigar-smoke,for the rattle of the cocktail-maker and the sight of a pretty face. Ihurried to Shepheard's.

  II

  The same night, after dinner, I walked out of Mena House to look forHassan Abd-el-Kebir, the dragoman with whom I had contracted for ajourney, by camel, to Sakhara on the following day. He had promised toattend at half-past eight in order to arrange the time of starting inthe morning, together with some other details.

  I failed to find him, however, among the dragomans and other nativesseated outside the hotel, and to kill time I strolled leisurely down theroad toward the electric-tram terminus. I had taken no more than tenpaces, I suppose, when a tall native, muffled to the tip of his nose inwhite and wearing a white turban, appeared out of the darkness besideme, thrust a small package into my hand, and, touching his brow, hislips and his breast with both hands, bowed and departed. I saw him nomore!

  Standing there in the road, I stared at the little package stupidly. Itconsisted of a piece of fine white silk fastened about some small, hardobject. Evidently, I thought, there had been a mistake. The packagecould not have been intended for me.

  Returning to the hotel, I stood near a lamp and unfastened the silk,which was delicately perfumed. It contained a piece of lapis-lazulicarved in the form of a heart, beautifully mounted in gold and bearingthree Arabic letters, inlaid in some way, also in gold!

  At this singular ornament I stared harder than ever. Certainly themuffled native had made a strange mistake. This was a love-token--andemphatically not for _me_!

  I was standing there lost in wonderment, the heart of lapis-lazuli in mypalm, when the voice of Hassan disturbed my stupor.

  "Ah, my gentleman, I am sorry to be late but----"

  The voice ceased. I looked up.

  "Well?" I said.

  Then I, too, said no more. Hassan Abd-el-Kebir was glaring at theornament in my hand as though I had held, not a very choice example ofnative jewellery, but an adder or a scorpion!

  "What's the matter?" I asked, recovering from my surprise. "Do you knowto whom this amulet belongs?"

  He muttered something in guttural Arabic ere replying to my question.Then:

  "It is the heart of lapis," he said, in a strange voice. "It is theheart of lapis!"

  "So much is evident," I cried, laughing. "But does it alarm you?"

  "Please," he said softly, and held out a brown hand--"I will see."

  I placed the thing in his open palm and he gazed at it as one mightimagine an orchid hunter would gaze at a new species of _Odontoglossum_.

  "What do the figures mean?" I asked.

  "They form the word _alf_," he replied.

  "_Alf?_ Somebody's name!" I said, still laughing.

  "In Arab it mean ten hundred," he whispered.

  "A thousand?"

  "Yes--one thousand."

  "Well?"

  Hassan returned the ornament to me, and his expression was so strangethat I began to grow really annoyed. He was looking at me with amingling of envy and compassion which I found to be quite insufferable.

  "Hassan," I said sternly, "you will tell me all you know about thismatter. One would imagine that you suspected me of stealing the thing!"

  "Ah, no, my gentleman!" he protested earnestly. "But I will tell you,yes, only you will not believe me."

  "Never mind. Tell me."

  Thereupon Hassan Abd-el-Kebir told me the most improbable story to whichI had ever listened. Since to reproduce it in his imperfect English,with my own frequent interjections, would be tedious, I will give it inbrief. Some of the historical details, imperfectly related by Hassan asI learned later, I have corrected.

  In the reign of the Khalif El-Mamun--a son of Harun er-Rashid andbrother of the prototype of Beckford's _Vathek_--one Shawar was Governorof Egypt, and the daughter of the Governor, Scheherazade, was famedthroughout the domains of the Khalif as the most beautiful maiden in theland. Wazirs and princes sought her hand in vain. Her heart was givento a handsome young merchant of Cairo, Ahmad er-Madi, who was also thewealthiest man in the city. Shawar, although an indulgent father, wouldnot hear of such a union, however, but he hesitated to destroy hisdaughter's happiness by forcing her into an unwelcome marriage. Finally,passion conquered reason in the breasts of the lovers and they fled,Scheherazade escaping from the palace of her father by means of arope-ladder smuggled into the _harem_ apartments by a slave whom Ahmad'sgold had tempted, and meeting Ahmad outside the gardens where he waitedwith a fleet horse.

  Even the guard at the city gate had been bought by the wealthy merchant,and the pair succeeded in escaping from Cairo.

  The extensive possessions of Ahmad were confiscated by the enragedfather and a sentence of death was passed upon the absent man--to beinstantly put into execution in the event of his arrest anywhere withinthe domain of the Khalif.

  Exiled in a distant oasis, the Sheikh of which was bound to Ahmad byties of ancient friendship, the prospect which had seemed so alluring toScheherazade became clouded. Recognising this change in her attitude,Ahmad er-Madi racked his brains for some scheme whereby he might recoverhis lost wealth and surround his beautiful wife with the luxury towhich she had been accustomed. In this extremity he had recourse to acertain recluse who resided in a solitary spot in the desert far fromthe haunts of men and who was widely credited with magical powers.

  It was a whole week's journey to the abode of the wizard, and, unknownto Ahmad, during his absence a son of the Khalif, visiting Egypt,chanced to lose his way on a hunting expedition, and came upon thesecret oasis in which Scheherazade was hiding. This prince had been oneof her most persistent suitors.

  The ancient magician consented to receive Ahmad, and the first boonwhich the enamoured young man craved of him was that he might grant hima sight
of Scheherazade. The student of dark arts consented. BiddingAhmad to look into a mirror, he burned the secret perfumes and utteredthe prescribed incantation. At first mistily, and then quite clearly,Ahmad saw Scheherazade, standing in the moonlight beneath a tall palmtree--her lips raised to those of her former suitor!

  At that the world grew black before the eyes of Ahmad. And he, who hadcome a long and arduous journey at the behest of love, now experiencedan equally passionate hatred. Acquainting the magician with what he hadseen, he demanded that he should exercise his art in visiting upon thefalse Scheherazade the most terrible curse that it lay within his powerto invoke!

  The learned man refused; whereupon Ahmad, insane with sorrow and anger,drew his sword and gave the magician choice of compliance or instantdeath. The threat sufficed. The wizard performed a ghastly conjuration,calling down upon Scheherazade the curse of an ugliness beyond that ofhumanity, and which should remain with her not for the ordinary span ofa lifetime but for incalculable years, during which she should continueto live in the flesh, loathed, despised, and shunned of all!

  "Until one thousand compassionate men, unasked and of their own freewill, shall each have bestowed a kiss upon thee," was the exact text ofthe curse. "Then thou shalt regain thy beauty, thy love--and death."

  Ahmad er-Madi staggered out from the cavern, blinded by a hundredemotions--already sick with remorse; and one night's stage on his returnjourney dropped dead from his saddle ... stricken by the malignant willof the awful being whose power he had invoked! I will conclude this wildromance in the words of Hassan, the dragoman, as nearly as I can recallthem.

  "And so," he said, his voice lowered in awe, "Scheherazade, who wasstricken with age and ugliness in the very hour that the curse wasspoken, went out into the world, my gentleman. She begged her way fromplace to place, and as the years passed by accumulated much wealth inthat manner. Finally, it is said, she returned to Cairo, her nativecity, and there remained. To each man who bestowed a kiss upon her--andsuch men were rare--she caused a heart of lapis to be sent, and upon theheart was engraved in gold the number of the kiss! It is said thatthese gifts ensured to those upon whom they were bestowed the certainpossession of their beloved! Once before, when I was a small child,I saw such an amulet, and the number upon it was nine hundred andninety-nine."

  The thing was utterly incredible, of course; merely a picturesqueexample of Eastern imagination; but just to see what effect it wouldhave upon him, I told Hassan about the old woman in the Muski. I had todo so. Frankly, the coincidence was so extraordinary that it worriedme. When I had finished:

  "It was she--Scheherazade," he said fearfully. "And it was the _last_kiss!"

  "What then?" I asked.

  "Nothing, my gentleman. I do not know!"

  III

  Throughout the expedition to Sakhara on the following day I could notfail to note that Hassan was covertly watching me--and his expressionannoyed me intensely. It was that compound of compassion and resignationwhich one might bestow upon a condemned man.

  I charged him with it, but of course he denied any such sentiment.Nevertheless, I knew that he entertained it, and, what was worse, Ibegan, in an uncomfortable degree, to share it with him! I cannot makemyself clearer. But I simply felt the normal world to be slippingfrom under my feet, and, no longer experiencing a desire to clutch atmodernity as I had done after my meeting with the old woman, I foundmyself to be reconciled to my fate!

  To my fate? ... to what fate? I did not know; but I realised, beyondany shade of doubt, that something tremendous, inevitable, and ultimatewas about to happen to me. I caught myself unconsciously raising theheart of lapis-lazuli to my lips! Why I did so I had no idea; I seemedto have lost identity. I no longer knew myself.

  When Hassan parted from me at Mena House that evening he could notdisguise the fact that he regarded the parting as final; yet my planswere made for several weeks ahead. Nor did I quarrel with the man'scurious attitude. _I_ regarded the parting as final, also!

  In a word I was becoming reconciled--to something. It is difficult, allbut impossible, to render such a frame of mind comprehensible, and Ishall not even attempt the task, but leave the events of the night tospeak for themselves.

  After dinner I lighted a cigarette, and avoiding a particularlypersistent and very pretty widow who was waiting to waylay me in thelounge, I came out of the hotel and strolled along in the direction ofthe Pyramid. Once I looked back--bidding a silent farewell to MenaHouse! Then I took out the heart of lapis-lazuli from my pocket andkissed it rapturously--kissed it as I had never kissed any object orany person in the whole course of my life!

  And why I did so I had no idea.

  All who read my story will be prepared to learn that in this placid andapparently feeble frame of mind I slipped from life, from the world. Itwas not so. The modern man, the Saville Grainger once known in FleetStreet, came to life again for one terrible, strenuous moment ... andthen passed out of life for ever.

  Just before I reached the Pyramid, and at a lonely spot in the path--forthis was not a "Sphinx and Pyramid night"--that is to say, the moon wasnot at the full--a tall, muffled native appeared at my elbow. He was thesame man who had brought me the heart of lapis-lazuli, or his double. Istarted.

  He touched me lightly on the arm.

  "Follow," he said--and pointed ahead into the darkness below theplateau.

  I moved off obediently. Then--suddenly, swiftly, came revolt. The modernman within me flared into angry life. I stopped dead, and

  "Who are you? Where are you leading me?" I cried.

  I received no reply.

  A silk scarf was slipped over my head by some one who, silently, musthave been following me, and drawn tight enough to prevent any loudoutcry but not so as to endanger my breathing. I fought like a madman. Iknew, and the knowledge appalled me, that I was fighting for life. Armslike bands of steel grasped me; I was lifted, bound and carried--I knewnot where....

  Placed in some kind of softly padded saddle, or, as I have sincelearned, into a _shibriyeh_ or covered litter on a camel's back, I feltthe animal rise to its ungainly height and move off swiftly. As suddenlyas revolt had flamed up, resignation returned. I was contented. My bondswere unnecessary; my rebellion was ended. I yearned, wildly, for the endof the desert journey! Some one was calling me and all my soul replied.

  For hours, as it seemed, the camel raced ceaselessly on. Absolutesilence reigned about me. Then, in the distance I heard voices, and thegait of the camel changed. Finally the animal stood still. Came a wordof guttural command, and the camel dropped to its knees. Pillowed amonga pile of scented cushions, I experienced no discomfort from thisusually painful operation.

  I was lifted out of my perfumed couch and set upon my feet. Having beenallowed to stand for a while until the effects of remaining so long in aconstrained position had worn off, I was led forward into some extensivebuilding. Marble pavements were beneath my feet, fountains played, andthe air was heavy with burning ambergris.

  I was placed with my back to a pillar and bound there, but not harshly.The bandage about my head was removed. I stared around me.

  A magnificent Eastern apartment met my gaze--a great hall open on oneside to the desert. Out upon the sands I could see a group of men whohad evidently been my captors and my guards. The one who had unfastenedthe silk scarf I could not see, but I heard him moving away behind thepillar to which I was bound.

  Stretched upon a luxurious couch before me was a woman.

  If I were to seek to describe her I should inevitably fail, for herloveliness surpassed everything which I had ever beheld--of which I hadever dreamed. I found myself looking into her eyes, and in their depthsI found all that I had missed in life, and lost all that I had found.

  She smiled, rose, and taking a jewelled dagger from a little tablebeside her, approached me. My heart beat until I felt almost suffocatedas she came near. And when she bent and cut the silken lashing whichbound me, I knew such rapture as I had hitherto counted an invention ofAra
bian poets. I was raised above the joys of common humanity and tastedthe joy of the gods. She placed the dagger in my hand.

  "My life is thine," she said. "Take it."

  And clutching at the silken raiment draping her beautiful bosom, sheinvited me to plunge the blade into her heart!

  The knife dropped, clattering upon the marble pavement. For one instantI hesitated, watching her, devouring her with my eyes; then I swept herto me and pressed upon her sweet lips the thousand and first kiss....

  (NOTE.--The manuscript of Saville Grainger finishes here.)