THE QUEST
FOR the space of twelve months Peregrine abode at the Castle Syrtes.
During the first six the life within it pleased him exceeding well.
There was no lack of hospitality; his presence was very assuredly
desired. On all sides he found himself a favourite, from the least of
the guests to the divine Thaïs herself. This was enough to please a man
who had found himself hitherto, save for a few weeks of delusion, of
very small importance.
He became Head of the Council of Arts as they termed it, wherein his
opinion was most widely deferred to. The Cult of the Jester was on all
tongues. What precisely this Cult was I know not, save that it had for
its motto _Dum vivimus, vivamus_; and that said it is perchance
unnecessary to seek further light on the matter. I know they talked very
blandly of Sorrow as the highest exponent of Art, whereas no one of them
had ever glimpsed even the fringe of her garment, though Peregrine
assuredly believed he had. Joy, they contended, followed close in her
path. They spoke intimately of both. But it is very certain that none
who have not met Sorrow face to face can hope to meet Joy. Of them all
Peregrine was the only one whom we may believe laughed now and again at
himself. A very small grace truly, but we may trust a saving one.
For six months, then, he enjoyed himself mightily, held his Council of
Arts wherein his speeches were most largely adorned with flowery
rhetoric; sang to the ladies in the garden, and heard their praises of
his songs very complacently; ate delicate food; drank rare wines;
watched dances wherein harmony, rhythm, and colour lent every lure to
please the senses. At the end of six months he began to weary, and for
the succeeding three stifled mental yawns to the best of his ability.
Now and again pleasure would rekindle only to die away to dull ashes.
For the last three of the twelve months he was heartily sick of his life
as it was, but custom by now having wedded him to the Castle he was
somewhat loth to leave. Also, having in mind the memory of his travels
before he reached the Castle, he saw not to what end he should depart.
Therefore he dallied. He disguised his weariness and dislike of the
over-soft life well. None suspected what he thought. It was at this time
he had a dream, which brought his dilatory spirit to action.
One noontide, lying in the garden with the autumn sun striking full upon
him, he drowsed to slumber. At first, through the slumber, he was
conscious of where he lay, felt the warmth of the sun upon his cheek;
was aware, though with closed eyes, of the forest which hemmed in the
Castle on all sides. Gradually consciousness lost its hold upon him, he
slid into a deep silence whence all externals left him. Then it was that
the dream came to him. With no beginning he found himself in the midst
of it. This is what he dreamed.
He dreamed that he was walking on the far white road climbing the
hillside, the same that he had seen a year agone. The sun beat hotly
upon it, burning his face, causing the blood in his temples to drum
madly. In front of him he saw a figure, a cloaked woman moving swiftly
over the road before him. He strained every nerve in pursuit of her, but
for all his straining she kept ever ahead. The road became steeper, the
sun beat more fiercely upon him. Yet his desire to reach the figure
before him was so intense that he would not have halted if he could. But
he could not. He knew that till he reached her he must keep ever onward.
Then beyond her he saw the tree, its withered branches flung cross-like
from the dead trunk. And on a sudden he knew that unless he gained her
before she had passed it by he would never reach her. He tried to run
and could not, his feet were leaden. He could only keep on at the same
dull pace. He saw her now within a yard of the tree. She had gained it.
Some cry burst from his throat, half prayer, wholly imploring. At the
very foot of the tree she stopped and turned. With laboured steps he
came abreast her. He saw her face....
He woke trembling. The dream had been very vivid. Yet more vivid than
heat or fatigue was the face of the woman he had seen. Of one thing he
was very certain. It was no dream face only. Somewhere the woman was in
existence, and from that moment till life should be ended for him he
must seek her. If in sleep the desire to reach her had been intense, the
desire in waking was threefold. Here one might say was madness and
illusion. Maybe. Nevertheless it stung him quick to action.
He got to his feet, picking up his cloak from the ground where it had
lain beside him. He looked around. There was no man in sight. So much
the better, since he was in no mood either for argument or farewell.
Leaving the smooth green of the grass sward he plunged straight into the
forest. Here he was to experience some of that so-called evil magic
which brought the forest its ill name. Verily an’ he were so minded he
might have believed the trees and shrubs possessed of demons so
venomously did they seek to bar his passage among them. Knowing,
however, the thought sheer foolishness he but mocked at it, and put it
from him. The path by which he had made his way to the Castle had become
overgrown during his twelve months’ sojourn there. The difficulty of his
return route fretted him while it roused him to do combat with it. Now
and again he paused to break off some branch tough as leather, requiring
the full strength of both his hands to twist. He became hot and weary,
and very assuredly angry with the difficulties that beset him. A dogged
obstinacy took hold on him. For the moment he lost sight of the memory
of his dream and the quest on which it had brought him. Sheer
determination to win through the forest at any hazard sent him
struggling onward. An’ he had to break his way piecemeal through the
forest he would win his way out. You see him now a very stubborn man,
one not to be kept prisoner against his own will and pleasure.
Yard by yard he made his way forward. His hands began to drop blood, his
clothes were sadly torn. Two thirds of the forest lay behind him. An’ he
could hold out for the remainder all were well. He shook the blood from
his fingers which smarted very painfully, cried courage to his heart,
and beat onward. Here it was that the memory of his dream returned to
him, and further, here was the pity of it, returned merely as dream.
That was discouraging. It made him appear a fool for his pains, his
trouble to no purpose. For a moment his heart cried to him to give up
the remainder of his journey, to return on his path.
“Nay,” he said, very dogged, “’tis a low suggestion to make a man. An’ I
return ’tis like as not the reality of the dream returns also. The
journey thus far will have been for naught, and it will be but to make
again. I cry onward.” Which methinks sound reasoning.
Stumbling, bruised, and bleeding he made the last bit of the forest; saw
at length the sky between the trees. Worn out he dropped on their
margin, halting for a moment’s breathing space. While he lay breathless
and panting the face of his vision returned to him clear and vivid.
Again he knew it for no dream. This much at least he had as reward for
his labours. He got to his feet on the instant. The land around him lay
in sunshine. Now he saw what had escaped him formerly in the dusk, a
path through the bog around the forest. He took it gladly and came out
upon the plain. Here in the sunlight he saw the great boulders, less
ominous now than in the gathering storm; and far off he saw the white
road climbing the hillside. He knew it for his goal without doubt, and
set off thither.
An hour or so brought him to it, and he began to ascend. He felt the
heat of the sun upon him, bringing his dream clear to mind. Each moment
he thought to see the figure on the road before him, but it stretched
onward empty up the hill.
He climbed steadily; anon saw the tree dark against the blue of the sky.
He pressed forward towards it. So sure had he been at the beginning of
the climb of finding what he sought that disappointment fell very hard
upon him when he saw no figure standing beneath it. Sick at heart he
came up to it, looked around. On every side stretched dusty grass,
sun-baked and dry; and on ahead, between the stretches of it, passed the
white road. The futility of his quest struck upon him. He felt himself a
deluded man.
About to turn bitterly away his eye was caught by an impress in the
dusty ground below the tree. Bending closer he saw foot-marks, clear and
unblurred, deeply imprinted. Someone had stood there not long since.
Slight hope to go on, seeing it might have been a mere wayfarer such as
he himself. Yet even as a drowning man grips hold on a straw so
Peregrine gripped on the faint hope the impress brought him. He saw now
that the marks passed on along the road. With hope renewed he followed
in their track.
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