Tara of Helium rose from the
pile of silks and soft furs upon which she had been reclining,
stretched her lithe body languidly, and crossed toward the center
of the room, where, above a large table, a bronze disc depended
from the low ceiling. Her carriage was that of health and physical
perfection-the effortless harmony of faultless coordination. A
scarf of silken gossamer crossing over one shoulder was wrapped
about her body; her black hair was piled high upon her head. With a
wooden stick she tapped upon the bronze disc, lightly, and
presently the summons was answered by a slave girl, who entered,
smiling, to be greeted similarly by her mistress.
"Are my father's guests arriving?" asked the princess.
"Yes, Tara of Helium, they come," replied the slave. "I have
seen Kantos Kan, Overlord of the Navy, and Prince Soran of Ptarth,
and Djor Kantos, son of Kantos Kan," she shot a roguish glance at
her mistress as she mentioned Djor Kantos' name, "and-oh, there
were others, many have come."
"The bath, then, Uthia," said her mistress. "And why, Uthia,"
she added, "do you look thus and smile when you mention the name of
Djor Kantos?"
The slave girl laughed gaily. "It is so plain to all that he
worships you," she replied.
"It is not plain to me," said Tara of Helium. "He is the friend
of my brother, Carthoris, and so he is here much; but not to see
me. It is his friendship for Carthoris that brings him thus often
to the palace of my father."
"But Carthoris is hunting in the north with Talu, Jeddak of
Okar," Uthia reminded her.
"My bath, Uthia!" cried Tara of Helium. "That tongue of yours
will bring you to some misadventure yet."
"The bath is ready, Tara of Helium," the girl responded, her
eyes still twinkling with merriment, for she well knew that in the
heart of her mistress was no anger that could displace the love of
the princess for her slave. Preceding the daughter of The Warlord
she opened the door of an adjoining room where lay the bath-a
gleaming pool of scented water in a marble basin. Golden stanchions
supported a chain of gold encircling it and leading down into the
water on either side of marble steps. A glass dome let in the
sun-light, which flooded the interior, glancing from the polished
white of the marble walls and the procession of bathers and fishes,
which, in conventional design, were inlaid with gold in a broad
band that circled the room.
Tara of Helium removed the scarf from about her and handed it to
the slave. Slowly she descended the steps to the water, the
temperature of which she tested with a symmetrical foot, undeformed
by tight shoes and high heels-a lovely foot, as God intended that
feet should be and seldom are. Finding the water to her liking, the
girl swam leisurely to and fro about the pool. With the silken ease
of the seal she swam, now at the surface, now below, her smooth
muscles rolling softly beneath her clear skin-a wordless song of
health and happiness and grace. Presently she emerged and gave
herself into the hands of the slave girl, who rubbed the body of
her mistress with a sweet smelling semi-liquid substance contained
in a golden urn, until the glowing skin was covered with a foamy
lather, then a quick plunge into the pool, a drying with soft
towels, and the bath was over. Typical of the life of the princess
was the simple elegance of her bath-no retinue of useless slaves,
no pomp, no idle waste of precious moments. In another half hour
her hair was dried and built into the strange, but becoming,
coiffure of her station; her leathern trappings, encrusted with
gold and jewels, had been adjusted to her figure and she was ready
to mingle with the guests that had been bidden to the midday
function at the palace of The Warlord.
As she left her apartments to make her way to the gardens where
the guests were congregating, two warriors, the insignia of the
House of the Prince of Helium upon their harness, followed a few
paces behind her, grim reminders that the assassin's blade may
never be ignored upon Barsoom, where, in a measure, it
counterbalances the great natural span of human life, which is
estimated at not less than a thousand years.
As they neared the entrance to the garden another woman,
similarly guarded, approached them from another quarter of the
great palace. As she neared them Tara of Helium turned toward her
with a smile and a happy greeting, while her guards knelt with
bowed heads in willing and voluntary adoration of the beloved of
Helium. Thus always, solely at the command of their own hearts, did
the warriors of Helium greet Dejah Thoris, whose deathless beauty
had more than once brought them to bloody warfare with other
nations of Barsoom. So great was the love of the people of Helium
for the mate of John Carter it amounted practically to worship, as
though she were indeed the goddess that she looked.
The mother and daughter exchanged the gentle, Barsoomian, "kaor"
of greeting and kissed. Then together they entered the gardens
where the guests were. A huge warrior drew his short-sword and
struck his metal shield with the flat of it, the brazen sound
ringing out above the laughter and the speech.
"The Princess comes!" he cried. "Dejah Thoris! The Princess
comes! Tara of Helium!" Thus always is royalty announced. The
guests arose; the two women inclined their heads; the guards fell
back upon either side of the entrance-way; a number of nobles
advanced to pay their respects; the laughing and the talking were
resumed and Dejah Thoris and her daughter moved simply and
naturally among their guests, no suggestion of differing rank
apparent in the bearing of any who were there, though there was
more than a single Jeddak and many common warriors whose only title
lay in brave deeds, or noble patriotism. Thus it is upon Mars where
men are judged upon their own merits rather than upon those of
their grandsires, even though pride of lineage be great.
Tara of Helium let her slow gaze wander among the throng of
guests until presently it halted upon one she sought. Was the faint
shadow of a frown that crossed her brow an indication of
displeasure at the sight that met her eyes, or did the brilliant
rays of the noonday sun distress her? Who may say! She had been
reared to believe that one day she should wed Djor Kantos, son of
her father's best friend. It had been the dearest wish of Kantos
Kan and The Warlord that this should be, and Tara of Helium had
accepted it as a matter of all but accomplished fact. Djor Kantos
had seemed to accept the matter in the same way. They had spoken of
it casually as something that would, as a matter of course, take
place in the indefinite future, as, for instance, his promotion in
the navy, in which he was now a padwar; or the set functions of the
court of her grandfather, Tardos Mors, Jeddak of Helium; or Death.
They had never spoken of love and that had puzzled Tara of Helium
upon the rare occasions she gave it thought, for she knew that
people who were to wed were usually much occupied with the matter
of love and she had all of a woman's curiosity-she wondered what
love was like. She was very fond of Djor Kantos and she knew that
he was very fond of her. They liked to be together, for they liked
the same things and the same people and the same books and their
dancing was a joy, not only to themselves but to those who watched
them. She could not imagine wanting to marry anyone other than Djor
Kantos.
So perhaps it was only the sun that made her brows contract just
the tiniest bit at the same instant that she discovered Djor Kantos
sitting in earnest conversation with Olvia Marthis, daughter of the
Jed of Hastor. It was Djor Kantos' duty immediately to pay his
respects to Dejah Thoris and Tara of Helium; but he did not do so
and presently the daughter of The Warlord frowned indeed. She
looked long at Olvia Marthis, and though she had seen her many
times before and knew her well, she looked at her today through new
eyes that saw, apparently for the first time, that the girl from
Hastor was noticeably beautiful even among those other beautiful
women of Helium. Tara of Helium was disturbed. She attempted to
analyze her emotions; but found it difficult. Olvia Marthis was her
friend-she was very fond of her and she felt no anger toward her.
Was she angry with Djor Kantos? No, she finally decided that she
was not. It was merely surprise, then, that she felt-surprise that
Djor Kantos could be more interested in another than in herself.
She was about to cross the garden and join them when she heard her
father's voice directly behind her.
"Tara of Helium!" he called, and she turned to see him
approaching with a strange warrior whose harness and metal bore
devices with which she was unfamiliar. Even among the gorgeous
trappings of the men of Helium and the visitors from distant
empires those of the stranger were remarkable for their barbaric
splendor. The leather of his harness was completely hidden beneath
ornaments of platinum thickly set with brilliant diamonds, as were
the scabbards of his swords and the ornate holster that held his
long, Martian pistol. Moving through the sunlit garden at the side
of the great Warlord, the scintillant rays of his countless gems
enveloping him as in an aureole of light imparted to his noble
figure a suggestion of godliness.
"Tara of Helium, I bring you Gahan, Jed of Gathol," said John
Carter, after the simple Barsoomian custom of presentation.
"Kaor! Gahan, Jed of Gathol," returned Tara of Helium.
"My sword is at your feet, Tara of Helium," said the young
chieftain.
The Warlord left them and the two seated themselves upon an
ersite bench beneath a spreading sorapus tree.
"Far Gathol," mused the girl. "Ever in my mind has it been
connected with mystery and romance and the half-forgotten lore of
the ancients. I cannot think of Gathol as existing today, possibly
because I have never before seen a Gatholian."
"And perhaps too because of the great distance that separates
Helium and Gathol, as well as the comparative insignificance of my
little free city, which might easily be lost in one corner of
mighty Helium," added Gahan. "But what we lack in power we make up
in pride," he continued, laughing. "We believe ours the oldest
inhabited city upon Barsoom. It is one of the few that has retained
its freedom, and this despite the fact that its ancient diamond
mines are the richest known and, unlike practically all the other
fields, are today apparently as inexhaustible as ever."
"Tell me of Gathol," urged the girl. "The very thought fills me
with interest," nor was it likely that the handsome face of the
young jed detracted anything from the glamour of far Gathol.
Nor did Gahan seem displeased with the excuse for further
monopolizing the society of his fair companion. His eyes seemed
chained to her exquisite features, from which they moved no further
than to a rounded breast, part hid beneath its jeweled covering, a
naked shoulder or the symmetry of a perfect arm, resplendent in
bracelets of barbaric magnificence.
"Your ancient history has doubtless told you that Gathol was
built upon an island in Throxeus, mightiest of the five oceans of
old Barsoom. As the ocean receded Gathol crept down the sides of
the mountain, the summit of which was the island upon which she had
been built, until today she covers the slopes from summit to base,
while the bowels of the great hill are honeycombed with the
galleries of her mines. Entirely surrounding us is a great salt
marsh, which protects us from invasion by land, while the rugged
and ofttimes vertical topography of our mountain renders the
landing of hostile airships a precarious undertaking."
"That, and your brave warriors?" suggested the girl.
Gahan smiled. "We do not speak of that except to enemies," he
said, "and then with tongues of steel rather than of flesh."
"But what practice in the art of war has a people which nature
has thus protected from attack?" asked Tara of Helium, who had
liked the young jed's answer to her previous question, but yet in
whose mind persisted a vague conviction of the possible effeminacy
of her companion, induced, doubtless, by the magnificence of his
trappings and weapons which carried a suggestion of splendid show
rather than grim utility.
"Our natural barriers, while they have doubtless saved us from
defeat on countless occasions, have not by any means rendered us
immune from attack," he explained, "for so great is the wealth of
Gathol's diamond treasury that there yet may be found those who
will risk almost certain defeat in an effort to loot our
unconquered city; so thus we find occasional practice in the
exercise of arms; but there is more to Gathol than the mountain
city. My country extends from Polodona (Equator) north ten karads
and from the tenth karad west of Horz to the twentieth west,
including thus a million square haads, the greater proportion of
which is fine grazing land where run our great herds of thoats and
zitidars.
"Surrounded as we are by predatory enemies our herdsmen must
indeed be warriors or we should have no herds, and you may be
assured they get plenty of fighting. Then there is our constant
need of workers in the mines. The Gatholians consider themselves a
race of warriors and as such prefer not to labor in the mines. The
law is, however, that each male Gatholian shall give an hour a day
in labor to the government. That is practically the only tax that
is levied upon them. They prefer however, to furnish a substitute
to perform this labor, and as our own people will not hire out for
labor in the mines it has been necessary to obtain slaves, and I do
not need to tell you that slaves are not won without fighting. We
sell these slaves in the public market, the proceeds going, half
and half, to the government and the warriors who bring them in. The
purchasers are credited with the amount of labor performed by their
particular slaves. At the end of a year a good slave will have
performed the labor tax of his master for six years, and if slaves
are plentiful he is freed and permitted to return to his own
people."
"You fight in platinum and diamonds?" asked Tara, indicating his
gorgeous trappings with a quizzical smile.
Gahan laughed. "We are a vain people," he admitted,
good-naturedly, "and it is possible that we place too much value on
personal appearances. We vie with one another in the splendor of
our accoutrements when trapped for the observance of the lighter
duties of life, though when we take the field our leather is the
plainest I ever have seen worn by fighting men of Barsoom. We pride
ourselves, too, upon our physical beauty, and especially upon the
beauty of our women. May I dare to say, Tara of Helium, that I am
hoping for the day when you will visit Gathol that my people may
see one who is really beautiful?"
"The women of Helium are taught to frown with displeasure upon
the tongue of the flatterer," rejoined the girl, but Gahan, Jed of
Gathol, observed that she smiled as she said it.
A bugle sounded, clear and sweet, above the laughter and the
talk. "The Dance of Barsoom!" exclaimed the young warrior. "I claim
you for it, Tara of Helium."
The girl glanced in the direction of the bench where she had
last seen Djor Kantos. He was not in sight. She inclined her head
in assent to the claim of the Gatholian. Slaves were passing among
the guests, distributing small musical instruments of a single
string. Upon each instrument were characters which indicated the
pitch and length of its tone. The instruments were of skeel, the
string of gut, and were shaped to fit the left forearm of the
dancer, to which it was strapped. There was also a ring wound with
gut which was worn between the first and second joints of the index
finger of the right hand and which, when passed over the string of
the instrument, elicited the single note required of the
dancer.
The guests had risen and were slowly making their way toward the
expanse of scarlet sward at the south end of the gardens where the
dance was to be held, when Djor Kantos came hurriedly toward Tara
of Helium. "I claim-" he exclaimed as he neared her; but she
interrupted him with a gesture.
"You are too late, Djor Kantos," she cried in mock anger. "No
laggard may claim Tara of Helium; but haste now lest thou lose also
Olvia Marthis, whom I have never seen wait long to be claimed for
this or any other dance."
"I have already lost her," admitted Djor Kantos ruefully.
"And you mean to say that you came for Tara of Helium only after
having lost Olvia Marthis?" demanded the girl, still simulating
displeasure.
"Oh, Tara of Helium, you know better than that," insisted the
young man. "Was it not natural that I should assume that you would
expect me, who alone has claimed you for the Dance of Barsoom for
at least twelve times past?"
"And sit and play with my thumbs until you saw fit to come for
me?" she questioned. "Ah, no, Djor Kantos; Tara of Helium is for no
laggard," and she threw him a sweet smile and passed on toward the
assembling dancers with Gahan, Jed of far Gathol.
The Dance of Barsoom bears a relation similar to the more formal
dancing functions of Mars that The Grand March does to ours, though
it is infinitely more intricate and more beautiful. Before a
Martian youth of either sex may attend an important social function
where there is dancing, he must have become proficient in at least
three dances-The Dance of Barsoom, his national dance, and the
dance of his city. In these three dances the dancers furnish their
own music, which never varies; nor do the steps or figures vary,
having been handed down from time immemorial. All Barsoomian dances
are stately and beautiful, but The Dance of Barsoom is a wondrous
epic of motion and harmony-there is no grotesque posturing, no
vulgar or suggestive movements. It has been described as the
interpretation of the highest ideals of a world that aspired to
grace and beauty and chastity in woman, and strength and dignity
and loyalty in man.
Today, John Carter, Warlord of Mars, with Dejah Thoris, his
mate, led in the dancing, and if there was another couple that vied
with them in possession of the silent admiration of the guests it
was the resplendent Jed of Gathol and his beautiful partner. In the
ever-changing figures of the dance the man found himself now with
the girl's hand in his and again with an arm about the lithe body
that the jeweled harness but inadequately covered, and the girl,
though she had danced a thousand dances in the past, realized for
the first time the personal contact of a man's arm against her
naked flesh. It troubled her that she should notice it, and she
looked up questioningly and almost with displeasure at the man as
though it was his fault. Their eyes met and she saw in his that
which she had never seen in the eyes of Djor Kantos. It was at the
very end of the dance and they both stopped suddenly with the music
and stood there looking straight into each other's eyes. It was
Gahan of Gathol who spoke first.
"Tara of Helium, I love you!" he said.
The girl drew herself to her full height. "The Jed of Gathol
forgets himself," she exclaimed haughtily.
"The Jed of Gathol would forget everything but you, Tara of
Helium," he replied. Fiercely he pressed the soft hand that he
still retained from the last position of the dance. "I love you,
Tara of Helium," he repeated. "Why should your ears refuse to hear
what your eyes but just now did not refuse to see-and answer?"
"What meanest thou?" she cried. "Are the men of Gathol such
boors, then?"
"They are neither boors nor fools," he replied, quietly. "They
know when they love a woman-and when she loves them."
Tara of Helium stamped her little foot in anger. "Go!" she said,
"before it is necessary to acquaint my father with the dishonor of
his guest."
She turned and walked away. "Wait!" cried the man. "Just another
word."
"Of apology?" she asked.
"Of prophecy," he said.
"I do not care to hear it," replied Tara of Helium, and left him
standing there. She was strangely unstrung and shortly thereafter
returned to her own quarter of the palace, where she stood for a
long time by a window looking out beyond the scarlet tower of
Greater Helium toward the northwest.
Presently she turned angrily away. "I hate him!" she exclaimed
aloud.
"Whom?" inquired the privileged Uthia.
Tara of Helium stamped her foot. "That ill-mannered boor, the
Jed of Gathol," she replied.
Uthia raised her slim brows.
At the stamping of the little foot, a great beast rose from the
corner of the room and crossed to Tara of Helium where it stood
looking up into her face. She placed her hand upon the ugly head.
"Dear old Woola," she said; "no love could be deeper than yours,
yet it never offends. Would that men might pattern themselves after
you!"
