"Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!
You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled
Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring
The bell that calls us on: the sweet far thing.
Beauty grown sad with its eternity
Made you of us, and of the dim gray sea."
[16] The first part of the story of Ula and Urla, as Isla and
Eilidh, is told in "Silk o' the Kine," at the end of _The
Sin-Eater_. [The name, Eilidh, is pronounced Eily (_liq._) or
Isle-ih.]
Ula and Urla were under vow to meet by the Stone of Sorrow. But Ula,
dying first, stumbled blindfold when he passed the Shadowy Gate: and,
till Urla's hour was upon her, she remembered not.
* * * * *
These were the names that had been given to them in the north isles,
when the birlinn that ran down the war-galley of the vikings brought
them before the Maormor.
No word had they spoken that day, and no name. They were of the Gael,
though Ula's hair was yellow and though his eyes were blue as the
heart of a wave. They would ask nothing, for both were in love with
death. The Maormor of Siol Tormaid looked at Urla, and his desire
gnawed at his heart. But he knew what was in her mind, because he saw
into it through her eyes, and he feared the sudden slaying in the
dark.
Nevertheless he brooded night and day upon her beauty. Her skin was
more white than the foam of the moon: her eyes were as a starlit dewy
dusk. When she moved, he saw her like a doe in the fern: when she
stooped, it was as the fall of wind-swayed water. In his eyes there
was a shimmer as of the sunflood in a calm sea. In that dazzle he was
led astray.
"Go," he said to Ula, on a day of the days. "Go: the men of Siol
Torquil will take you to the South Isles, and so you can hale to your
own place, be it Eirèann or Manannan, or wherever the south wind puts
its hand upon your home."
It was on that day Ula spoke for the first time.
"I will go, Coll mac Torcall: but I go not alone. Urla that I love
goes whither I go."
"She is my spoil. But, man out of Eirèann--for so I know you to be,
because of the manner of your speech--tell me this: of what clan and
what place are you, and whence is Urla come: and by what shore was it
that the men of Lochlin whom we slew took you and her out of the sea,
as you swam against the sun, with waving swords upon the strand when
the viking-boat carried you away?"
"How know you these things?" asked Ula, that had been Isla, son of the
king of Islay.
"One of the sea-rovers spake before he died."
"Then let the viking speak again. I have nought to say."
With that the Maormor frowned, but said no more. That eve Ula was
seized, as he walked in the dusk by the sea, singing low to himself an
ancient song.
"Is it death?" he said, remembering another day when he and Eilidh,
that they called Urla, had the same asking upon their lips.
"It is death."
Ula frowned, but spake no word for a time. Then he spake.
"Let me say one word with Urla."
"No word canst thou have. She too must die."
Ula laughed low at that.
"I am ready," he said. And they slew him with a spear.
When they told Urla she rose from the deer-skins and went down to the
shore. She said no word, then. But she stooped, and she put her lips
upon his cold lips: and she whispered in his unhearing ear.
That night Coll mac Torcall went secretly to where Urla was. When he
entered, a groan came to his lips, and there was froth there: and that
was because the spear that had slain Ula was thrust betwixt his
shoulders by one who stood in the shadow. He lay there till the dawn.
When they found Coll the Maormor he was like a seal speared upon a
rock, for he had his hands out, and his head was between them, and his
face was downward.
"Eat dust, slain wolf," was all that Eilidh whom they called Urla said
ere she moved away from that place in the darkness of the night.
When the sun rose, Urla was in a glen among the hills. A man who
shepherded there took her to his mate. They gave her milk, and because
of her beauty, and the frozen silence of her eyes, bade her stay with
them, and be at peace.
They knew, in time, that she wished death. But, first, there was the
birthing of the child.
"It was Isla's will," she said to the woman. Ula was but the shadow of
a bird's wing: an idle name. And she, too, was Eilidh once more. "It
was death he gave you when he gave you the child," said the woman
once.
"It was life," answered Eilidh, with her eyes filled with the shadow
of dream. And yet another day the woman said to her that it would be
well to bear the child and let it die: for beauty was like sunlight on
a day of clouds, and if she were to go forth young and alone and so
wondrous fair, she would have love, and love is best.
"Truly, love is best," Eilidh answered. "And because Isla loved me, I
would that another Isla came into the world, and sang his songs--the
songs that were so sweet, and the songs that he never sang, because I
gave him death when I gave him life. But now he shall live again--and
he and I shall be in one body, in him that I carry now."
At that the woman understood, and said no more. And so the days grew
out of the nights, and the dust of the feet of one month was in the
eyes of that which followed after: and this until Eilidh's time was
come.
* * * * *
Dusk after dusk, Ula that was Isla the Singer, waited by the Stone of
Sorrow. Then a great weariness came upon him. He made a song there,
where he lay in the narrow place: the last song that he made, for
after that he heard no trampling of the hours.
The swift years slip and slide adown the steep;
The slow years pass; neither will come again.
Yon huddled years have weary eyes that weep,
These laugh, these moan, these silent frown, these plain,
These have their lips acurl with proud disdain.
O years with tears, and tears through weary years,
How weary I who in your arms have lain:
Now, I am tired: the sound of slipping spears
Moves soft, and tears fall in a bloody rain,
And the chill footless years go over me who am slain.
I hear, as in a wood, dim with old light, the rain,
Slow falling; old, old, weary, human tears:
And in the deepening dark my comfort is my Pain,
Sole comfort left of all my hopes and fears,
Pain that alone survives, gaunt hound of the shadowy years.
But, at the last, after many days, he stirred. There was a song in his
ears.
He listened. It was like soft rain in a wood in June. It was like the
wind laughing among the leaves.
Then his heart leapt. Sure, it was the voice of Eilidh!
"_Eilidh! Eilidh! Eilidh!_" he cried. But a great weariness came upon
him again. He fell asleep, knowing not the little hand that was in his
and the small flower-sweet body that was warm against his side.
Then the child that was his looked into the singer's heart, and saw
there a mist of rainbows, and midway in that mist was the face of
Eilidh his mother.
Thereafter the little one looked into his brain that was so still, and
he saw the music that was there: and it was the voice of Eilidh his
mother.
And, again, the birdeen, that had the blue of Isla's eyes and the
dream of Eilidh's, looked into Ula's sleeping soul: and he saw that it
was not Isla nor yet Eilidh, but that it was like unto himself, who
was made of Eilidh and Isla.
For a long time the child dreamed. Then he put his ear to Isla's brow,
and listened. Ah, the sweet songs that he heard. Ah, bitter-sweet
moonseed of song! Into his life they passed, echo after echo, strain
after strain, wild air after wild sweet air.
"Isla shall never die," whispered the child, "for Eilidh loved him.
And I am Isla and Eilidh."
Then the little one put his hands above Isla's heart. There was a
flame there, that the Grave quenched not.
"O flame of love!" sighed the child, and he clasped it to his breast:
and it was a moonshine glory about the two hearts that he had, the
heart of Isla and the heart of Eilidh, that were thenceforth one.
At dawn he was no longer there. Already the sunrise was warm upon him
where he lay, newborn, upon the breast of Eilidh.
"It is the end," murmured Isla when he waked. "She has never come.
For sure now, the darkness and the silence."
Then he remembered the words of Maol the Druid, he that was a seer and
had told him of Orchil, the dim goddess who is under the brown earth,
in a vast cavern, where she weaves at two looms. With one hand she
weaves life upward through the grass: with the other she weaves death
downward through the mould: and the sound of the weaving is Eternity,
and the name of it in the green world is Time. And, through all,
Orchil weaves the weft of Eternal Beauty, that passeth not, though its
soul is Change.
And these were the words of Orchil, on the lips of Maol the Druid,
that was old, and knew the mystery of the Grave:
_When thou journeyest towards the Shadowy Gate take neither
Fear with thee nor Hope, for both are abashed hounds of
silence in that place: but take only the purple nightshade
for sleep, and a vial of tears and wine, tears that shall be
known unto thee and old wine of love. So shalt thou have thy
silent festival, ere the end._
So therewith Isla, having in his weariness the nightshade of sleep,
and in his mind the slow dripping rain of familiar tears, and deep in
his heart the old wine of love, bowed his head.
It was well to have lived, since life was Eilidh. It was well to cease
to live, since Eilidh came no more.
Then suddenly he raised his head. There was music in the green world
above. A sun-ray opened the earth about him: staring upward he beheld
Angus Ogue.
"Ah, fair face of the god of youth," he sighed. Then he saw the white
birds that fly about the head of Angus Ogue, and he heard the music
that his breath made upon the harp of the wind.
"Arise," said Angus; and, when he smiled, the white birds flashed
their wings and made a mist of rainbows.
"Arise," said Angus Ogue again; and, when he spoke, the spires of the
grass quivered to a wild sweet haunting air.
So Isla arose, and the sun shone upon him, and his shadow passed into
the earth. Orchil wove it into her web of death.
"Why dost thou wait here by the Stone of Sorrow, Isla that was called
Ula at the end?"
"I wait for Eilidh, who cometh not."
At that the wind-listening god stooped and laid his head upon the
grass.
"I hear the coming of a woman's feet," he said, and he rose.
"Eilidh! Eilidh!" cried Isla, and the sorrow of his cry was a moan in
the web of Orchil.
Angus Ogue took a branch, and put the cool greenness against his
cheek.
"I hear the beating of a heart," he said.
"Eilidh! Eilidh! Eilidh!" Isla cried, and the tears that were in his
voice were turned by Angus into dim dews of remembrance in the
babe-brain that was the brain of Isla and Eilidh.
"I hear a word," said Angus Ogue, "and that word is a flame of joy."
Isla listened. He heard a singing of birds. Then, suddenly, a glory
came into the shine of the sun.
"_I have come, Isla my king!_"
It was the voice of Eilidh. He bowed his head, and swayed; for it was
his own life that came to him.
"_Eilidh!_" he whispered.
And so, at the last, Isla came into his kingdom.
* * * * *
But are they gone, these twain, who loved with deathless love? Or is
this a dream that I have dreamed?
Afar in an island-sanctuary that I shall not see again, where the wind
chants the blind oblivious rune of Time, I have heard the grasses
whisper: _Time never was, Time is not._
PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AND SON AT
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS IN CAMBRIDGE
DURING JUNE M DCCC XCVI. FOR
STONE AND KIMBALL
NEW YORK
[Decoration]