IN the heart of Haïta the illusions of youth had not been supplanted by
those of age and experience. His thoughts were pure and pleasant, for
his life was simple and his soul devoid of ambition. He rose with the
sun and went forth to pray at the shrine of Hastur, the god of shepherds,
who heard and was pleased. After performance of this pious rite Haïta
unbarred the gate of the fold and with a cheerful mind drove his flock
afield, eating his morning meal of curds and oat cake as he went,
occasionally pausing to add a few berries, cold with dew, or to drink of
the waters that came away from the hills to join the stream in the middle
of the valley and be borne along with it, he knew not whither.
During the long summer day, as his sheep cropped the good grass which the
gods had made to grow for them, or lay with their forelegs doubled under
their breasts and chewed the cud, Haïta, reclining in the shadow of a
tree, or sitting upon a rock, played so sweet music upon his reed pipe
that sometimes from the corner of his eye he got accidental glimpses of
the minor sylvan deities, leaning forward out of the copse to hear; but
if he looked at them directly they vanished. From this—for he must be
thinking if he would not turn into one of his own sheep—he drew the
solemn inference that happiness may come if not sought, but if looked for
will never be seen; for next to the favor of Hastur, who never disclosed
himself, Haïta most valued the friendly interest of his neighbors, the
shy immortals of the wood and stream. At nightfall he drove his flock
back to the fold, saw that the gate was secure and retired to his cave
for refreshment and for dreams.
So passed his life, one day like another, save when the storms uttered
the wrath of an offended god. Then Haïta cowered in his cave, his face
hidden in his hands, and prayed that he alone might be punished for his
sins and the world saved from destruction. Sometimes when there was a
great rain, and the stream came out of its banks, compelling him to urge
his terrified flock to the uplands, he interceded for the people in the
cities which he had been told lay in the plain beyond the two blue hills
forming the gateway of his valley.
“It is kind of thee, O Hastur,” so he prayed, “to give me mountains so
near to my dwelling and my fold that I and my sheep can escape the angry
torrents; but the rest of the world thou must thyself deliver in some way
that I know not of, or I will no longer worship thee.”
And Hastur, knowing that Haïta was a youth who kept his word, spared the
cities and turned the waters into the sea.
So he had lived since he could remember. He could not rightly conceive
any other mode of existence. The holy hermit who dwelt at the head of
the valley, a full hour’s journey away, from whom he had heard the tale
of the great cities where dwelt people—poor souls!—who had no sheep, gave
him no knowledge of that early time, when, so he reasoned, he must have
been small and helpless like a lamb.
It was through thinking on these mysteries and marvels, and on that
horrible change to silence and decay which he felt sure must some time
come to him, as he had seen it come to so many of his flock—as it came to
all living things except the birds—that Haïta first became conscious how
miserable and hopeless was his lot.
“It is necessary,” he said, “that I know whence and how I came; for how
can one perform his duties unless able to judge what they are by the way
in which he was intrusted with them? And what contentment can I have
when I know not how long it is going to last? Perhaps before another sun
I may be changed, and then what will become of the sheep? What, indeed,
will have become of me?”
Pondering these things Haïta became melancholy and morose. He no longer
spoke cheerfully to his flock, nor ran with alacrity to the shrine of
Hastur. In every breeze he heard whispers of malign deities whose
existence he now first observed. Every cloud was a portent signifying
disaster, and the darkness was full of terrors. His reed pipe when
applied to his lips gave out no melody, but a dismal wail; the sylvan and
riparian intelligences no longer thronged the thicket-side to listen, but
fled from the sound, as he knew by the stirred leaves and bent flowers.
He relaxed his vigilance and many of his sheep strayed away into the
hills and were lost. Those that remained became lean and ill for lack of
good pasturage, for he would not seek it for them, but conducted them day
after day to the same spot, through mere abstraction, while puzzling
about life and death—of immortality he knew not.
One day while indulging in the gloomiest reflections he suddenly sprang
from the rock upon which he sat, and with a determined gesture of the
right hand exclaimed: “I will no longer be a suppliant for knowledge
which the gods withhold. Let them look to it that they do me no wrong.
I will do my duty as best I can and if I err upon their own heads be it!”
Suddenly, as he spoke, a great brightness fell about him, causing him to
look upward, thinking the sun had burst through a rift in the clouds; but
there were no clouds. No more than an arm’s length away stood a
beautiful maiden. So beautiful she was that the flowers about her feet
folded their petals in despair and bent their heads in token of
submission; so sweet her look that the humming birds thronged her eyes,
thrusting their thirsty bills almost into them, and the wild bees were
about her lips. And such was her brightness that the shadows of all
objects lay divergent from her feet, turning as she moved.
Haïta was entranced. Rising, he knelt before her in adoration, and she
laid her hand upon his head.
“Come,” she said in a voice that had the music of all the bells of his
flock—“come, thou art not to worship me, who am no goddess, but if thou
art truthful and dutiful I will abide with thee.”
Haïta seized her hand, and stammering his joy and gratitude arose, and
hand in hand they stood and smiled into each other’s eyes. He gazed on
her with reverence and rapture. He said: “I pray thee, lovely maid, tell
me thy name and whence and why thou comest.”
At this she laid a warning finger on her lip and began to withdraw. Her
beauty underwent a visible alteration that made him shudder, he knew not
why, for still she was beautiful. The landscape was darkened by a giant
shadow sweeping across the valley with the speed of a vulture. In the
obscurity the maiden’s figure grew dim and indistinct and her voice
seemed to come from a distance, as she said, in a tone of sorrowful
reproach: “Presumptuous and ungrateful youth! must I then so soon leave
thee? Would nothing do but thou must at once break the eternal compact?”
Inexpressibly grieved, Haïta fell upon his knees and implored her to
remain—rose and sought her in the deepening darkness—ran in circles,
calling to her aloud, but all in vain. She was no longer visible, but
out of the gloom he heard her voice saying: “Nay, thou shalt not have me
by seeking. Go to thy duty, faithless shepherd, or we shall never meet
again.”
Night had fallen; the wolves were howling in the hills and the terrified
sheep crowding about Haïta’s feet. In the demands of the hour he forgot
his disappointment, drove his sheep to the fold and repairing to the
place of worship poured out his heart in gratitude to Hastur for
permitting him to save his flock, then retired to his cave and slept.
When Haïta awoke the sun was high and shone in at the cave, illuminating
it with a great glory. And there, beside him, sat the maiden. She
smiled upon him with a smile that seemed the visible music of his pipe of
reeds. He dared not speak, fearing to offend her as before, for he knew
not what he could venture to say.
“Because,” she said, “thou didst thy duty by the flock, and didst not
forget to thank Hastur for staying the wolves of the night, I am come to
thee again. Wilt thou have me for a companion?”
“Who would not have thee forever?” replied Haïta. “Oh! never again leave
me until—until I—change and become silent and motionless.”
Haïta had no word for death.
“I wish, indeed,” he continued, “that thou wert of my own sex, that we
might wrestle and run races and so never tire of being together.”
At these words the maiden arose and passed out of the cave, and Haïta,
springing from his couch of fragrant boughs to overtake and detain her,
observed to his astonishment that the rain was falling and the stream in
the middle of the valley had come out of its banks. The sheep were
bleating in terror, for the rising waters had invaded their fold. And
there was danger for the unknown cities of the distant plain.
It was many days before Haïta saw the maiden again. One day he was
returning from the head of the valley, where he had gone with ewe’s milk
and oat cake and berries for the holy hermit, who was too old and feeble
to provide himself with food.
“Poor old man!” he said aloud, as he trudged along homeward. “I will
return to-morrow and bear him on my back to my own dwelling, where I can
care for him. Doubtless it is for this that Hastur has reared me all
these many years, and gives me health and strength.”
As he spoke, the maiden, clad in glittering garments, met him in the path
with a smile that took away his breath.
“I am come again,” she said, “to dwell with thee if thou wilt now have
me, for none else will. Thou mayest have learned wisdom, and art willing
to take me as I am, nor care to know.”
Haïta threw himself at her feet. “Beautiful being,” he cried, “if thou
wilt but deign to accept all the devotion of my heart and soul—after
Hastur be served—it is thine forever. But, alas! thou art capricious and
wayward. Before to-morrow’s sun I may lose thee again. Promise, I
beseech thee, that however in my ignorance I may offend, thou wilt
forgive and remain always with me.”
Scarcely had he finished speaking when a troop of bears came out of the
hills, racing toward him with crimson mouths and fiery eyes. The maiden
again vanished, and he turned and fled for his life. Nor did he stop
until he was in the cot of the holy hermit, whence he had set out.
Hastily barring the door against the bears he cast himself upon the
ground and wept.
“My son,” said the hermit from his couch of straw, freshly gathered that
morning by Haïta’s hands, “it is not like thee to weep for bears—tell me
what sorrow hath befallen thee, that age may minister to the hurts of
youth with such balms as it hath of its wisdom.”
Haïta told him all: how thrice he had met the radiant maid, and thrice
she had left him forlorn. He related minutely all that had passed
between them, omitting no word of what had been said.
When he had ended, the holy hermit was a moment silent, then said: “My
son, I have attended to thy story, and I know the maiden. I have myself
seen her, as have many. Know, then, that her name, which she would not
even permit thee to inquire, is Happiness. Thou saidst the truth to her,
that she is capricious for she imposeth conditions that man cannot
fulfill, and delinquency is punished by desertion. She cometh only when
unsought, and will not be questioned. One manifestation of curiosity,
one sign of doubt, one expression of misgiving, and she is away! How
long didst thou have her at any time before she fled?”
“Only a single instant,” answered Haïta, blushing with shame at the
confession. “Each time I drove her away in one moment.”
“Unfortunate youth!” said the holy hermit, “but for thine indiscretion
thou mightst have had her for two.”