Now and again the moon showed through the cloudy night, and the air was
soft and kind. Parpon left behind him the village street, and, after a
half mile or more of travel, came to a spot where a crimson light showed
beyond a little hill. He halted a moment, as if to think and listen,
then crawled up the bank and looked down. Beside a still smoking
lime-kiln an abandoned fire was burning down into red coals. The little
hut of the lime-burner was beyond in a hollow, and behind that again was
a lean-to, like a small shed or stable. Hither stole the dwarf, first
pausing to listen a moment at the door of the hut.
Leaning into the darkness of the shed, he gave a soft, crooning call.
Low growls of dogs came in quick reply. He stepped inside, and spoke to
them:
“Good dogs! good dogs! good Musket, Coffee, Filthy, Jo-Jo--steady,
steady, idiots!” for the huge brutes were nosing him, throwing
themselves against: him, and whining gratefully. Feeling the wall, he
took down some harness, and, in the dark, put a set on each dog--mere
straps for the shoulders, halters, and traces; called to them sharply
to be quiet, and, keeping hold of their collars, led them out into the
night. He paused to listen again. Presently he drove the dogs across the
road, and attached them to a flat vehicle, without wheels or runners,
used by Garotte for the drawing of lime and stones. It was not so heavy
as many machines of the kind, and at a quick word from the dwarf the
dogs darted away. Unseen, a mysterious figure hurried on after them,
keeping well in the shadow of the trees fringing the side of the road.
The dwarf drove the dogs down a lonely side lane to the village, and
came to the shed where lay the uncomely thing he had called brother.
He felt for a spot where there was a loose board, forced it and another
with his strong fingers, and crawled in. Reappearing with the dead body,
he bore it in his huge arms to the stoneboat: a midget carrying a giant.
He covered up the face, and, returning to the shed, placed his coat
against the boards to deaden the sound, and hammered them tight again
with a stone, after having straightened the grass about. Returning, he
found the dogs cowering with fear, for one of them had pushed the cloth
off the dead man’s face with his nose, and death exercised its weird
dominion over them. They crouched together, whining and tugging at the
traces. With a persuasive word he started them away.
The pursuing, watchful figure followed at a distance, on up the road, on
over the little hills, on into the high hills, the dogs carrying along
steadily the grisly load. And once their driver halted them, and sat in
the grey gloom and dust beside the dead body.
“Where do you go, dwarf?” he said.
“I go to the Ancient House,” he made answer to himself.
“What do you get?”
“I do not go to get; I go to give.”
“What do you go to give?”
“I go to leave an empty basket at the door, and the lantern that the
Shopkeeper set in the hand of the pedlar.”
“Who is the pedlar, hunchback?”
“The pedlar is he that carries the pack on his back.”
“What carries he in the pack?”
“He carries what the Shopkeeper gave him--for he had no money and no
choice.”
“Who is the Shopkeeper, dwarf?”
“The Shopkeeper--the Shopkeeper is the father of dwarfs and angels and
children--and fools.”
“What does he sell, poor man?”
“He sells harness for men and cattle, and you give your lives for the
harness.”
“What is this you carry, dwarf?”
“I carry home the harness of a soul.”
“Is it worth carrying home?”
“The eyes grow sick at sight of the old harness in the way.”
The watching figure, hearing, pitied.
It was Valmond. Excited by Parpon’s last words at the hotel, he had
followed, and was keen to chase this strange journeying to the end,
though suffering from the wound in his head, and shaken by the awful
accident of the evening. But, as he said to himself; some things were to
be seen but once in the great game, and it was worth while seeing them,
even if life were the shorter for it.
On up the heights filed the strange procession until at last it came
to Dalgrothe Mountain. On one of the foot-hills stood the Rock of Red
Pigeons. This was the dwarf’s secret resort, where no one ever disturbed
him; for the Little Good Folk of the Scarlet Hills (of whom it was
rumoured, he had come) held revel there, and people did not venture
rashly. The land about it, and a hut farther down the hill, belonged to
Parpon; a legacy from the father of the young Seigneur.
It was all hills, gorges, rivers, and idle, murmuring pines. Of a
morning, mist floated into mist as far as eye could see, blue and grey
and amethyst, a glamour of tints and velvety radiance. The great hills
waved into each other like a vast violet sea, and, in turn, the tiny
earth-waves on each separate hill swelled into the larger harmony. At
the foot of a steep precipice was the whirlpool from which Parpon, at
great risk, had rescued the father of De la Riviere, and had received
this lonely region as his reward. To the dwarf it was his other world,
his real home; for here he lived his own life, and it was here he had
brought his ungainly dead, to give it housing.
The dogs drew up the grim cargo to a plateau near the Rock of Red
Pigeons, and, gathering sticks, Parpon lit a sweet-smelling fire of
cedar. Then he went to the hut, and came back with a spade and a shovel.
At the foot of a great pine he began to dig. As the work went on, he
broke into a sort of dirge, painfully sweet. Leaning against a rock not
far away, Valmond watched the tiny man with the long arms throw up the
soft, good-smelling earth, enriched by centuries of dead leaves and
flowers. The trees waved and bent and murmured, as though they gossiped
with each other over this odd gravedigger. The light of the fire showed
across the gorge, touching off the far wall of pines with burnished
crimson, and huge flickering shadows looked like elusive spirits,
attendant on the lonely obsequies. Now and then a bird, aroused by the
flame or the snap of a burning stick, rose from its nest and flew away;
and wild-fowl flitted darkly down the pass, like the souls of heroes
faring to Walhalla. When an owl hooted, a wolf howled far off, or a loon
cried from the water below; the solemn fantasy took on the aspect of the
unreal.
Valmond watched like one in a dream, and twice or thrice he turned
faint, and drew his cloak about him as if he were cold; for a sickly
air, passing by, seemed to fill his lungs with poison.
At last the grave was dug, and, sprinkling its depth with leaves and
soft branches of spruce, the dwarf drew the body over, and lowered it
slowly, awkwardly, into the grave. Then he covered all but the huge,
unlovely face, and, kneeling, peered down at it pitifully.
“Gabriel, Gabriel,” he cried, “surely thy soul is better without its
harness! I killed thee, and thou didst kill, and those we love die by
our own hands. But no, I lie; I did not love thee, thou wert so ugly and
wild and cruel. Poor boy! Thou wast a fool, and thou wast a murderer.
Thou wouldst have slain my prince, and so I slew thee--I slew thee.”
He rocked to and fro in abject sorrow, and cried again: “Hast thou no
one in all the world to mourn thee, save him who killed thee? Is there
no one to wish thee speed to the Ancient House? Art thou tossed away
like an old shoe, and no one to say, The Shoemaker that made thee must
see to it if thou wast ill-shapen, and walked crookedly, and did evil
things? Ah, is there no one to mourn thee, save him that killed thee?”
He leaned back, and cried out into the high hills like a remorseful,
tortured soul.
Valmond, no longer able to watch this grief in silence, stepped quickly
forward. The dogs, seeing him, barked, and then were still; and the
dwarf looked up as he heard footsteps.
“Another has come to mourn him, Parpon,” said Valmond.
A look of bewilderment and joy swam into Parpon’s eyes. Then he gave
a laugh of singular wildness, his face twitched, tears rushed down his
cheeks, and he threw himself at Valmond’s feet, and clasped his knees,
crying:
“Ah-ah, my prince, great brother, thou hast come also! Ah, thou didst
know the way up the long hill Thou hast come to the burial of a fool.
But he had a mother--yes, yes, a mother! All fools have mothers, and
they should be buried well. Come, ah, come, and speak softly the Act of
Contrition, and I will cover him up.”
He went to throw in the earth, but Valmond pushed him aside gently.
“No, no,” he said, “this is for me.” And he began filling the grave.
When they left the place of burial, the fire was burning low, for they
had talked long. At the foot of the hills they looked back. Day was
beginning to break over Dalgrothe Mountain.