that human feet had once crowded towards the now broken altar that shone
like a death-cloth as the rays of the sun struck upon the still white
stone. The thick carpet of lavender sent out a faint perfume of other
days, within which a whole treasure of memories was stowed away ...
forgotten. Peace, peace, peace was over all, the peace of things that
are past.
Before the altar, stretched out all his length on the ground amongst the
blue of the lavender, lay Eric, his face pressed against the floor, his
golden curls matted, his neat clothes soiled and dusty. He lay there,
all his young body expressing one long cry of protest against the cruel
things he had just learnt.
He had fled and fled, blind instinct guiding his steps, quite ignorant
as to how he had found his way out. And then, when he once more saw the
great sky over his head, he had rushed unseeingly forward, climbing the
rocks, leaving the sea far behind.
On, on, in breathless haste to get away from that silent figure wrapped
in grey folds, with the sightless eyes and the dagger within her
heart ... neither did he know how he had reached this desolate place.
He had seen this ruined fane standing grey and forsaken on a waste of
blue-grey flowers; he had seen it outlined in magnificent solitude
against the clear sky, and a great wish had come over him to take refuge
there, in that holy place, after the atmosphere of tragedy and
temptation he had just left behind.
What mattered that the place was a ruin, that holy chants and fervent
prayers were no more heard within the skeleton walls! It had been God's
house, and the weary wanderer needed sanctuary.
Motionless as one asleep or dead he lay.
There was no sound around him except the buzzing of bees amongst the
sweet-smelling lavender.
They flitted hither and thither, fetching out of each blossom its
treasure of honey and sweetness, whilst tiny blue butterflies danced in
their midst in frivolous useless gaiety. All of a sudden a flight of
doves came floating out of the summer sky and settled like white sunlit
clouds on every window-sill, where they fluttered their wings, filling
the whole place with flashes of light, as the sun gleamed on their snowy
feathers.
But still Eric lay without movement, his face among the crushed flowers.
The doves cooed and kissed each other; the bees swarmed around, and from
somewhere very far overhead a bird sang a glad song, his voice rising
shrill and pure into the warm air.
The sun began to slant his rays through the beautiful high windows,
lighting up one of the sides of the building with sheets of gold.
He sent his warm beams to kiss the young man's curls, and to caress the
white hands that were clasped before him; then one of the rays fell upon
a picture that still kept its place above the altar.
At that very moment Eric, for the first time, raised his head--and
there, smiling down upon him in angelic pity, was a face of such perfect
sweetness, that he felt the hot tears come rushing to his tired eyes.
With folded hands he knelt in a posture of adoration, and gazed into
the wonderful countenance that looked into his. A long cloak of some
indescribable shade flowed down, enfolding the Virgin's ethereal limbs.
Her hands were outstretched in a gesture of blessing; upon her head she
wore a high golden crown, and the sun beat upon it making it shine like
real metal; and her eyes, her wonderful eyes, were full of tears.... But
in her heart.... Oh! did he rightly see? or was he dreaming the same
awful dream over again?... in her heart, too, a dagger had been thrust!
Must all hearts be killed? What was this old world teaching him? Was
sorrow everywhere? Were those that blessed treated alike with those who
poisoned heart and soul?
How ignorant he had been, singing like a bird in the sunshine,
understanding nothing, feeling nothing but his own joy to be alive!
Now all seemed changed; pain and temptation, hard words and sweet
smiles, had replaced each other in bewildering confusion, and into the
heart of this miraculous Mother of God, this most pure of all women they
had also thrust a cruel blade--and yet she continued to smile, her fair
hands extended to his helpless gropings to understand!
His eyes riveted to the Holy Face, he approached the devastated altar
around which the sun-rays had concentrated all their brightness, till
the picture of the Virgin was no longer a painting, but a living woman,
all light and radiance, Divine pity and love.
The weary wanderer sank on his knees, his hands folded, his head bent on
the altar, and as he knelt there murmuring old forgotten prayers of his
childhood, real warm tears streamed from the eyes of the holy picture
and fell drop by drop on his sunny locks.
And it was like a gentle blessing which held within it a sweet promise
of peace and comfort.
XII
The lavender-covered waste and the gaunt ruins of the church had been
left far behind, and our traveller was now ascending the rocky pass of
the great rugged mountains that rose high and forbidding above his head.
He had felt a longing to climb somewhere very high, with a wish to be as
near the blue sky as possible.
Something of the peace that the holy picture had filtered into his heart
still remained. Within his clear look there was a dreamy wonder as if he
still saw pure visions before him, the warm tears of the Mother of God
having consecrated him to a deeper understanding. But there remained a
shadow upon his soul from his dark experiences within the dwelling of
the sorceress.
He was no more the gay, flitting, singing bird he had been. He strode
forward with a more manly tread; something of the boyish eagerness had
gone out of his step, some of the sweet confidence had gone from his
eyes when they rested on those he met on his way.
When he played on his flute he marvelled at the new tones it had taken;
they seemed deeper, sadder, and his voice vibrated less with the joy of
living.
Yet the world was still wonderful and full of promise; these rocky
mountains had shapes and colours that made his heart rejoice.
In this he was still the same Eric Gundian whom King Wanda had loved: he
was without fear, and not even the sight of these treeless giants of
stone daunted his wanderer's spirit.
Each night when he slept, no matter where he rested his head, the vision
he was following always appeared to him clear, vivid, unchanged--those
great solemn eyes that looked into his without ever a droop of the lids.
He felt he must cross these enormous heights before he could reach what
he was seeking; that as yet his road had been too easy, and that it
would be needed of him to make some great effort before he was worthy of
attaining his goal.
He looked back in thoughts upon the way he had come, and there seemed to
him a great difference between the Eric of yesterday and to-day.
Dense clouds were enfolding the peaks of the mountains and creeping like
soft monsters along the sides, filling the deep precipices with damp
moving masses which were all coming towards him ready to swallow him up.
Steeper and steeper became the road, the air rarer, whilst the clouds
lay thick and impenetrable over all.
Eric toiled on; only seldom could he look down upon what lay beneath
because of the vapours that were wrapping themselves around him.
He knew not where he was going, but he stolidly continued his way in
spite of the hard rocks and stones that wounded his feet, in spite of
the path becoming always more irksome and dangerous.
Often he had but a narrow ledge to walk on, with a chasm on one side, a
high wall of rock on the other; and as the clouds lay over everything he
was in constant peril of life.
There were moments when a straying sun-ray would break through the
clouds, casting a sudden light upon them, transforming them into
mother-of-pearl; and sometimes the shaft of light ran straight along the
white mist as if a finger of a god were pointing downwards to the
dwellings of men.
Then out of the wall of mist a shadow rose and stood before him. It was
faintly outlined against the whiteness that was about him, and the
shadow was that of a man. And as he looked, full of surprise, another
was at his side, and then a third, and these three shades pointed down
the road he had been ascending.
Eric turned, and there, behind him, was a whole procession of diaphanous
figures all following his footsteps.
They seemed transparent, yet all of them had personality; their faces
although blurred and indistinct were full of different expressions.
Some were old and bent, others strong, stalwart, upright. Several of the
female figures were young and fair; there were even small children
amongst them, and all appeared waiting for him to lead the way.
He moved on, passing the three forms he had first seen, and with a
shudder he realized that when he tried to touch them his fingers met
nothing but space--his hand passed right through!
And each time he turned his head there they were, all of them, pressing
close on his heels, silent, persistent. Truly it was a gruesome company
to be wandering with in this wilderness of rocks and clouds.
Eric wondered how long it would last, and if they meant to go with him
all the way.
Who were they? And what did they want of him?
Although many of them were beautiful, Eric thought them horrible and
uncanny, and kept wondering in what way he could relieve himself of
their presence; indeed he had not reckoned with such companions on his
road.
Should he turn back? But if he did he would have to pass them all, and
he remembered with a shudder how his hand had gone right through those
bodiless shapes when he had tried to touch them, so it was better to go
forward instead of retracing his footsteps.
Eric came now to a turn of the path where a great rock jutted out,
barring his way in such a fashion that to pass it he would have to put
one foot before the other on a ledge so narrow that the sight alone made
him feel giddy and faint.
Beneath him gaped the great sea of clouds covering unknown depths he
could not penetrate; but forwards he must go! Was he not like a hunted
animal with this procession of ghosts so remorselessly tracking him?
He bravely set his face to the dangerous pass, and very carefully, his
hands clutching at the rough surface of the rock, he managed to turn the
dreaded corner; as he did so, there, right in the middle of his path,
blocking his way, was a very old man.
He sat with head bent, his long grey beard dragging on the ground;
within his clasped hands he grasped a thick stick against which he was
leaning.
He looked sad and weary, and yet he was full of quiet dignity; a
surprising figure to meet in a lonely place. His grey clothing hung
loosely over his emaciated body, his wide mantle fell in thin folds
about him; on his head he wore a broad-brimmed, weather-beaten hat.
At the young man's exclamation of surprise he raised his head and looked
keenly at him, but spoke not a word. Yet this old man was not a spectre
like the others, but in verity a living human creature, and for that
reason welcome to our lonely wanderer.
"Speak to me," cried Eric. "I am half mad with the longing to hear a
human voice. Tell me, if thou canst, who are these silent ones that dog
my steps, and make these mountains horrible to me? Fain would I be rid
of them!"
He turned to look behind him and there they were, close upon his
footsteps, huddled together on the narrow shelf he had just passed; and
all of them looked at him with hungry, expectant eyes; and yet through
their bodies the rocks could be distinctly seen. It was a grim sight!
The old man did not reply, but turned his head towards the silent
apparitions and scrutinized them long and earnestly, then a slow smile
broke over his face.
At last he spoke:
"Be not hard upon those that are dead, my son; these here find no peace
because they did not receive a holy burial, nor were prayers said over
their silent hearts; they felt thy coming, so they have arisen from
where they lay in waiting, to follow thee. Let thy heart be soft unto
them. Their presence around thee speaks in thy favour, for they try to
follow only those whose conscience is without stain, for those alone can
help them whose lives have been pure."
"Who are they?" asked the young man, and the old one answered:
"They are the restless souls of those who died here amongst the
mountains. They all had hopes in their hearts when they started, and
dreams or ambitions; each thought himself strong enough to scale these
cruel heights, but they dropped down on the way; few, very few, ever
reach the top. They lose courage or weary and try to turn back; but it
is difficult to go back for those who have started on these paths that
lead so high."
"Tell me, O wise man," cried the youth, "what mountains are these, and
why did I feel that I must try to ascend them?"
"They are called the mountains of Life, my son. For some they bear also
the name of the mountains of Temptation; for others they mean Toil; for
others Trouble; for some they are named Redemption, and for the fewest
they are called the mountains of Attainment."
"For me what shall they be called, my father?"
"That remains to be seen, my boy," responded the solemn voice.
"Tarry awhile beside me and I shall tell thee a few things that may be
of use to thee. Thy fair face pleases me, and I wish thee well. But I am
old, and my voice has no more the force as of a river in spring-time
when the snows have melted; it is more like a sluggish stream over which
a thick sheet of ice has been laid. But sit thee down close by me that I
need not raise it overmuch."
So saying he drew his cloak away, making room for Eric on the rock where
he was resting. The waiting shapes had become fainter, and were like
torn pieces of mist that had caught upon the rocks.
"But before all else, I pray thee, tell me," said Eric, "why thou sayest
these shadows have awaited my coming; and why thou dost not thyself lead
them to peace? Thou who art so wise?"
The venerable face turned to the young one with a sad smile, and the old
solemn voice answered in a low tone, "To be wise is not the same as to
be good. Long ago, in the days of my youth, and later also in the years
of my manhood, I was a great sinner, and many a dark unavowed act have I
committed. But wise I always was, and even magic have I understood.
"There comes a time, my son, when the heart longs for peace; the white
peace of solitude. Amongst men it could never be found, so I came up
here; but that was only after my head had bent beneath the snow of age,
after I had tasted all fruits both bitter and sweet; and this I tell
thee: few are worth the eating. Yet thou shalt also eat of many; but
have a care, I pray thee, and grasp not those that were best left
untouched; and yet? and yet?
"When I look back I know it all had some meaning behind it--something
that was but a link of one long chain, and the chain is so long that the
links are but of small importance, although each link deems itself the
one which holds all the chain together; and it is better it should be
so, because the long chain needs each separate link. My talk is dark to
thee," added the old man, laying his hand on Eric's.
"Forgive an old man whose thoughts ramble along; seest thou, up here in
this wild solitude amongst the clouds and eagles, one learns to look
down upon things and to realize their value; but it is useless to begin
such knowledge too soon, for we, the weary ones, need all thy joy, all
thy careless happiness, we need thy efforts, thy hopes, thy dreams, thy
tears; none are wasted; they all go to make one great whole! Life is
long and yet it is short, and many roads there are, but they all,
without exception, lead to the same end. I am very near that end now;
some reach it sooner than I. I know not what thou seekest, but all men
are running after the same thing, though they call it by different
names, not knowing that they can grasp but its shadow, because the thing
itself is God's.
"I have given it a name. I call it Happiness; but truly this I can tell
thee: men know not when they have it ... they see it before them, and
then they turn round and they see it far behind ... but whilst it is
theirs they are blind. Dark are my words to thee, but I love thee the
more, because I read within thy eyes that all I am saying is without
sense to thee, dear beginner of Life."
"But thou hast not told me," queried Eric, "why these phantoms hope to
find salvation through me, and why with thy great wisdom thou canst do
less for them than I with my foolish youth?"
Sadly the old man replied:
"Because, my son, youth and innocence have a strength that all the
wisdom from over the seven seas cannot equal. Indeed, we who have lived
and now look back, are far more willing to stretch out our hands in
help; our hearts are larger, our patience greater, our understanding
deeper; but it has thus been decreed that all this cannot be weighed
against one little drop of thy pure innocence or of the faith thou hast,
that removeth mountains."
The old head bowed itself over the clasped hands, and on the long grey
locks lay a mist that was silvery and lustreless, as if some one had
breathed over a mirror.
The sad, tired eyes gazed with a far-off look into space, following
forgotten visions of long ago.
There was a deep silence which the young man did not try to break. He
bowed in awe before this gaunt old figure, and longed to hear more, to
drink in the wise words that fell from his lips.
Although many were quite incomprehensible to him, his instinct told him
that he could learn much wisdom if he listened with all his soul.
Strange it was that such a man should call himself a sinner when such a
delightful peace filled Eric's whole being as he sat there close beside
him.
The old man turned his head and looked into the young man's eyes.
"Fair thou art in thy glorious untouched youth. I did not hope to look
again on so good a sight. I wish I could give thee some of my wisdom to
keep thee from harm, but a loving, pure heart is also a shield, perhaps
even better than any I could give thee; and yet when old age lifts its
eyes to look upon youth, and sees it beautiful, a prayer comes to its
lips that it may remain thus unsoiled for ever!
"Thou must go forth without fear; and have patience, dear youth, with
those quiet followers of thine. If thou art strong enough thou mayest
lead them to peace; for this I must tell thee: thy way will be hard and
long till thou reachest the end which is thy desire; but by the love of
my snowy hair I entreat thee climb to the highest summit, let not thy
soul be satisfied till thou hast scaled the last, steepest peak.
"There may be easier roads, but take them not; others may tempt thee
from thy giddy path, but listen not to their talk. I shall put all my
faith in thee, and I will not that thou disappoint me. Before I die, I
want to know that one has reached the greatest height."
"But tell me," cried the youth, "will I find at the end that for which I
am seeking, which I am wandering after all the world over?"
"That I cannot answer thee now, my son," replied his companion. "Come
with me to my dwelling; I shall gaze into my magic stone and perchance I
shall be able to tell thee. Give me thy hand, for I am weary; we have
not far to go, and it will be sweet to me to lean upon thy youth."
With great care and solicitude Eric helped the feeble old hermit to his
feet, and following the gentle pressure of his hand, he let himself be
directed to the mouth of a dark cave, hewn out of the rock, close to
where they had been sitting.
"What a lonely place to live in!" cried the young man. "In truth it is
like an eagle's nest hung on the very edge of the precipice!"
"It is a good dwelling for me, who only want to look backwards and not
forwards," said the old man.
"Here I live in peace away from the clamouring of the crowd; I live
with the thought of what has been, and what was evil drops away from
what was good.
"I remember far more clearly the sun that shone than the days that were
dark. I see faces I loved, and those I hated have no more power over me.
Even strange it seems that once I could hate; yet well do I remember how
I loved; for this also shalt thou learn: that Love is the beginning and
end of all things.
"Love is the key that opens every door. Love is the answer to all
questions. Love is the very centre of the heart of the universe. Love is
the voice of God, the punishment and the recompense He gives to His
people.
"Love carries the heart to the verge of the unknown. In Love all is
contained: joy and pain, hope and despair, the night and the day; what
was, what is, and what shall be ... but again my tongue wanders away
with me, soon thou shalt weary of my talk.
"Look about thee and tell me if my dwelling is to thy liking."
The cave in which they stood was dark; but when Eric's eyes had got
accustomed to the dimness he saw that indeed it was but a poor abode.
His host lit a small ancient oil lamp which spread a feeble light
around. He placed it upon a table hewn out of the root of a tree, and
sat heavily down on a stool near by, resting his head in his hand, his
still keen eyes following the young man's movements as he looked about
him.
The cave was not large, and the sides were of bare stone. A cavity had
been cut out at the farther end where a few rough skins were spread, and
that was the bed, indeed more like a grave than a resting-place.
In one of the corners there was a rude hearth with a few old pots;
opposite was a shelf bending beneath the weight of many old volumes
bound in shabby leather; a tiny aperture gave a very faint light
somewhere near the roof, otherwise the door was the only opening; it was
shut by a thick woollen curtain hung on a string.
Against one of the walls stood a large wooden chest covered with an old
shawl, once of fine bright texture, now so mellowed by age that its
curious design was hardly discernible; a few low stools and a big heavy
table completed the whole furnishing of this primitive dwelling.
"Well," asked the hermit, "what sayest thou to my sumptuous apartment?"
Smiling down upon his host Eric rejoined:
"Somewhat gloomy it seems to me--and too near the edge of the precipice
on dark nights. In very truth the thought makes me shudder, that if one
had not a care one could step from the door over the brink!"
The old man laughed softly, but with the sound of some one who for many
a year had no more been accustomed to mirth.
"Come and sit thee by me, for I still have much to tell thee. Take
yonder stool, bring it close to my side that I need not raise my tired
old voice."
As Eric sat down he saw that two covered objects lay upon the table. The
hermit stretched out his trembling hand and drew the smaller of the two
towards him, raising the dark cloth that covered it.
As he did so, a round ball, cut out of a stone the colour of smouldering
ashes, became visible; it was resting on a small three-legged stand
carved in old ivory.
"I shall now look into this magic ball to see thy future, dear wanderer.
Give me thy hand whilst I concentrate my mind upon the polished surface;
thou must think with all thy might of that which is thy greatest desire,
and thou must not speak or the charm will be broken."
Eric laid his hand confidently within the dry wrinkled palm, and
remained silent, as he had been bid, his face near to that of the old
man, his fair locks resting against the silvery ones.
With breathless intensity he watched the magic ball, and saw with wonder
how it began to glow as if a fire were burning inside.
The curious light became always more intense till the ball was one
burning flame upon which he could hardly keep his eyes.
He felt an unwonted drowsiness come over him, but with all his might he
kept his mind fixed upon the eyes of his dream, and then out of the
silence came the voice of his companion, inexplicably changed and
musical, like far-off bells.
"I see a great picture on a wall--in the middle of which there sits a
woman on a throne, the woman has no face.... I see eager questioning all
around thee, but there are tears in thy eyes.... I see a long road on
which thou art wandering mostly in the brilliant sunshine, but sometimes
it is the moon that lights thy way. Thy tears have dried, but thou
knowest not where thou goest and thou singest like a bird. Many other
faces cross thy road and mostly they smile on thee....
"But somewhere there is a shadow that falls over thy path and thou art
afraid--something there is that thou dost not understand and that
contains sore temptations for thee ... then.... Yes, if I rightly
see ... there is blood, it drips slowly to the ground, but thy own hands
are without stain, yet thou art full of fear and fleest as quickly as
thou canst.