SUNRISE
By night, on the eastern slope, Oman, under the light of the stars
and moon, built a great funeral pyre of dry wood, brought from his
store in the cave. There was in it neither sandal nor aloes, nor yet
frankincense, nor any fragrant spice to cover the stench of burning
human flesh. But the dry fagots would blaze high and fast; and the gay
flames would quickly purify the long-tenanted body. When all was ready,
Oman returned to the cave, and, lifting the still form of the old man,
bore it out into the air of heaven and laid it on the pyre, its face
turned toward the west, where the moon was now quietly sinking. Then,
with a blazing stick brought from the cave, he lighted the funeral pyre
and stood watching the flame-wreath that rose in a halo round the hoary
head.
To an Indian, this purification by fire is no infamy, nor is there
anything horrible in it. It is his sacred ceremony for the beloved
dead. While Oman made his preparations for it, he had suffered no
repulsion. And yet now, as he watched the dead form—so pinched, so
pallid, so unreal, lying complacently on the great fire-bed, with the
flames curling around the flesh: now, as the long beard and white hair
were singed away, and the blackened visage grinned in horrid baldness,
a thrill shot through Oman’s breast, and, stifling a cry, he turned
and ran from the spot, up, up, through the wood, and into the open, on
the height. There he threw himself down, beside a giant boulder, and,
burying his head in his arms, gave himself up to a new repulsion and a
new heart-sickness.
The moon had set; and the world was very still. The crackling of the
fire and the hiss that went with it were the only audible sounds.
Animal noises had ceased. A far, faint breeze stirred the tree-tops;
but there was no suggestion of the fierce rains of the previous day.
The whole sky was softly luminous with waning moon-light and the
redoubled splendor of stars. Far below, the valleys and the base of
the hills were lightly swathed in mist. Peace brooded over the great
Vindhyas; and gradually Oman’s horror was swept away. The sweet night
air cooled his frame and dried the tears that had wet his face.
Weariness overcame his excitement at the events of the day and night;
and he fell into a kind of stupor. He was not asleep, for he was still
conscious of the workings of nature:—the setting of the moon, the
dark hour, the dying glow of the fire, whose work was done, and the
heavy wheeling through the sky of two or three night birds. His brain,
however, was numb. He neither thought, nor felt the desire to think.
His head rested against the rock, and his eyes closed. An hour passed;
and, by degrees, the darkness gave way to a faint, shadowy light. The
night was over. Day was at hand.
In this first grayness, Oman lifted his head and opened his eyes. Then
he rose and looked down to the wood, where the fire had been. For a
moment he hesitated, but finally turned away. He could not go there
yet. For a few moments he paced up and down the broad, treeless space
on the height, and then returned to his rock, and set his face to the
wondrous east.
The far horizon was streaked with palest rose and yellow, melting into
a shadowy sky. Above this bed of color, the starry rushlights one by
one melted away. Only the morning star, the jewel in Ushas’ frontlet,
remained, flashing in the now deepening crimson, till Ushas herself,
having opened the sun-gates, passed from the sky and returned into the
land of the gods. The colors were intensified as new light crept up
the heavens; and above the gold was a band of pale, clear green that
merged softly into the upper blue. Now, down the slope, and over all
the wooded hillsides, rose a musical murmur, the song of waking things:
birds, and insects. And fearlessly they performed the morning hymn,
undisturbed by any thought of man. By now the creatures of the jungle
had returned to their lairs, the night’s prowling ended; and the world
was waking from dread to the joy of new day.
There was a long, still pause. The clear light grew clearer, the
crimson deepened with inner fire, two or three little cloud-boats near
the horizon were gay with rosy glow; but the shimmering valley mists
had passed quietly away. The world was ready and waiting. Yet still
Surya, rejoicing in the magnificence of his pageantry, delayed his
coming, till the man upon the mountain top, impatient of the time,
bethought him of his treasure, pulled the golden box from beneath his
robe, opened it, and let the contents fall into his hand. The ruby
seemed a talisman; for, as Oman held the clear stone against the sky,
the first fire-beam shot above the horizon, and the great, flaming
wheel rolled up from behind a far-off hill. The world broke into the
climax of its morning song; and, in his heart, Oman also sang: strange
words, fitted to a wondrous melody. Then, by degrees, he was silent
again, his eyes, lowered from the too dazzling light, fixed upon the
fiery heart of Churi’s legacy—the Asra ruby.
As Oman gazed into the scintillating depths of this rare and wonderful
stone, he was thrown into a kind of waking slumber, a trance, in
which scenes of a dim-lit past crowded upon him. Churi’s tale
returned:—the young prince in captivity, who had bought his love with
this stone:—Fidá el-Asra. Oman saw him, clearly, standing in a small
and richly furnished room, beside a woman clad in clinging, scarlet
draperies, a wreath of poppies woven in her heavy hair. This woman’s
face grew more distinct, and shone almost transparent, till, as she
gazed into the face of the man, a faint smile lighted her lips. But
there was a mournful sadness in her lustrous eyes; and, seeing these
eyes, Oman’s heart throbbed with understanding.
This man and this woman, burning in the depths of the ruby, were no
vision. Nay, he knew them both: _he_, Oman, the outcast, the
hermit. But how explain the reality of the dream? Had he sheltered the
twain in his own breast? How else came he to know their suffering:
to suffer with them? How else was it that he saw the dark shadow of
crime lying on both their hearts? How else that a gurgle and rush of
water sounded in his ears, and that he shuddered as he felt the chilly
contact? How else could he realize the terror of helplessness that had
been upon these two souls, as they rose together from the embracing
waters, to that space where water could not hide their deed? How,
finally, was it that, straightway after this, he was himself again,
standing upon the height where his battle had been fought and won,
and where the vision had appeared? The jewel was still glowing in his
fingers; the sun was only just upon the edge of the horizon;—but he had
lived a year in three minutes. Did this mendicant’s gem hold within it
some baleful magic? With a sudden sense of revulsion he dropped the
ruby back into its box, thrust it out of sight under his robe, and,
shaking away the still clinging dream, walked slowly back into his cave.
Fortunately his fire had not quite gone out; and, with a little effort,
he revived it. Then he cooked himself some food, ate, threw himself
upon the bed where Churi had died, and fell into a deep sleep.
When he awoke, it was afternoon. Clouds were rolling up the west, and
there was promise of more rain. Oman went slowly out of his cave, with
a new sense of desolation on him. The air was cold. The surrounding
hills lay wrapped in still, gray shadows. All the morning joy had left
the world. Reluctantly, with dread in his heart, Oman made his way
down the eastern slope to the place of the funeral pyre. There lay a
heap of wood ashes, mingled with white bones, a few scraps of cloth,
and some pieces of charred and blackened flesh. That was all. The fire
had done its work well. A week of rains and wind, and no trace would
remain of him who had ascended the Silver Peak to die. The sight was
less dreadful than Oman had feared; and he returned to his cave with a
lighter heart.
During the remainder of the daylight, Oman occupied himself in a
desultory way by reviewing his depleted resources. His fire-wood was
nearly gone; and, the woods around being soaked with rains, it would be
a month or more before a new stock could be gathered and sufficiently
dried to burn. His food supply was also very low. This fall he had
neglected to care for his grain field; and the crop, which, by this
time, should have been harvested, still lay in the soil, draggled with
mud and mildewed with wet. He had yet a little millet from the last
season, and some rice and dried dates brought by visitors, before the
rains. But, fast as he might, these could not suffice for the winter.
Tired and heavy-hearted, he sat in the doorway of his cave and watched
night and the storm come on together. Then, while the rain beat into
his shelter, and a fierce wind raged without, he rekindled his fire
in the farthest corner of the cave, and lay down upon his grass bed,
thinking to sleep.
But rest was not yet for him. By degrees he was seized with a great
restlessness of mind and body. He tossed and turned, nor was able to
shut his eyes, which stared wide into the light-streaked gloom. His
brain burned, and was filled with chaotic visions. The spirit of Churi
moved close beside him; and he chilled with dread. Where was the calm
of his former high estate? Alas! It had of late become a mockery. On
his breast the ruby burned; and at length he took it out and gazed
at it by the light of the fire. Again it brought upon him strange
thoughts, bathed him in a stream of remembrances so vivid that he felt
himself of another life. Under this influence, after a long time, he
fell asleep, only to find his dreams taking the same direction as
his waking visions. He found himself standing on a great eminence, a
vast plateau, rising sheer out of a fertile plain. Behind him were
rice-fields, trees, running water, and vast buildings. He was standing
with his back to one of these buildings, which was half hidden in
clustering tamarinds and bamboo; and the structure was called, in his
dream, the water-palace. In the dying light of day he stood there,
looking down over the far plain, to a broad river that rushed through
the fields. His old calm was upon him, for he was at home. This, he
perceived, was the land of his desire, the place where he should
find welcome and rest. And so the vision faded and his sleep became
dreamless.
When he awoke, the morning was well along. He found that he still
clasped the ruby in his right hand; and, returning it to its box, he
prepared to go about the duties of his day. He was determined now to
force himself to a long period of reflection, as a remedy for the
restlessness brought about by recent happenings. But, to his great
disturbance, he found his determination easier made than carried out.
True, he meditated. Long habit had not so basely deserted him. But his
meditations were no longer satisfying, and, when they were over, the
dreaded mood, a restless loneliness, an unquenchable yearning, crept
upon him again, till he soothed himself anew with thoughts of the ruby,
the power of which never failed.
All this could end only in one way. For three weeks longer he dwelt on
his height; and then, suddenly abandoning a useless battle, made ready
to leave the mountain top. At dawn of a December day he stood for the
last time on the summit where he had dwelt for so many years; and then,
at last, not without a pang of regret, he turned his steps downward,
toward the haunts of men.