I
In the middle of the land that is called by its inhabitants Koorma, and
by strangers the Land of the Half-forgotten, I was toiling all day long
through heavy sand and grass as hard as wire. Suddenly, toward evening,
I came upon a place where a gate opened in the wall of mountains, and
the plain ran in through the gate, making a little bay of level country
among the hills.
Now this bay was not brown and hard and dry, like the mountains above
me, neither was it covered with tawny billows of sand like the desert
along the edge of which I had wearily coasted. But the surface of it was
smooth and green; and as the winds of twilight breathed across it they
were followed by soft waves of verdure, with silvery turnings of the
under sides of many leaves, like ripples on a quiet harbour. There were
fields of corn, filled with silken rustling, and vineyards with long
rows of trimmed maple-trees standing each one like an emerald goblet
wreathed with vines, and flower-gardens as bright as if the earth
had been embroidered with threads of blue and scarlet and gold, and
olive-orchards frosted over with delicate and fragrant blossoms.
Red-roofed cottages were scattered everywhere through the sea of
greenery, and in the centre, like a white ship surrounded by a flock of
little boats, rested a small, fair, shining city.
I wondered greatly how this beauty had come into being on the border of
the desert. Passing through the fields and gardens and orchards, I found
that they were all encircled and lined with channels full of running
water. I followed up one of the smaller channels until it came to a
larger stream, and as I walked on beside it, still going upward, it
guided me into the midst of the city, where I saw a sweet, merry river
flowing through the main street, with abundance of water and a very
pleasant sound.
There were houses and shops and lofty palaces and all that makes a city,
but the life and joy of all, and the one thing that I remember best,
was the river. For in the open square at the edge of the city there were
marble pools where the children might bathe and play; at the corners of
the streets and on the sides of the houses there were fountains for the
drawing of water; at every crossing a stream was turned aside to run out
to the vineyards; and the river was the mother of them all.
There were but few people in the streets, and none of the older folk
from whom I might ask counsel or a lodging; so I stood and knocked at
the door of a house. It was opened by an old man, who greeted me
with kindness and bade me enter as his guest. After much courteous
entertainment, and when supper was ended, his friendly manner and
something of singular attractiveness in his countenance led me to tell
him of my strange journeyings in the land of Koorma and in other lands
where I had been seeking the Blue Flower, and to inquire of him the name
and the story of his city and the cause of the river which made it glad.
“My son,” he answered, “this is the city which was called Ablis, that is
to say, Forsaken. For long ago men lived here, and the river made their
fields fertile, and their dwellings were full of plenty and peace. But
because of many evil things which have been half-forgotten, the river
was turned aside, or else it was dried up at its source in the high
place among the mountains, so that the water flowed down no more. The
channels and the trenches and the marble pools and the basins beside
the houses remained, but they were empty. So the gardens withered; the
fields were barren; the city was desolate; and in the broken cisterns
there was scanty water.
“Then there came one from a distant country who was very sorrowful
to see the desolation. He told the people that it was vain to dig new
cisterns and to keep the channels and trenches clean; for the water had
come only from above. The Source must be found again and reopened.
The river would not flow unless they traced it back to the spring,
and visited it continually, and offered prayers and praises beside it
without ceasing. Then the spring would rise to an outpouring, and the
water would run down plentifully to make the gardens blossom and the
city rejoice.
“So he went forth to open the fountain; but there were few that went
with him, for he was a poor man of lowly aspect, and the path upward
was steep and rough. But his companions saw that as he climbed among the
rocks, little streams of water gushed from the places where he trod, and
pools began to gather in the dry river-bed. He went more swiftly than
they could follow him, and at length he passed out of their sight. A
little farther on they came to the rising of the river and there, beside
the overflowing Source, they found their leader lying dead.”
“That was a strange thing,” I cried, “and very pitiful. Tell me how it
came to pass, and what was the meaning of it.”
“I cannot tell the whole of the meaning,” replied the old man, after
a little pause, “for it was many years ago. But this poor man had many
enemies in the city, chiefly among the makers of cisterns, who hated him
for his words. I believe that they went out after him secretly and slew
him. But his followers came back to the city; and as they came the river
began to run down very gently after them. They returned to the Source
day by day, bringing others with them; for they said that their leader
was really alive, though the form of his life had changed, and that he
met them in that high place while they remembered him and prayed and
sang songs of praise. More and more the people learned to go with them,
and the path grew plainer and easier to find. The more the Source was
revisited, the more abundant it became, and the more it filled the
river. All the channels and the basins were supplied with water, and men
made new channels which were also filled. Some of those who were diggers
of trenches and hewers of cisterns said that it was their work which had
wrought the change. But the wisest and best among the people knew that
it all came from the Source, and they taught that if it should ever
again be forgotten and left unvisited the river would fail again and
desolation return. So every day, from the gardens and orchards and
the streets of the city, men and women and children have gone up the
mountain-path with singing, to rejoice beside the spring from which the
river flows and to remember the one who opened it. We call it the River
Carita. And the name of the city is no more Ablis, but Saloma, which is
Peace. And the name of him who died to find the Source for us is so dear
that we speak it only when we pray.
“But there are many things yet to learn about our city, and some that
seem dark and cast a shadow on my thoughts. Therefore, my son, I bid you
to be my guest, for there is a room in my house for the stranger; and
to-morrow and on the following days you shall see how life goes with us,
and read, if you can, the secret of the city.”
That night I slept well, as one who has heard a pleasant tale, with the
murmur of running water woven through my dreams; and the next day I went
out early into the streets, for I was curious to see the manner of the
visitation of the Source.
Already the people were coming forth and turning their steps upward in
the mountain-path beside the river. Some of them went alone, swiftly and
in silence; others were in groups of two or three, talking as they went;
others were in larger companies, and they sang together very gladly and
sweetly. But there were many people who remained working in their fields
or in their houses, or stayed talking on the corners of the streets.
Therefore I joined myself to one of the men who walked alone and asked
him why all the people did not go to the spring, since the life of the
city depended upon it, and whether, perhaps, the way was so long and so
hard that none but the strongest could undertake it.
“Sir,” said he, “I perceive that you are a stranger, for the way is both
short and easy, so that the children are those who most delight in
it; and if a man were in great haste he could go there and return in a
little while. But of those who remain behind, some are the busy ones who
must visit the fountain at another hour; and some are the careless ones
who take life as it comes and never think where it comes from; and some
are those who do not believe in the Source and will hear nothing about
it.”
“How can that be?” I said; “do they not drink of the water, and does it
not make their fields green?”
“It is true,” he said; “but these men have made wells close by the
river, and they say that these wells fill themselves; and they have
digged channels through their gardens, and they say that these channels
would always have water in them even though the spring should cease to
flow. Some of them say also that it is an unworthy thing to drink from
a source that another has opened, and that every man ought to find a new
spring for himself; so they spend the hour of the visitation, and many
more, in searching among the mountains where there is no path.”
While I wondered over this, we kept on in the way. There was already
quite a throng of people all going in the same direction. And when we
came to the Source, which flowed from an opening in a cliff, almost like
a chamber hewn in the rock, and made a little garden of wild-flowers
around it as it fell, I heard the music of many voices and the beautiful
name of him who had given his life to find the forgotten spring.
Then we came down again, singly and in groups, following the river. It
seemed already more bright and full and joyous. As we passed through
the gardens I saw men turning aside to make new channels through fields
which were not yet cultivated. And as we entered the city I saw the
wheels of the mills that ground the corn whirling more swiftly, and the
maidens coming with their pitchers to draw from the brimming basins at
the street corners, and the children laughing because the marble pools
were so full that they could swim in them. There was plenty of water
everywhere.
For many weeks I stayed in the city of Saloma, going up the
mountain-path in the morning, and returning to the day of work and the
evening of play. I found friends among the people of the city, not only
among those who walked together in the visitation of the Source, but
also among those who remained behind, for many of them were kind
and generous, faithful in their work, and very pleasant in their
conversation.
Yet there was something lacking between me and them. I came not onto
firm ground with them, for all their warmth of welcome and their
pleasant ways. They were by nature of the race of those who dwell ever
in one place; even in their thoughts they went not far abroad. But I
have been ever a seeker, and the world seems to me made to wander in,
rather than to abide in one corner of it and never see what the rest has
in store. Now this was what the people of Saloma could not understand,
and for this reason I seemed to them always a stranger, an alien, a
guest. The fixed circle of their life was like an invisible wall, and
with the best will in the world they knew not how to draw me within it.
And I, for my part, while I understood well their wish to rest and be at
peace, could not quite understand the way in which it found fulfilment,
nor share the repose which seemed to them all-sufficient and lasting.
In their gardens I saw ever the same flowers, and none perfect. At their
feasts I tasted ever the same food, and none that made an end of hunger.
In their talk I heard ever the same words, and none that went to the
depth of thought. The very quietude and fixity of their being perplexed
and estranged me. What to them was permanent, to me was transient. They
were inhabitants: I was a visitor.
The one in all the city of Saloma with whom was most at home was Ruamie,
the little granddaughter of the old man with whom I lodged. To her, a
girl of thirteen, fair-eyed and full of joy, the wonted round of life
had not yet grown to be a matter of course. She was quick to feel and
answer the newness of every day that dawned. When a strange bird flew
down from the mountains into the gardens, it was she that saw it and
wondered at it. It was she that walked with me most often in the path to
the Source. She went out with me to the fields in the morning and almost
every day found wild-flowers that were new to me. At sunset she drew me
to happy games of youths and children, where her fancy was never tired
of weaving new turns to the familiar pastimes. In the dusk she would sit
beside me in an arbour of honeysuckle and question me about the flower
that I was seeking,--for to her I had often spoken of my quest.
“Is it blue,” she asked, “as blue as the speedwell that grows beside the
brook?”
“Yes, it is as much bluer than the speedwell, as the river is deeper
than the brook.”
“And is it,” she asked, “as bright as the drops of dew in the moonlight?”
“Yes, it is brighter than the drops of dew as the sun is clearer than
the moon.”
“And is it sweet,” she asked, “as sweet as the honeysuckle when the day
is warm and still?”
“Yes, it is as much sweeter than the honeysuckle as the night is stiller
and more sweet than the day.”
“Tell me again,” she asked, “when you saw it, and why do you seek it?”
“Once I saw it when I was a boy, no older than you. Our house looked out
toward the hills, far away and at sunset softly blue against the
eastern sky. It was the day that we laid my father to rest in the little
burying-ground among the cedar-trees. There was his father’s grave, and
his father’s father’s grave, and there were the places for my mother and
for my two brothers and for my sister and for me. I counted them all,
when the others had gone back to the house. I paced up and down alone,
measuring the ground; there was room enough for us all; and in the
western corner where a young elm-tree was growing,--that would be my
place, for I was the youngest. How tall would the elm-tree be then?
I had never thought of it before. It seemed to make me sad and
restless,--wishing for something, I knew not what,--longing to see the
world and to taste happiness before I must sleep beneath the elm-tree.
Then I looked off to the blue hills, shadowy and dream-like, the
boundary of the little world that I knew. And there, in a cleft between
the highest peaks I saw a wondrous thing: for the place at which I was
looking seemed to come nearer and nearer to me; I saw the trees, the
rocks, the ferns, the white road winding before me; the enfolding hills
unclosed like leaves, and in the heart of them I saw a Blue Flower, so
bright, so beautiful that my eyes filled with tears as I looked. It was
like a face that smiled at me and promised something. Then I heard a
call, like the note of a trumpet very far away, calling me to come. And
as I listened the flower faded into the dimness of the hills.”
“Did you follow it,” asked Ruamie, “and did you go away from your home?
How could you do that?”
“Yes, Ruamie, when the time came, as soon as I was free, I set out on
my journey, and my home is at the end of the journey, wherever that may
be.”
“And the flower,” she asked, “you have seen it again?”
“Once again, when I was a youth, I saw it. After a long voyage upon
stormy seas, we came into a quiet haven, and there the friend who was
dearest to me, said good-by, for he was going back to his own country
and his father’s house, but I was still journeying onward. So as I stood
at the bow of the ship, sailing out into the wide blue water, far away
among the sparkling waves I saw a little island, with shores of silver
sand and slopes of fairest green, and in the middle of the island the
Blue Flower was growing, wondrous tall and dazzling, brighter than the
sapphire of the sea. Then the call of the distant trumpet came floating
across the water, and while it was sounding a shimmer of fog swept over
the island and I could see it no more.”
“Was it a real island,” asked Ruamie. “Did you ever find it?”
“Never; for the ship sailed another way. But once again I saw the
flower; three days before I came to Saloma. It was on the edge of the
desert, close under the shadow of the great mountains. A vast loneliness
was round about me; it seemed as if I was the only soul living upon
earth; and I longed for the dwellings of men. Then as I woke in the
morning I looked up at the dark ridge of the mountains, and there
against the brightening blue of the sky I saw the Blue Flower standing
up clear and brave. It shone so deep and pure that the sky grew pale
around it. Then the echo of the far-off trumpet drifted down the
hillsides, and the sun rose, and the flower was melted away in light. So
I rose and travelled on till I came to Saloma.”
“And now,” said the child, “you are at home with us. Will you not stay
for a long, long while? You may find the Blue Flower here. There are
many kinds in the fields. I find new ones every day.”
“I will stay while I can, Ruamie,” I answered, taking her hand in mine
as we walked back to the house at nightfall, “but how long that may be I
cannot tell. For with you I am at home, yet the place where I must abide
is the place where the flower grows, and when the call comes I must
follow it.”
“Yes,” said she, looking at me half in doubt, “I think I understand. But
wherever you go I hope you will find the flower at last.”
In truth there were many things in the city that troubled me and made me
restless, in spite of the sweet comfort of Ruamie’s friendship and the
tranquillity of the life in Saloma. I came to see the meaning of what
the old man had said about the shadow that rested upon his thoughts. For
there were some in the city who said that the hours of visitation were
wasted, and that it would be better to employ the time in gathering
water from the pools that formed among the mountains in the rainy
season, or in sinking wells along the edge of the desert. Others had
newly come to the city and were teaching that there was no Source, and
that the story of the poor man who reopened it was a fable, and that
the hours of visitation were only hours of dreaming. There were many
who believed them, and many more who said that it did not matter whether
their words were true or false, and that it was of small moment whether
men went to visit the fountain or not, provided only that they worked
in the gardens and kept the marble pools and basins in repair and opened
new canals through the fields, since there always had been and always
would be plenty of water.
As I listened to these sayings it seemed to me doubtful what the end of
the city would be. And while this doubt was yet heavy upon me, I heard
at midnight the faint calling of the trumpet, sounding along the crest
of the mountains: and as I went out to look where it came from, I saw,
through the glimmering veil of the milky way, the shape of a blossom of
celestial blue, whose petals seemed to fall and fade as I looked. So I
bade farewell to the old man in whose house I had learned to love the
hour of visitation and the Source and the name of him who opened it; and
I kissed the hands and the brow of the little Ruamie who had entered my
heart, and went forth sadly from the land of Koorma into other lands, to
look for the Blue Flower.