sunlight glistening pink upon their breasts, and lowered their pinions
as soon as they saw the Yann, and dropped into the trees. And the
widgeon began to go up the river in great companies, all whistling, and
then would suddenly wheel and all go down again. And there shot by us
the small and arrow-like teal; and we heard the manifold cries of flocks
of geese, which the sailors told me had recently come in from crossing
over the Lispasian ranges; every year they come by the same way, close
by the peak of Mluna, leaving it to the left, and the mountain eagles
know the way they come and—men say—the very hour, and every year they
expect them by the same way as soon as the snows have fallen upon the
Northern Plains. But soon it grew so dark that we saw these birds no
more, and only heard the whirring of their wings, and of countless
others besides, until they all settled down along the banks of the
river, and it was the hour when the birds of the night went forth. Then
the sailors lit the lanterns for the night, and huge moths appeared,
flapping about the ship, and at moments their gorgeous colours would be
revealed by the lanterns, then they would pass into the night again,
where all was black. And again the sailors prayed, and thereafter we
supped and slept, and the helmsman took our lives into his care.
When I awoke I found that we had indeed come to Perdóndaris, that famous
city. For there it stood upon the left of us, a city fair and notable,
and all the more pleasant for our eyes to see after the jungle that was
so long with us. And we were anchored by the market-place, and the
captain’s merchandise was all displayed, and a merchant of Perdóndaris
stood looking at it. And the captain had his scimitar in his hand, and
was beating with it in anger upon the deck, and the splinters were
flying up from the white planks; for the merchant had offered him a
price for his merchandise that the captain declared to be an insult to
himself and his country’s gods, whom he now said to be great and
terrible gods, whose curses were to be dreaded. But the merchant waved
his hands, which were of great fatness, showing the pink palms, and
swore that of himself he thought not at all, but only of the poor folk
in the huts beyond the city to whom he wished to sell the merchandise
for as low a price as possible, leaving no remuneration for himself. For
the merchandise was mostly the thick toomarund carpets that in the
winter keep the wind from the floor, and tollub which the people smoke
in pipes. Therefore the merchant said if he offered a piffek more the
poor folk must go without their toomarunds when the winter came, and
without their tollub in the evenings, or else he and his aged father
must starve together. Thereat the captain lifted his scimitar to his own
throat, saying that he was now a ruined man, and that nothing remained
to him but death. And while he was carefully lifting his beard with his
left hand, the merchant eyed the merchandise again, and said that rather
than see so worthy a captain die, a man for whom he had conceived an
especial love when first he saw the manner in which he handled his ship,
he and his aged father should starve together and therefore he offered
fifteen piffeks more.
When he said this the captain prostrated himself and prayed to his gods
that they might yet sweeten this merchant’s bitter heart—to his little
lesser gods, to the gods that bless Belzoond.
At last the merchant offered yet five piffeks more. Then the captain
wept, for he said that he was deserted of his gods; and the merchant
also wept, for he said that he was thinking of his aged father, and of
how he soon would starve, and he hid his weeping face with both his
hands, and eyed the tollub again between his fingers. And so the bargain
was concluded, and the merchant took the toomarund and tollub, paying
for them out of a great clinking purse. And these were packed up into
bales again, and three of the merchant’s slaves carried them upon their
heads into the city. And all the while the sailors had sat silent,
cross-legged in a crescent upon the deck, eagerly watching the bargain,
and now a murmur of satisfaction arose among them, and they began to
compare it among themselves with other bargains that they had known. And
I found out from them that there are seven merchants in Perdóndaris, and
that they had all come to the captain one by one before the bargaining
began, and each had warned him privately against the others. And to all
the merchants the captain had offered the wine of his own country, that
they make in fair Belzoond, but could in no wise persuade them to it.
But now that the bargain was over, and the sailors were seated at the
first meal of the day, the captain appeared among them with a cask of
that wine, and we broached it with care and all made merry together. And
the captain was glad in his heart because he knew that he had much
honour in the eyes of his men because of the bargain that he had made.
So the sailors drank the wine of their native land, and soon their
thoughts were back in fair Belzoond and the little neighbouring cities
of Durl and Duz.
But for me the captain poured into a little glass some heavy yellow wine
from a small jar which he kept apart among his sacred things. Thick and
sweet it was, even like honey, yet there was in its heart a mighty,
ardent fire which had authority over souls of men. It was made, the
captain told me, with great subtlety by the secret craft of a family of
six who lived in a hut on the mountains of Hian Min. Once in these
mountains, he said, he followed the spoor of a bear, and he came
suddenly on a man of that family who had hunted the same bear, and he
was at the end of a narrow way with precipice all about him, and his
spear was sticking in the bear, and the wound not fatal, and he had no
other weapon. And the bear was walking towards the man, very slowly
because his wound irked him—yet he was now very close. And what the
captain did he would not say, but every year as soon as the snows are
hard, and travelling is easy on the Hian Min, that man comes down to the
market in the plains, and always leaves for the captain in the gate of
fair Belzoond a vessel of that priceless secret wine.
And as I sipped the wine and the captain talked, I remembered me of
stalwart noble things that I had long since resolutely planned, and my
soul seemed to grow mightier within me and to dominate the whole tide of
the Yann. It may be that I then slept. Or, if I did not, I do not now
minutely recollect every detail of that morning’s occupations. Towards
evening, I awoke and wishing to see Perdóndaris before we left in the
morning, and being unable to wake the captain, I went ashore alone.
Certainly Perdóndaris was a powerful city; it was encompassed by a wall
of great strength and altitude, having in it hollow ways for troops to
walk in, and battlements along it all the way, and fifteen strong towers
on it in every mile, and copper plaques low down where men could read
them, telling in all the languages of those parts of the Earth—one
language on each plaque—the tale of how an army once attacked
Perdóndaris and what befel that army. Then I entered Perdóndaris and
found all the people dancing, clad in brilliant silks, and playing on
the tambang as they danced. For a fearful thunder-storm had terrified
them while I slept, and the fires of death, they said, had danced over
Perdóndaris, and now the thunder had gone leaping away large and black
and hideous, they said, over the distant hills, and had turned round
snarling at them, showing his gleaming teeth, and had stamped, as he
went, upon the hilltops until they rang as though they had been bronze.
And often and again they stopped in their merry dances and prayed to the
God they knew not, saying, “O, God that we know not, we thank Thee for
sending the thunder back to his hills.” And I went on and came to the
market-place, and lying there upon the marble pavement I saw the
merchant fast asleep and breathing heavily, with his face and the palms
of his hands towards the sky, and slaves were fanning him to keep away
the flies. And from the market-place I came to a silver temple and then
to a palace of onyx, and there were many wonders in Perdóndaris, and I
would have stayed and seen them all, but as I came to the outer wall of
the city I suddenly saw in it a huge ivory gate. For a while I paused
and admired it, then I came nearer and perceived the dreadful truth. The
gate was carved out of one solid piece!
I fled at once through the gateway and down to the ship, and even as I
ran I thought that I heard far off on the hills behind me the tramp of
the fearful beast by whom that mass of ivory was shed, who was perhaps
even then looking for his other tusk. When I was on the ship again I
felt safer, and I said nothing to the sailors of what I had seen.
And now the captain was gradually awakening. Now night was rolling up
from the East and North, and only the pinnacles of the towers of
Perdóndaris still took the fallen sunlight. Then I went to the captain
and told him quietly of the thing I had seen. And he questioned me at
once about the gate, in a low voice, that the sailors might not know;
and I told him how the weight of the thing was such that it could not
have been brought from afar, and the captain knew that it had not been
there a year ago. We agreed that such a beast could never have been
killed by any assault of man, and that the gate must have been a fallen
tusk, and one fallen near and recently. Therefore he decided that it
were better to flee at once; so he commanded, and the sailors went to
the sails, and others raised the anchor to the deck, and just as the
highest pinnacle of marble lost the last rays of the sun we left
Perdóndaris, that famous city. And night came down and cloaked
Perdóndaris and hid it from our eyes, which as things have happened will
never see it again; for I have heard since that something swift and
wonderful has suddenly wrecked Perdóndaris in a day—towers, and walls,
and people.
And the night deepened over the River Yann, a night all white with
stars. And with the night there rose the helmsman’s song. As soon as he
had prayed he began to sing to cheer himself all through the lonely
night. But first he prayed, praying the helmsman’s prayer. And this is
what I remember of it, rendered into English with a very feeble
equivalent of the rhythm that seemed so resonant in those tropic nights.
To whatever god may hear.
Wherever there be sailors whether of river or sea: whether their way be
dark or whether through storm: whether their peril be of beast or of
rock: or from enemy lurking on land or pursuing on sea: wherever the
tiller is cold or the helmsman stiff: wherever sailors sleep or helmsmen
watch: guard, guide, and return us to the old land, that has known us:
to the far homes that we know.
To all the gods that are.
To whatever god may hear.
So he prayed, and there was silence. And the sailors laid them down to
rest for the night. The silence deepened, and was only broken by the
ripples of Yann that lightly touched our prow. Sometimes some monster of
the river coughed.
Silence and ripples, ripples and silence again.
And then his loneliness came upon the helmsman, and he began to sing.
And he sang the market songs of Durl and Duz, and the old dragon-legends
of Belzoond.
Many a song he sang, telling to spacious and exotic Yann the little
tales and trifles of his city of Durl. And the songs welled up over the
black jungle and came into the clear cold air above, and the great bands
of stars that look on Yann began to know the affairs of Durl and Duz,
and of the shepherds that dwelt in the fields between, and the flocks
that they had, and the loves that they had loved, and all the little
things that they hoped to do. And as I lay wrapped up in skins and
blankets, listening to those songs, and watching the fantastic shapes of
the great trees like to black giants stalking through the night, I
suddenly fell asleep.
When I awoke great mists were trailing away from the Yann. And the flow
of the river was tumbling now tumultuously, and little waves appeared;
for Yann had scented from afar the ancient crags of Glorm, and knew that
their ravines lay cool before him wherein he should meet the merry wild
Irillion rejoicing from fields of snow. So he shook off from him the
torpid sleep that had come upon him in the hot and scented jungle, and
forgot its orchids and its butterflies, and swept on turbulent,
expectant, strong; and soon the snowy peaks of the Hills of Glorm came
glittering into view. And now the sailors were waking up from sleep.
Soon we all eat, and then the helmsman laid him down to sleep while a
comrade took his place, and they all spread over him their choicest
furs.
And in a while we heard the sound that the Irillion made as she came
down dancing from the fields of snow.
And then we saw the ravine in the Hills of Glorm lying precipitous and
smooth before us, into which we were carried by the leaps of Yann. And
now we left the steamy jungle and breathed the mountain air; the sailors
stood up and took deep breaths of it, and thought of their own far-off
Acroctian hills on which were Durl and Duz—below them in the plains
stands fair Belzoond.
A great shadow brooded between the cliffs of Glorm, but the crags were
shining above us like gnarled moons, and almost lit the gloom. Louder
and louder came the Irillion’s song, and the sound of her dancing down
from the fields of snow. And soon we saw her white and full of mists,
and wreathed with rainbows delicate and small that she had plucked up
near the mountain’s summit from some celestial garden of the Sun. Then
she went away seawards with the huge grey Yann and the ravine widened,
and opened upon the world, and our rocking ship came through to the
light of the day.
And all that morning and all the afternoon we passed through the marshes
of Pondoovery; and Yann widened there, and flowed solemnly and slowly,
and the captain bade the sailors beat on bells to overcome the
dreariness of the marshes.
At last the Irusian mountains came in sight, nursing the villages of
Pen-Kai and Blut, and the wandering streets of Mlo, where priests
propitiate the avalanche with wine and maize. Then night came down over
the plains of Tlun, and we saw the lights of Cappadarnia. We heard the
Pathnites beating upon drums as we passed Imaut and Golzunda, then all
but the helmsman slept. And villages scattered along the banks of the
Yann heard all that night in the helmsman’s unknown tongue the little
songs of cities that they knew not.
I awoke before dawn with a feeling that I was unhappy before I
remembered why. Then I recalled that by the evening of the approaching
day, according to all foreseen probabilities, we should come to
Bar-Wul-Yann, and I should part from the captain and his sailors. And I
had liked the man because he had given me of his yellow wine that was
set apart among his sacred things, and many a story he had told me about
his fair Belzoond between the Acroctian hills and the Hian Min. And I
had liked the ways that his sailors had, and the prayers that they
prayed at evening side by side, grudging not one another their alien
gods. And I had a liking too for the tender way in which they often
spoke of Durl and Duz, for it is good that men should love their native
cities and the little hills that hold those cities up.
And I had come to know who would meet them when they returned to their
homes, and where they thought the meetings would take place, some in a
valley of the Acroctian hills where the road comes up from Yann, others
in the gateway of one or another of the three cities, and others by the
fireside in the home. And I thought of the danger that had menaced us
all alike outside Perdóndaris, a danger that, as things have happened,
was very real.
And I thought too of the helmsman’s cheery song in the cold and lonely
night, and how he had held our lives in his careful hands. And as I
thought of this the helmsman ceased to sing, and I looked up and saw a
pale light had appeared in the sky, and the lonely night had passed; and
the dawn widened, and the sailors awoke.
And soon we saw the tide of the Sea himself advancing resolute between
Yann’s borders, and Yann sprang lithely at him and they struggled
awhile; then Yann and all that was his were pushed back northward, so
that the sailors had to hoist the sails and, the wind being favorable,
we still held onwards.
And we passed Góndara and Narl and Haz. And we saw memorable, holy
Golnuz, and heard the pilgrims praying.
When we awoke after the midday rest we were coming near to Nen, the last
of the cities on the River Yann. And the jungle was all about us once
again, and about Nen; but the great Mloon ranges stood up over all
things, and watched the city from beyond the jungle.
Here we anchored, and the captain and I went up into the city and found
that the Wanderers had come into Nen.
And the Wanderers were a weird, dark tribe, that once in every seven
years came down from the peaks of Mloon, having crossed by a pass that
is known to them from some fantastic land that lies beyond. And the
people of Nen were all outside their houses, and all stood wondering at
their own streets. For the men and women of the Wanderers had crowded
all the ways, and every one was doing some strange thing. Some danced
astounding dances that they had learned from the desert wind, rapidly
curving and swirling till the eye could follow no longer. Others played
upon instruments beautiful wailing tunes that were full of horror, which
souls had taught them lost by night in the desert, that strange far
desert from which the Wanderers came.
None of their instruments were such as were known in Nen nor in any part
of the region of the Yann; even the horns out of which some were made
were of beasts that none had seen along the river, for they were barbed
at the tips. And they sang, in the language of none, songs that seemed
to be akin to the mysteries of night and to the unreasoned fear that
haunts dark places.
Bitterly all the dogs of Nen distrusted them. And the Wanderers told one
another fearful tales, for though no one in Nen knew ought of their
language yet they could see the fear on the listeners’ faces, and as the
tale wound on the whites of their eyes showed vividly in terror as the
eyes of some little beast whom the hawk has seized. Then the teller of
the tale would smile and stop, and another would tell his story, and the
teller of the first tale’s lips would chatter with fear. And if some
deadly snake chanced to appear the Wanderers would greet him as a
brother, and the snake would seem to give his greetings to them before
he passed on again. Once that most fierce and lethal of tropic snakes,
the giant lythra, came out of the jungle and all down the street, the
central street of Nen, and none of the Wanderers moved away from him,
but they all played sonorously on drums, as though he had been a person
of much honour; and the snake moved through the midst of them and smote
none.
Even the Wanderers’ children could do strange things, for if any one of
them met with a child of Nen the two would stare at each other in
silence with large grave eyes; then the Wanderers’ child would slowly
draw from his turban a live fish or snake. And the children of Nen could
do nothing of that kind at all.
Much I should have wished to stay and hear the hymn with which they
greet the night, that is answered by the wolves on the heights of Mloon,
but it was now time to raise the anchor again that the captain might
return from Bar-Wul-Yann upon the landward tide. So we went on board and
continued down the Yann. And the captain and I spoke little, for we were
thinking of our parting, which should be for long, and we watched
instead the splendour of the westering sun. For the sun was a ruddy
gold, but a faint mist cloaked the jungle, lying low, and into it poured
the smoke of the little jungle cities, and the smoke of them met
together in the mist and joined into one haze, which became purple, and
was lit by the sun, as the thoughts of men become hallowed by some great
and sacred thing. Some times one column from a lonely house would rise
up higher than the cities’ smoke, and gleam by itself in the sun.
And now as the sun’s last rays were nearly level, we saw the sight that
I had come to see, for from two mountains that stood on either shore two
cliffs of pink marble came out into the river, all glowing in the light
of the low sun, and they were quite smooth and of mountainous altitude,
and they nearly met, and Yann went tumbling between them and found the
sea.
And this was Bar-Wul-Yann, the Gate of Yann, and in the distance through
that barrier’s gap I saw the azure indescribable sea, where little
fishing-boats went gleaming by.
And the sun set, and the brief twilight came, and the exultation of the
glory of Bar-Wul-Yann was gone, yet still the pink cliffs glowed, the
fairest marvel that the eye beheld—and this in a land of wonders. And
soon the twilight gave place to the coming out of stars, and the colours
of Bar-Wul-Yann went dwindling away. And the sight of those cliffs was
to me as some chord of music that a master’s hand had launched from the
violin, and which carries to Heaven or Faëry the tremulous spirits of
men.
[Illustration: THE GATE OF YANN]
And now by the shore they anchored and went no further, for they were
sailors of the river and not of the sea, and knew the Yann but not the
tides beyond.
And the time was come when the captain and I must part, he to go back
again to his fair Belzoond in sight of the distant peaks of the Hian
Min, and I to find my way by strange means back to those hazy fields
that all poets know, wherein stand small mysterious cottages through
whose windows, looking westwards, you may see the fields of men, and
looking eastwards see glittering elfin mountains, tipped with snow,
going range on range into the region of Myth, and beyond it into the
kingdom of Fantasy, which pertain to the Lands of Dream. Long we
regarded one another, knowing that we should meet no more, for my fancy
is weakening as the years slip by, and I go ever more seldom into the
Lands of Dream. Then we clasped hands, uncouthly on his part, for it is
not the method of greeting in his country, and he commended my soul to
the care of his own gods, to his little lesser gods, the humble ones, to
the gods that bless Belzoond.
_The Sword and the Idol_