"Tell me, for I have blindness: Is it peace?"
"It is peace."
"Are you man, or child, or of the Hidden People?"
"I am a shepherd."
"A shepherd? Then, sure, you will guide me through this wood? And what
will be beyond this wood?"
"A river."
"And what river will that be?"
"Deep and terrible. It runs through the Valley of the Shadow."
"And is there no ford there?"
"Ay, there is a ford."
"And who will guide me across that ford?"
"She."
"Who?"
"The Washer of the Ford."
But hereat Torcall Dall gave a sore cry and snatched his hand away,
and fled sidelong into an alley of the wood.
It was moonshine when he lay down, weary. The sound of flowing water
filled his ears.
"Come," said a voice.
So he rose and went. When the cold breath of the water was upon his
face, the guide that led him put a fruit into his hand.
"Eat, Torcall Dall!"
* * * * *
He ate. He was no more Torcall Dall. His sight was upon him again. Out
of the blackness shadows came; out of the shadows, the great boughs of
trees; from the boughs, dark branches and dark clusters of leaves;
above the branches, white stars; below the branches, white flowers;
and beyond these, the moonshine on the grass and the moonfire on the
flowing of a river dark and deep.
"Take your harp, O Harper, and sing the song of what you see."
Torcall heard the voice, but saw no one. No shadow moved. Then he
walked out upon the moonlit grass; and at the ford he saw a woman
stooping and washing shroud after shroud of woven sunbeams: washing
them there in the flowing water, and singing a low song that he did
not hear. He did not see her face. But she was young, and with long
black hair that fell like the shadow of night over a white rock.
So Torcall took his harp, and he sang:
Glory to the great Gods, it is no Sword I am seeing:
Nor do I see aught but the flowing of a river.
And I see shadows on the flow that are ever fleeing,
And I see a woman washing shrouds for ever and ever.
Then he ceased, for he heard the woman sing:
Glory to God on high, and to Mary, Mother of Jesus,
Here am I washing away the sins of the shriven,
O Torcall of Lochlin, throw off the red sins that ye cherish
And I will be giving you the washen shroud that they wear in Heaven.
Filled with a great awe, Torcall bowed his head. Then once more he
took his harp, and he sang:
O well it is I am seeing, Woman of the Shrouds,
That you have not for me any whirling of the Sword:
I have lost my gods, O woman, so what will the name be
Of thee and thy gods, O woman that art Washer of the Ford?
But the woman did not look up from the dark water, nor did she cease
from washing the shrouds made of the woven moonbeams. But he heard
this song above the sighing of the water:
It is Mary Magdalene my name is, and I loved Christ.
And Christ is the son of God, and Mary the Mother of Heaven.
And this river is the river of death, and the shadows
Are the fleeing souls that are lost if they be not shriven.
Then Torcall drew nigher unto the stream. A melancholy wind was upon
it.
"Where are all the dead of the world?" he said.
But the woman answered not.
"And what is the end, you that are called Mary?"
Then the woman rose.
"Would you cross the Ford, O Torcall the Harper?"
He made no word upon that. But he listened. He heard a woman singing
faint and low far away in the dark. He drew more near.
"Would you cross the Ford, O Torcall?"
He made no word upon that. But once more he listened. He heard a
little child crying in the night.
"Ah, lonely heart of the white one," he sighed, and his tears fell.
Mary Magdalene turned and looked upon him.
It was the face of Sorrow she had. She stooped and took up the tears.
"They are bells of joy," she said. And he heard a wild sweet ringing
in his ears.
A prayer came out of his heart. A blind prayer it was, but God gave it
wings. It flew to Mary, who took and kissed it, and gave it song.
"It is the Song of Peace," she said. And Torcall had peace.
"What is best, O Torcall?" she asked, rustling-sweet as rain among the
leaves her voice was--"What is best? The sword, or peace?"
"Peace," he answered: and he was white now, and was old.
"Take your harp," Mary said, "and go in unto the Ford. But lo, now I
clothe you with a white shroud. And if you fear the drowning flood,
follow the bells that were your tears: and if the dark affright you,
follow the song of the Prayer that came out of your heart."
So Torcall the Harper moved into the whelming flood, and he played a
wild strange air, like the laughing of a child.
Deep silence there was. The moonshine lay upon the obscure wood, and
the darkling river flowed sighing through the soundless gloom. The
Washer of the Ford stooped once more. Low and sweet, as of yore and
for ever, over the drowning souls, she sang her immemorial song.