Besides the old shepherd at Lingwold whose habits render him
unreliable I am probably the only person that has ever seen the city
on Mallington Moor.
I had decided one year to do no London season; partly because of the
ugliness of the things in the shops, partly because of the unresisted
invasions of German bands, partly perhaps because some pet parrots in
the oblong where I lived had learned to imitate cab-whistles; but
chiefly because of late there had seized me in London a quite
unreasonable longing for large woods and waste spaces, while the very
thought of little valleys underneath copses full of bracken and
foxgloves was a torment to me and every summer in London the longing
grew worse till the thing was becoming intolerable. So I took a stick
and a knapsack and began walking northwards, starting at Tetherington
and sleeping at inns, where one could get real salt, and the waiter
spoke English and where one had a name instead of a number; and though
the tablecloth might be dirty the windows opened so that the air was
clean, where one had the excellent company of farmers and men of the
wold, who could not be thoroughly vulgar, because they had not the
money to be so even if they had wished it. At first the novelty was
delightful, and then one day in a queer old inn up Uthering way,
beyond Lingwold, I heard for the first time the rumour of the city
said to be on Mallington Moor. They spoke of it quite casually over
their glasses of beer, two farmers at the inn. "They say the queer
folk be at Mallington with their city," one farmer said. "Travelling
they seem to be," said the other. And more came in then and the rumour
spread. And then, such are the contradictions of our little likes and
dislikes and all the whims that drive us, that I, who had come so far
to avoid cities, had a great longing all of a sudden for throngs again
and the great hives of Man, and then and there determined on that
bright Sunday morning to come to Mallington and there search for the
city that rumour spoke of so strangely.
Mallington Moor, from all that they said of it, was hardly a likely
place to find a thing by searching. It was a huge high moor, very
bleak and desolate and altogether trackless. It seemed a lonely place
from what they said. The Normans when they came had called it Mal Lieu
and afterwards Mallintown and so it changed to Mallington. Though what
a town can ever have had to do with a place so utterly desolate I do
not know. And before that some say that the Saxons called it Baplas,
which I believe to be a corruption of Bad Place.
And beyond the mere rumour of a beautiful city all of white marble and
with a foreign look up on Mallington Moor, beyond this I could not
get. None of them had seen it himself, "only heard of it like," and my
questions, rather than stimulating conversation, would always stop it
abruptly. I was no more fortunate on the road to Mallington until the
Tuesday, when I was quite near it; I had been walking two days from
the inn where I had heard the rumour and could see the great hill
steep as a headland on which Mallington lay, standing up on the
skyline: the hill was covered with grass, where anything grew at all,
but Mallington Moor is all heather; it is just marked Moor on the map;
nobody goes there and they do not trouble to name it. It was there
where the gaunt hill first came into sight, by the roadside as I
enquired for the marble city of some labourers by the way, that I was
directed, partly I think in derision, to the old shepherd of Lingwold.
It appeared that he, following sometimes sheep that had strayed, and
wandering far from Lingwold, came sometimes up to the edge of
Mallington Moor, and that he would come back from these excursions and
shout through the villages, raving of a city of white marble and
gold-tipped minarets. And hearing me asking questions of this city
they had laughed and directed me to the shepherd of Lingwold. One
well-meant warning they gave me as I went--the old man was not
reliable.
And late that evening I saw the thatches of Lingwold sheltering under
the edge of that huge hill that Atlas-like held up those miles of moor
to the great winds and heaven.
They knew less of the city in Lingwold than elsewhere but they knew
the whereabouts of the man I wanted, though they seemed a little
ashamed of him. There was an inn in Lingwold that gave me shelter,
whence in the morning, equipped with purchases, I set out to find
their shepherd. And there he was on the edge of Mallington Moor
standing motionless, gazing stupidly at his sheep; his hands trembled
continually and his eyes had a blear look, but he was quite sober,
wherein all Lingwold had wronged him.
And then and there I asked him of the city and he said he had never
heard tell of any such place. And I said, "Come, come, you must pull
yourself together." And he looked angrily at me; but when he saw me
draw from amongst my purchases a full bottle of whiskey and a big
glass he became more friendly. As I poured out the whiskey I asked him
again about the marble city on Mallington Moor but he seemed quite
honestly to know nothing about it. The amount of whiskey he drank was
quite incredible, but I seldom express surprise and once more I asked
him the way to the wonderful city. His hand was steadier now and his
eyes more intelligent and he said that he had heard something of some
such city, but his memory was evidently blurred and he was still
unable to give me useful directions. I consequently gave him another
tumbler, which he drank off like the first without any water, and
almost at once he was a different man. The trembling in his hands
stopped altogether, his eye became as quick as a younger man's, he
answered my questions readily and frankly, and, what was more
important to me still, his old memory became alert and clear for even
minutest details. His gratitude to myself I need not mention, for I
make no pretence that I bought the bottle of whiskey that the old
shepherd enjoyed so much without at least some thought of my own
advantage. Yet it was pleasant to reflect that it was due to me that
he had pulled himself together and steadied his shaking hand and
cleared his mind, recovered his memory and his self-respect. He spoke
to me quite clearly, no longer slurring his words; he had seen the
city first one moonlight night when he was lost in the mist on the big
moor, he had wandered far in the mist, and when it lifted he saw the
city by moonlight. He had no food, but luckily had his flask. There
never was such a city, not even in books. Travellers talked sometimes
of Venice seen from the sea, there might be such a place or there
might not, but, whether or no, it was nothing to the city on
Mallington Moor. Men who read books had talked to him in his time,
hundreds of books, but they never could tell of any city like this.
Why, the place was all of marble, roads, walls and palaces, all pure
white marble, and the tops of the tall thin spires were entirely of
gold. And they were queer folk in the city even for foreigners. And
there were camels, but I cut him short for I thought I could judge for
myself, if there was such a place, and, if not, I was wasting my time
as well as a pint of good whiskey. So I got him to speak of the way,
and after more circumlocution than I needed and more talk of the city
he pointed to a tiny track on the black earth just beside us, a little
twisty way you could hardly see.
I said the moor was trackless; untrodden of man or dog it certainly
was and seemed to have less to do with the ways of man than any waste
I have seen, but the track the old shepherd showed me, if track it
was, was no more than the track of a hare--an elf-path the old man
called it, Heaven knows what he meant. And then before I left him he
insisted on giving me his flask with the queer strong rum it
contained. Whiskey brings out in some men melancholy, in some
rejoicing, with him it was clearly generosity and he insisted until I
took his rum, though I did not mean to drink it. It was lonely up
there, he said, and bitter cold and the city hard to find, being set
in a hollow, and I should need the rum, and he had never seen the
marble city except on days when he had had his flask: he seemed to
regard that rusted iron flask as a sort of mascot, and in the end I
took it.
I followed that odd, faint track on the black earth under the heather
till I came to the big grey stone beyond the horizon, where the track
divides into two, and I took the one to the left as the old man told
me. I knew by another stone that I saw far off that I had not lost my
way, nor the old man lied.
And just as I hoped to see the city's ramparts before the gloaming
fell on that desolate place, I suddenly saw a long high wall of
whiteness with pinnacles here and there thrown up above it, floating
towards me silent and grim as a secret, and knew it for that evil
thing the mist. The sun, though low, was shining on every sprig of
heather, the green and scarlet mosses were shining with it too, it
seemed incredible that in three minutes' time all those colours would
be gone and nothing left all round but a grey darkness. I gave up hope
of finding the city that day, a broader path than mine could have been
quite easily lost. I hastily chose for my bed a thick patch of
heather, wrapped myself in a waterproof cloak, and lay down and made
myself comfortable. And then the mist came. It came like the careful
pulling of lace curtains, then like the drawing of grey blinds; it
shut out the horizon to the north, then to the east and west; it
turned the whole sky white and hid the moor; it came down on it like a
metropolis, only utterly silent, silent and white as tombstones.
And then I was glad of that strange strong rum, or whatever it was in
the flask that the shepherd gave me, for I did not think that the mist
would clear till night, and I feared the night would be cold. So I
nearly emptied the flask; and, sooner than I expected, I fell asleep,
for the first night out as a rule one does not sleep at once but is
kept awake some while by the little winds and the unfamiliar sound of
the things that wander at night, and that cry to one another far-off
with their queer, faint voices; one misses them afterwards when one
gets to houses again. But I heard none of these sounds in the mist
that evening.
And then I woke and found that the mist was gone and the sun was just
disappearing under the moor, and I knew that I had not slept for as
long as I thought. And I decided to go on while I could, for I thought
that I was not very far from the city.
I went on and on along the twisty track, bits of the mist came down
and filled the hollows but lifted again at once so that I saw my way.
The twilight faded as I went, a star appeared, and I was able to see
the track no longer. I could go no further that night, yet before I
lay down to sleep I decided to go and look over the edge of a wide
depression in the moor that I saw a little way off. So I left the
track and walked a few hundred yards, and when I got to the edge the
hollow was full of mist all white underneath me. Another star appeared
and a cold wind arose, and with the wind the mist flapped away like a
curtain. And there was the city.
Nothing the shepherd had said was the least untrue or even
exaggerated. The poor old man had told the simple truth, there is not
a city like it in the world. What he had called thin spires were
minarets, but the little domes on the top were clearly pure gold as he
said. There were the marble terraces he described and the pure white
palaces covered with carving and hundreds of minarets. The city was
obviously of the East and yet where there should have been crescents
on the domes of the minarets there were golden suns with rays, and
wherever one looked one saw things that obscured its origin. I walked
down to it, and, passing through a wicket gate of gold in a low wall
of white marble, I entered the city. The heather went right up to the
city's edge and beat against the marble wall whenever the wind blew
it. Lights began to twinkle from high windows of blue glass as I
walked up the white street, beautiful copper lanterns were lit up and
let down from balconies by silver chains, from doors ajar came the
sound of voices singing, and then I saw the men. Their faces were
rather grey than black, and they wore beautiful robes of coloured silk
with hems embroidered with gold and some with copper, and sometimes
pacing down the marble ways with golden baskets hung on each side of
them I saw the camels of which the old shepherd spoke.
The people had kindly faces, but, though they were evidently friendly
to strangers, I could not speak with them being ignorant of their
language, nor were the sounds of the syllables they used like any
language I had ever heard: they sounded more like grouse.
When I tried to ask them by signs whence they had come with their city
they would only point to the moon, which was bright and full and was
shining fiercely on those marble ways till the city danced in light.
And now there began appearing one by one, slipping softly out through
windows, men with stringed instruments in the balconies. They were
strange instruments with huge bulbs of wood, and they played softly on
them and very beautifully, and their queer voices softly sang to the
music weird dirges of the griefs of their native land wherever that
may be. And far off in the heart of the city others were singing too,
the sound of it came to me wherever I roamed, not loud enough to
disturb my thoughts, but gently turning the mind to pleasant things.
Slender carved arches of marble, as delicate almost as lace, crossed
and re-crossed the ways wherever I went. There was none of that hurry
of which foolish cities boast, nothing ugly or sordid so far as I
could see. I saw that it was a city of beauty and song. I wondered how
they had travelled with all that marble, how they had laid it down on
Mallington Moor, whence they had come and what their resources were,
and determined to investigate closely next morning, for the old
shepherd had not troubled his head to think how the city came, he had
only noted that the city was there (and of course no one believed him,
though that is partly his fault for his dissolute ways). But at night
one can see little and I had walked all day, so I determined to find a
place to rest in. And just as I was wondering whether to ask for
shelter of those silk-robed men by signs or whether to sleep outside
the walls and enter again in the morning, I came to a great archway in
one of the marble houses with two black curtains, embroidered below
with gold, hanging across it. Over the archway were carved apparently
in many tongues the words: "Here strangers rest." In Greek, Latin and
Spanish the sentence was repeated and there was writing also in the
language that you see on the walls of the great temples of Egypt, and
Arabic and what I took to be early Assyrian and one or two languages I
had never seen. I entered through the curtains and found a tesselated
marble court with golden braziers burning sleepy incense swinging by
chains from the roof, all round the walls were comfortable mattresses
lying upon the floor covered with cloths and silks. It must have been
ten o'clock and I was tired. Outside the music still softly filled the
streets, a man had set a lantern down on the marble way, five or six
sat down round him, and he was sonorously telling them a story. Inside
there were some already asleep on the beds, in the middle of the wide
court under the braziers a woman dressed in blue was singing very
gently, she did not move, but sung on and on, I never heard a song
that was so soothing. I lay down on one of the mattresses by the wall,
which was all inlaid with mosaics, and pulled over me some of the
cloths with their beautiful alien work, and almost immediately my
thoughts seemed part of the song that the woman was singing in the
midst of the court under the golden braziers that hung from the high
roof, and the song turned them to dreams, and so I fell asleep.
A small wind having arisen, I was awakened by a sprig of heather that
beat continually against my face. It was morning on Mallington Moor,
and the city was quite gone.