"I don't know." He noted in sudden concern that her eyes were glistening
with tears.
"Galatea, dear! Why are you unhappy? What's wrong?"
"Why, nothing!" She shook her black curls, smiled suddenly at him. "What
could be wrong? How can one be unhappy in Paracosma?" She sprang erect
and seized his hand. "Come! Let's gather fruit for tomorrow."
She darted off in a whirl of flashing silver, and Dan followed her
around the wing of the edifice. Graceful as a dancer she leaped for a
branch above her head, caught it laughingly, and tossed a great golden
globe to him. She loaded his arms with the bright prizes and sent him
back to the bench, and when he returned, she piled it so full of fruit
that a deluge of colorful spheres dropped around him. She laughed again,
and sent them spinning into the brook with thrusts of her rosy toes,
while Dan watched her with an aching wistfulness. Then suddenly she was
facing him; for a long, tense instant they stood motionless, eyes upon
eyes, and then she turned away and walked slowly around to the arched
portal. He followed her with his burden of fruit; his mind was once more
in a turmoil of doubt and perplexity.
The little sun was losing itself behind the trees of that colossal
forest to the west, and a coolness stirred among long shadows. The brook
was purple-hued in the dusk, but its cheery notes mingled still with the
flower music. Then the sun was hidden; the shadow fingers darkened the
meadow; of a sudden the flowers were still, and the brook gurgled alone
in a world of silence. In silence too, Dan entered the doorway.
The chamber within was a spacious one, floored with large black and
white squares; exquisite benches of carved marble were here and there.
Old Leucon, in a far corner, bent over an intricate, glistening
mechanism, and as Dan entered he drew a shining length of silver cloth
from it, folded it, and placed it carefully aside. There was a curious,
unearthly fact that Dan noted; despite windows open to the evening, no
night insects circled the globes that glowed at intervals from niches in
the walls.
Galatea stood in a doorway to his left, leaning half-wearily against the
frame; he placed the bowl of fruit on a bench at the entrance and moved
to her side.
"This is yours," she said, indicating the room beyond. He looked in upon
a pleasant, smaller chamber; a window framed a starry square, and a
thin, swift, nearly silent stream of water gushed from the mouth of a
carved human head on the left wall, curving into a six-foot basin sunk
in the floor. Another of the graceful benches covered with the silver
cloth completed the furnishings; a single glowing sphere, pendant by a
chain from the ceiling, illuminated the room. Dan turned to the girl,
whose eyes were still unwontedly serious.
"This is ideal," he said, "but, Galatea, how am I to turn out the
light?"
"Turn it out?" she said. "You must cap it--so!" A faint smile showed
again on her lips as she dropped a metal covering over the shining
sphere. They stood tense in the darkness; Dan sensed her nearness
achingly, and then the light was on once more. She moved toward the
door, and there paused, taking his hand.
"Dear shadow," she said softly, "I hope your dreams are music." She was
gone.
Dan stood irresolute in his chamber; he glanced into the large room
where Leucon still bent over his work, and the Grey Weaver raised a hand
in a solemn salutation, but said nothing. He felt no urge for the old
man's silent company and turned back into his room to prepare for
slumber.
* * * * *
Almost instantly, it seemed, the dawn was upon him and bright elfin
pipings were all about him, while the odd ruddy sun sent a broad
slanting plane of light across the room. He rose as fully aware of his
surroundings as if he had not slept at all; the pool tempted him and he
bathed in stinging water. Thereafter he emerged into the central
chamber, noting curiously that the globes still glowed in dim rivalry to
the daylight. He touched one casually; it was cool as metal to his
fingers, and lifted freely from its standard. For a moment he held the
cold flaming thing in his hands, then replaced it and wandered into the
dawn.
Galatea was dancing up the path, eating a strange fruit as rosy as her
lips. She was merry again, once more the happy nymph who had greeted
him, and she gave him a bright smile as he chose a sweet green ovoid for
his breakfast.
"Come on!" she called. "To the river!"
She skipped away toward the unbelievable forest; Dan followed, marveling
that her lithe speed was so easy a match for his stronger muscles. Then
they were laughing in the pool, splashing about until Galatea drew
herself to the bank, glowing and panting. He followed her as she lay
relaxed; strangely, he was neither tired nor breathless, with no sense
of exertion. A question recurred to him, as yet unasked.
"Galatea," said his voice, "Whom will you take as mate?"
Her eyes went serious. "I don't know," she said. "At the proper time he
will come. That is a law."
"And will you be happy?"
"Of course." She seemed troubled. "Isn't everyone happy?"
"Not where I live, Galatea."
"Then that must be a strange place--that ghostly world of yours. A
rather terrible place."
"It is, often enough," Dan agreed. "I wish--" He paused. What did he
wish? Was he not talking to an illusion, a dream, an apparition? He
looked at the girl, at her glistening black hair, her eyes, her soft
white skin, and then, for a tragic moment, he tried to feel the arms of
that drab hotel chair beneath his hands--and failed. He smiled; he
reached out his fingers to touch her bare arm, and for an instant she
looked back at him with startled, sober eyes, and sprang to her feet.
"Come on! I want to show you my country." She set off down the stream,
and Dan rose reluctantly to follow.
What a day that was! They traced the little river from still pool to
singing rapids, and ever about them were the strange twitterings and
pipings that were the voices of the flowers. Every turn brought a new
vista of beauty; every moment brought a new sense of delight. They
talked or were silent; when they were thirsty, the cool river was at
hand; when they were hungry, fruit offered itself. When they were tired,
there was always a deep pool and a mossy bank; and when they were
rested, a new beauty beckoned. The incredible trees towered in
numberless forms of fantasy, but on their own side of the river was
still the flower-starred meadow. Galatea twisted him a bright-blossomed
garland for his head, and thereafter he moved always with a sweet
singing about him. But little by little the red sun slanted toward the
forest, and the hours dripped away. It was Dan who pointed it out, and
reluctantly they turned homeward.
As they returned, Galatea sang a strange song, plaintive and sweet as
the medley of river and flower music. And again her eyes were sad.
"What song is that?" he asked.
"It is a song sung by another Galatea," she answered, "who is my
mother." She laid her hand on his arm. "I will make it into English for
you." She sang:
"The River lies in flower and fern,
In flower and fern it breathes a song.
It breathes a song of your return,
Of your return in years too long.
In years too long its murmurs bring
Its murmurs bring their vain replies,
Their vain replies the flowers sing,
The flowers sing, 'The River lies!'"
Her voice quavered on the final notes; there was silence save for the
tinkle of water and the flower bugles. Dan said, "Galatea--" and paused.
The girl was again somber-eyed, tearful. He said huskily, "That's a sad
song, Galatea. Why was your mother sad? You said everyone was happy in
Paracosma."
"She broke a law," replied the girl tonelessly. "It is the inevitable
way to sorrow." She faced him. "She fell in love with a phantom!"
Galatea said. "One of your shadowy race, who came and stayed and then
had to go back. So when her appointed lover came, it was too late; do
you understand? But she yielded finally to the law, and is forever
unhappy, and goes wandering from place to place about the world." She
paused. "I shall never break a law," she said defiantly.
Dan took her hand. "I would not have you unhappy, Galatea. I want you
always happy."
She shook her head. "I _am_ happy," she said, and smiled a tender,
wistful smile.
They were silent a long time as they trudged the way homeward. The
shadows of the forest giants reached out across the river as the sun
slipped behind them. For a distance they walked hand in hand, but as
they reached the path of pebbly brightness near the house, Galatea drew
away and sped swiftly before him. Dan followed as quickly as he might;
when he arrived, Leucon sat on his bench by the portal, and Galatea had
paused on the threshold. She watched his approach with eyes in which he
again fancied the glint of tears.
"I am very tired," she said, and slipped within.
Dan moved to follow, but the old man raised a staying hand.
"Friend from the shadows," he said, "will you hear me a moment?"
Dan paused, acquiesced, and dropped to the opposite bench. He felt a
sense of foreboding; nothing pleasant awaited him.
"There is something to be said," Leucon continued, "and I say it without
desire to pain you, if phantoms feel pain. It is this: Galatea loves
you, though I think she has not yet realized it."
"I love her too," said Dan.
The Grey Weaver stared at him. "I do not understand. Substance, indeed,
may love shadow, but how can shadow love substance?"
"I love her," insisted Dan.
"Then woe to both of you! For this is impossible in Paracosma; it is a
confliction with the laws. Galatea's mate is appointed, perhaps even now
approaching."
"Laws! Laws!" muttered Dan. "Whose laws are they? Not Galatea's nor
mine!"
"But they are," said the Grey Weaver. "It is not for you nor for me to
criticize them--though I yet wonder what power could annul them to
permit your presence here!"
"I had no voice in your laws."
The old man peered at him in the dusk. "Has anyone, anywhere, a voice in
the laws?" he queried.
"In my country we have," retorted Dan.
"Madness!" growled Leucon. "Man-made laws! Of what use are man-made laws
with only man-made penalties, or none at all? If you shadows make a law
that the wind shall blow only from the east, does the west wind obey
it?"
"We do pass such laws," acknowledged Dan bitterly. "They may be stupid,
but they're no more unjust than yours."
"Ours," said the Grey Weaver, "are the unalterable laws of the world,
the laws of Nature. Violation is always unhappiness. I have seen it; I
have known it in another, in Galatea's mother, though Galatea is
stronger than she." He paused. "Now," he continued, "I ask only for
mercy; your stay is short, and I ask that you do no more harm than is
already done. Be merciful; give her no more to regret."
He rose and moved through the archway; when Dan followed a moment later,
he was already removing a square of silver from his device in the
corner. Dan turned silent and unhappy to his own chamber, where the jet
of water tinkled faintly as a distant bell.
Again he rose at the glow of dawn, and again Galatea was before him,
meeting him at the door with her bowl of fruit. She deposited her
burden, giving him a wan little smile of greeting, and stood facing him
as if waiting.
"Come with me, Galatea," he said.
"Where?"
"To the river bank. To talk."
They trudged in silence to the brink of Galatea's pool. Dan noted a
subtle difference in the world about him; outlines were vague, the thin
flower pipings less audible, and the very landscape was queerly
unstable, shifting like smoke when he wasn't looking at it directly. And
strangely, though he had brought the girl here to talk to her, he had
now nothing to say, but sat in aching silence with his eyes on the
loveliness of her face.
Galatea pointed at the red ascending sun. "So short a time," she said,
"before you go back to your phantom world. I shall be sorry, very
sorry." She touched his cheek with her fingers. "Dear shadow!"
"Suppose," said Dan huskily, "that I won't go. What if I won't leave
here?" His voice grew fiercer. "I'll not go! I'm going to stay!"
The calm mournfulness of the girl's face checked him; he felt the irony
of struggling against the inevitable progress of a dream. She spoke.
"Had I the making of the laws, you should stay. But you can't, dear one.
You can't!"
Forgotten now were the words of the Grey Weaver. "I love you, Galatea,"
he said.
"And I you," she whispered. "See, dearest shadow, how I break the same
law my mother broke, and am glad to face the sorrow it will bring." She
placed her hand tenderly over his. "Leucon is very wise and I am bound
to obey him, but this is beyond his wisdom because he let himself grow
old." She paused. "He let himself grow old," she repeated slowly. A
strange light gleamed in her dark eyes as she turned suddenly to Dan.
"Dear one!" she said tensely. "That thing that happens to the old--that
death of yours! What follows it?"
"What follows death?" he echoed. "Who knows?"
"But--" Her voice was quivering. "But one can't simply--vanish! There
must be an awakening."
"Who knows?" said Dan again. "There are those who believe we wake to a
happier world, but--" He shook his head hopelessly.
"It must be true! Oh, it must be!" Galatea cried. "There must be more
for you than the mad world you speak of!" She leaned very close.
"Suppose, dear," she said, "that when my appointed lover arrives, I send
him away. Suppose I bear no child, but let myself grow old, older than
Leucon, old until death. Would I join you in your happier world?"
"Galatea!" he cried distractedly. "Oh, my dearest--what a terrible
thought!"
"More terrible than you know," she whispered, still very close to him.
"It is more than violation of a law; it is rebellion! Everything is
planned, everything was foreseen, except this; and if I bear no child,
her place will be left unfilled, and the places of her children, and of
_their_ children, and so on until some day the whole great plan of
Paracosma fails of whatever its destiny was to be." Her whisper grew
very faint and fearful. "It is destruction, but I love you more than I
fear--death!"