THE LAUGHTER OF THE KING
What are dreams but the dust of wayfaring thoughts? Or whence are they,
and what air is upon their shadowy wings? Do they come out of the
twilight of man's mind; are they ghosts of exiles from vanished palaces
of the brain; or are they heralds with proclamations of hidden tidings
for the soul that dreams?
It was a life of dream that Ynys and Alan lived; but Ynys the more,
for, as week after week went by, the burden of her motherhood wrought
her increasingly. Ever since the night of Marsail's death, Alan had
noticed that Ynys no longer doubted but that in some way a special
message had come to her, a special revelation. On the other hand, he
had himself swung back to his former conviction, that the vision he
had seen upon the hillside was, in truth, that of a living man. From
fragments here and there, a phrase, a revealing word, a hint gleaming
through obscure allusions, he came at last to believe that some one
bearing a close, and even extraordinary, resemblance to himself lived
upon Rona. Although upon the island itself he could seldom persuade any
one to speak of the Herdsman, the islanders of Seila and Borosay became
gradually less reticent. He ascertained this, at least: that their fear
and aversion, when he first came, had been occasioned by the startling
likeness between him and the mysterious being whom they called Am
Buchaille Bàn. On Borosay, he was told, the fishermen believed that
the _aonaran nan chreag_, the recluse of the rocks, as commonly they
spoke of him, was no other than Donnacha Bàn Carmichael, survived there
through these many years, and long since mad with his loneliness and
because of the burden of his crime. It was with keen surprise that Alan
learned how many of the fishermen of Borosay and Berneray, and even
of Barra, had caught a glimpse of the outcast. It was this relative
familiarity, indeed, that was at the root of the fear and aversion
which had met him upon his arrival. Almost from the moment he had
landed in Borosay, the rumor had spread that he was indeed no other
than Donnacha Bàn, and that he had chosen this way, now both his father
and Alasdair Carmichael were dead, to return to his own place. So like
was Alan to the outlaw who had long since disappeared from touch with
his fellow men, that many were convinced that the two could be no other
than one and the same. What puzzled him hardly less was the fact that,
on the rare occasions when Ynys had consented to speak of what she had
seen, the man she described bore no resemblance to himself. From one
thing and another, he came at last to the belief that he had really
seen Donnacha Bàn, his cousin; but that the vision of Ynys's mind was
born of her imagination, stimulated by all the tragedy and strange
vicissitudes she had known, and wrought by the fantastic tales of
Marsail and Morag MacNeill.
By this time, too, the islanders had come to see that Alan MacAlasdair
was certainly not Donnacha Bàn. Even the startling likeness no longer
betrayed them in this way. The ministers and the priests laughed at the
whole story and everywhere discouraged the idea that Donnacha Bàn could
still be among the living. But for the unfortunate superstition that
to meet the Herdsman, whether the lost soul of Donnacha Bàn or indeed
the strange phantom of the hills of which the old legends spoke, was to
meet inevitable disaster; but for this, the islanders might have been
persuaded to make such a search among the caves of Rona as would almost
certainly have revealed the presence of any who dwelt therein.
But as summer lapsed into autumn, and autumn itself through its golden
silences waned into the shadow of the equinox, a quiet happiness came
upon both Alan and Ynys. True, she was still wrought by her strange
visionary life, though of this she said little or nothing; and, as
for himself, he hoped that with the birth of the child this fantastic
dream life would go. Whoever the mysterious Herdsman was--if he indeed
existed at all except in the imaginations of those who spoke of him
either as the Buchaille Bàn, or as the _aonaran nan chreag_--Alan
believed that at last he had passed away. None saw him now: and even
Morag MacNeill, who had often on moonlight nights caught the sound of a
voice chanting among the upper solitudes, admitted that she now heard
nothing unusual.
St. Martin's summer came at last, and with it all that wonderful,
dreamlike beauty which bathes the isles in a flood of golden light, and
puts upon sea and land a veil as of ineffable mystery.
One late afternoon Ynys, returning to Caisteal-Rhona after an
unexplained absence of several hours, found Alan sitting at a table.
Spread before him were the sheets of one of the strange old Gaelic
tales which he had ardently begun to translate. She took up the page
which he had just laid down. It was from the _Eachdaireachd Challum
mhic cruimein_, and the last words that Alan had translated were these:
"And when that king had come to the island, he lived there in the
shadow of men's eyes; for none saw him by day or by night, and none
knew whence he came or whither he fared; for his feet were shod with
silence, and his way with dusk. But men knew that he was there, and all
feared him. Months, even years, tramped one on the heels of the other,
and perhaps the king gave no sign, but one day he would give a sign;
and that sign was a laughing that was heard somewhere, be it upon the
lonely hills, or on the lonely wave, or in the heart of him who heard.
And whenever the king laughed, he who heard would fare ere long from
his fellows to join that king in the shadow. But sometimes the king
laughed only because of vain hopes and wild imaginings, for upon these
he lives as well as upon the strange savors of mortality."
* * * * *
Ynys read the page over and over; and when Alan saw how she brooded
upon it, he regretted that he had left it for her to see.
He the more regretted this when he learned that that very afternoon she
had again been among the sea caves. She would not say what she had
seen or heard, if indeed she had heard or seen any thing unusual. But
that night she woke suddenly, and taking Alan by the hand, made him
promise to go with her on the morrow to the Teampull-Mhara.
In vain he questioned her as to why she asked this thing. All she
would say was that she must go there once again, and with him, for
she believed that a spirit out of heaven had come to reveal to her a
wonder. Distressed by what he knew to be a madness, and fearful that it
might prove to be no passing fantasy, Alan would fain have persuaded
her against this intention. Even as he spoke, however, he realized
that it might be better to accede to her wishes, and, above all, to be
there with her, so that it might not be one only who heard or saw the
expected revelation.
And it was a strange faring indeed, that which occurred on the morrow.
At noon, when the tide was an hour turned in the ebb, they sailed
westward from Caisteal-Rhona. It was in silence they made that strange
journey together; for, while Alan steered, Ynys lay down in the hollow
of the boat, with her head against his knees, and he saw that she
slept, or at least lay still with her eyes closed.
When, at last, they passed the headland and entered the first of the
sea arcades, she rose and sat beside him. Hauling down the now useless
sail, he took an oar and, standing at the prow, urged the boat inward
along the narrow corridor which led to the huge sea cave of the Altar.
In the deep gloom--for even on that day of golden light and beauty the
green air of the sea cave was heavy with shadow--there was a deathly
chill. What dull light there was came from the sheen of the green water
which lay motionless along the black basaltic ledges. When at last the
base of the Altar was reached, Alan secured the boat by a rope passed
around a projecting spur; and then lay down in the stern beside Ynys.
"Tell me, dear, what is this thing that you expect to hear or see?"
She looked at him strangely for a while, but, though her lips moved,
she said nothing.
"Tell me, dear," he urged again, "who is it you expect to see or hear?"
"_Am Buchaille Bàn_," she answered, "the Herdsman."
For a moment he hesitated. Then, taking her hand in his, and raising it
to his lips, he whispered in her ear:
"Dearest, all this is a vain dream. There is no Herdsman upon Rona. If
ever there was a man there who lived solitary--if ever, indeed, there
was an _aonaran nan chreag_--he is dead long since. What you have seen
and heard has been a preying upon you of wild thoughts. Think no more
of this vision. We have both suffered too much, and the knowledge of
what is behind us has wrought upon us too hardly. It is a mistake to be
here, on Rona, now. Ynys, darling, you and I are young, and we love;
let us leave this melancholy isle--these melancholy isles--and go back
into the green, sunny world wherein we had such joy before; yes, let
us even go back to Kerival; anywhere where we may live our life with
joy and glad content--but not here, not in these melancholy, haunted
isles, where our dreams become more real than our life, and life
itself, for us at least, the mere shadow of being. Ynys, will you come?
Will you go?"
"All shall be as you will, Alan--_afterward_. But first, I must wait
here till our child is born, for I have heard that which is a message.
And one part of that message concerns you and me; and one concerns
others. And that which concerns you and me is that in this way, in this
child, to be born here in this place, lies the redemption of that evil
by which your father was slain by my father. It is not enough that you
and I have forgotten the past; the past remains. What we cannot do,
or no man or woman can do, the powers that are beyond the grave can
accomplish. Not our love, not even ours, can redeem that crime. But if,
born of us, one will come, who will be dowered with our love and free
from the blood shadow which lies upon us, then all will be well and the
evil shall be done with forever more. But also, has not the Prophet
said that one shall be born upon this island who will redeem his
oppressed people? And this Prophet, Alan, I have seen and heard. Never
have I seen his face aright, for it has ever been in the shadow; but I
have heard his voice, for he has spoken to me, and what he has said is
this: that in the fulness of time the child I shall bear will be he of
whom men have dreamed in the isles for ages past. Sure, dear, you and I
must be believing that thing, since he who tells it is no mere erring
_Faidh_, but himself an immortal spirit."
Alan looked at the speaker in amaze. There could be no question of
her absolute sincerity; for the beautiful face was lit with a strange
light, and in her eyes was a proud gleam of conscious sacrifice. That
it was all a madness, a fantasy, he knew well. Long ago had Lois de
Kerival spoken of the danger that lay for Ynys; she being the inheritor
of a strange brooding spirit which belonged to her people. Now, in this
remote place, the life of dream and the life of reality had become one;
and Ynys was as a drifted ship among unknown seas and mists.
But on one point he believed he might convince her.
"Why do you speak of the Herdsman as a spirit, Ynys? What proof have
you of this? If you or I have seen any one at all, be sure it is a
mortal man and no spirit; nay, I know who it must be, if any one it
is, for throughout the isles men say that Donnacha Bàn, the son of the
brother of my father, was an outlaw here, and has lived long among the
caves."
"This man," she said quietly, "is not Donnacha Bàn, but the Prophet of
whom the people speak. He himself has told me this thing. Yesterday I
was here, and he bade me come again. He spoke out of the shadow that is
about the Altar, though I saw him not. I asked him if he were Donnacha
Bàn, and he said 'No.' I asked him if he were _Am Faidh_, and he said
'Yes.' I asked him if he were indeed an immortal spirit, and herald of
that which was to be, and he said 'Even so.'"
For a long while after this, no word was spoken betwixt the twain. The
chill of that remote place began to affect Ynys, and she shivered
slightly at times. But more she shivered because of the silence which
prevailed, and because that he who had promised to be there gave
no sign. Sure, she thought, it could not be all a dream; sure, the
Herdsman would come again.
Then, at last, turning to Alan, she said, "We must come on the morrow;
for to-day he is not here."
"No, dear; never, never shall we come here again. This is for the last
time. Henceforth, we shall dwell here in Rona no more."
"You will do this thing for me, Alan, that I ask?"
"I will do what you ask, Ynys."
"Then take this written word, and leave it upon the top of the great
rock there that is called the Altar."
With that she placed in his hand a slip of paper whereon she had
already written certain words. What they were, Alan could not discern
in that shadowy light; but, taking the slip in his hand, he stepped
on the black ledges at the base of the Altar, and slowly mounted the
precipitous rock.
Ynys watched him till he became himself a shadow in that darkness. Her
heart leaped when suddenly she heard a cry fall to her out of the gloom.
"Alan, Alan!" she cried, and a great fear was upon her when no answer
came; but at last, with passionate relief, she heard him clambering
slowly down the perilous slope of that obscure place. When he reached
the ledge, he stood still, regarding her.
"Why do you not come into the boat, Alan?" she asked.
"Dear, I have that to tell you which will let you see that I spoke
truth."
She looked at him with parted lips, her breath coming and going like
that of a caged bird.
"What is it, Alan?" she whispered.
"Ynys, when I reached the top of the Altar, and in the dim light that
was there, I saw the dead body of a man lying upon the rock. His head
was lain back so that the gleam from a crevice in the cliff overhead
fell upon it. The man has been dead many hours. He is a man whose
hair has been grayed by years and sorrow, but the man is he who is of
my blood; he whom I resemble so closely; he that the fishermen call
_aonaran nan chreag_; he that is the Herdsman."
Ynys made no reply; still she looked at him with large, wondering eyes.
"Ynys, darling, do you not understand what it is that I say? This man,
that they call the Buchaille Bàn--this man whom you believe to be the
Herdsman of the old legend--is no other than Donnacha Bàn, he who years
and years ago slew his brother and has been an exile ever since on this
lonely island. How could he, then, a man as I am, though with upon him
a worse blood-shadow than lies upon us--how could he tell you aught of
what is to be? What message could he give you that is himself a lost
soul?
"Would you be for following a herdsman who could lead you to no fold?
This man is dead, Ynys; and it is well that you brought me here to-day.
That is a good thing, and for sure God willed it. Out of this all our
new happiness may come. For now we know what is this mysterious shadow
that has darkened our lives ever since we came to Rona. Now we have
knowledge that it was no mere phantom I saw upon the hillside; and now
also we know that he who told you these strange, wild things of which
you speak was no prophet with a message from the world of the spirit,
but a man wrought to madness, a man who for all these years had lived
his lonely, secretive life upon the hills, or among these caves of the
sea. Come, then, dear, and let us go hence. Sure, at the last, it is
well that we have found this way. Come, Ynys, we will go now and never
come here again."
He looked eagerly for her assenting eyes. With pain in his heart,
however, he saw that the dream--the strange, inexplicable fantasy--had
not yet gone out of them. With a sigh, he entered the boat and took her
hand.
"Let us go," she said, and that was all.
Slowly Alan oared the boat across the shadowy gulf of the cave, along
the narrow passage which led therefrom, and out into the pale green
gloom of the arched arcade wherein the sight and sound of the sea made
a music in his ears.
But the short November day was already passing to its end. All the sea
westward was aflame with gold and crimson light, and in the great dome
of the sky a wonderful radiance lifted above the paleness of the clouds
whose pinnacled and bastioned heights towered in the south-west.
A faint wind blew eastwardly; so, raising the sail, Alan made it fast
and then sat down beside Ynys. But she, rising, moved along the boat to
the mast, and leaned there with her face against the setting sun.
Idly they drifted onward. Deep silence prevailed betwixt them; deep
silence was all about them, save for the endless, inarticulate murmur
of the sea, the splash of low waves against the rocks of Rona, and the
sigh of the surf at the base of the basalt precipices.
And this was their homeward sailing on that day of revelation; Ynys,
with her back against the mast, and her face irradiated by the light of
the setting sun; he, steering, with his face in shadow.
On a night of rain and amid the rumor of tempest, three weeks later,
Ynys heard the Laughter of the King, when the child who was to be the
bearer of so fair a destiny lay by her side, white and chill as the
foam thrown up for a brief while upon the rocks by the unheeding sea.
BOOK THIRD
_THE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD_