_Lirazel Yearns for Earth_
In the hall that was built of moonlight, dreams, music and mirage
Lirazel knelt on the sparkling floor before her father's throne. And the
light of the magical throne shone blue in her eyes, and her eyes flashed
back a light that deepened its magic. And kneeling there she besought a
rune of her father.
Old days would not let her be, sweet memories thronged about her: the
lawns of Elfland had her love, lawns upon which she had played by the
old miraculous flowers before any histories were written here; she loved
the sweet soft creatures of myth that moved like magical shadows out of
the guardian wood and over enchanted grasses; she loved every fable and
song and spell that had made her elfin home; and yet the bells of Earth,
that could not pass the frontier of silence and twilight, beat note by
note in her brain, and her heart felt the growth of the little earthly
flowers as they bloomed or faded or slept in seasons that came not to
Elfland. And in those seasons, wasting away as every one went by, she
knew that Alveric wandered, knew that Orion lived and grew and changed,
and that both, if Earth's legend were true, would soon be lost to her
forever and ever, when the gates of Heaven would shut on both with a
golden thud. For between Elfland and Heaven is no path, no flight, no
way; and neither sends ambassador to the other. She yearned to the bells
of Earth and the English cowslips, but would not forsake again her
mighty father nor the world that his mind had made. And Alveric came
not, nor her boy Orion; only the sound of Alveric's horn came once, and
often strange longings seemed to float in air, beating vainly back and
forth between Orion and her. And the gleaming pillars that held the dome
of the roof, or above which it floated, quivered a little with her
grief; and shadows of her sorrow flickered and faded in the crystal deep
of the walls, for a moment dimming many a colour that is unknown in our
fields, but making them no less lovely. What could she do who would not
cast away magic and leave the home that an ageless day had endeared to
her while centuries were withering like leaves upon earthly shores,
whose heart was yet held by those little tendrils of Earth, which are
strong enough, strong enough?
And some, translating her bitter need into pitiless earthly words, may
say that she wished to be in two places at once. And that was true, and
the impossible wish lies on the verge of laughter, and for her was only
and wholly a matter for tears. Impossible? Was it impossible? We have to
do with magic.
She besought a rune of her father, kneeling upon the magic floor in the
midmost centre of Elfland; and around her arose the pillars, of which
only song may say, whose misty bulk was disturbed and troubled by
Lirazel's sorrow. She besought a rune that, wherever they roamed through
whatever fields of Earth, should restore to her Alveric and Orion,
bringing them over the border and into the elfin lands to live in that
timeless age that is one long day in Elfland. And with them she prayed
might come, (for the mighty runes of her father had such power even as
this) some garden of Earth, or bank where violets lay, or hollow where
cowslips waved, to shine in Elfland for ever.
Like no music heard in any cities of men or dreamed upon earthly hills,
with his elfin voice her father answered her. And the ringing words were
such as had power to change the shape of the hills of dreams, or to
enchant new flowers to blow in fields of faery. "I have no rune," he
said, "that has power to pass the frontier, or to lure anything from the
mundane fields, be it violets, cowslips or men, to come through our
bulwark of twilight that I have set to guard us against material things.
No rune but one, and that the last of the potencies of our realm."
And kneeling yet upon the glittering floor, of whose profound
translucence song alone shall speak, she prayed him for that one rune,
last potency though it be of the awful wonders of Elfland.
And he would not squander that rune that lay locked in his treasury,
most magical of his powers and last of the three, but held it against
the peril of a distant and unknown day, whose light shone just beyond a
curve of the ages, too far for the eerie vision even of his
foreknowledge.
She knew that he had moved Elfland far afield and swung it back as tides
are swung by the moon, till it lapped at the very edge of the fields of
men once more, with its glimmering border touching the tips of the
earthly hedges. And she knew that no more than the moon had he used a
rare wonder, merely wafting his regions away by a magical gesture.
Might he not, she thought, bring Elfland and Earth yet nearer, using no
rarer magic than is used by the moon at the neap? And so she supplicated
him once again, recalling wonders to him that he had wrought and yet
used no rarer spell than a certain wave of his arm. She spoke of the
magical orchids that came down once over cliffs like a sudden roseate
foam breaking over the Elfin Mountains. She spoke of the downy clusters
of queer mauve flowers which bloomed in the grass of the dells, and of
that glory of blossom that forever guarded the lawns. For all these
wonders were his: bird-song and blooming of flower alike were his
inspirations. If such wonders as song and bloom were wrought by a wave
of his hand, surely he might by beckoning bring but a short way from
Earth some few fields that lay so near to the earthly border. Or surely
he might move Elfland a little earthward again, who had lately moved it
as far as the turn in the path of the comet, and had brought it again to
the edge of the fields of men.
"Never," he said, "can any rune but one, or spell or wonder or any
magical thing, move our realm one wing's width over the earthly border
or bring anything thence here. And little they know in those fields that
even one rune can do it."
And still she would scarce believe that those accustomed powers of her
wizard sire could not easily bring the things of Earth and the wonders
of Elfland together.
"From those fields," he said, "my spells are all beaten back, my
incantations are mute, and my right arm powerless."
And when he spoke thus to her of that dread right arm, at last perforce
she believed him. And she prayed him again for that ultimate rune, that
long-hoarded treasure of Elfland, that potency that had strength to
work against the harsh weight of Earth.
And his thoughts went into the future all alone, peering far down the
years. More gladly had a traveller at night in lonely ways given up his
lantern than had this elvish king now used his last great spell, and so
cast it away, and gone without it into those dubious years; whose dim
forms he saw and many of their events, but not to the end. Easily had
she asked for that dread spell, which should appease the only need she
had, easily might he have granted it were he but human; but his vast
wisdom saw so much of the years to be that he feared to face them
without this last great potency.
"Beyond our border," he said, "material things stand fierce and strong
and many, and have the power to darken and to increase, for they have
wonders too. And when this last potency be used and gone there remains
in all our realm no rune that they dread; and material things will
multiply and put the powers in bondage, and we without any rune of which
they go in awe shall become no more than a fable. We must yet store this
rune."
Thus he reasoned with her rather than commanded, though he was the
founder and King of all those lands, and all that wandered in them and
of the light in which they shone. And reason in Elfland was no daily
thing, but an exotic wonder. With this he sought to soothe her earthward
fancies.
And Lirazel made no answer but only wept, weeping tears of enchanted
dew. And all the line of the Elfin Mountains quivered, as wandering
winds will tremble to notes of a violin that have strayed beyond hearing
down the ways of the air; and all the creatures of fable that dwelt in
the realm of Elfland felt something strange in their hearts like the
dying away of a song.
"Is it not best for Elfland that I do this?" said the King.
And still she only wept.
And then he sighed and considered the welfare of Elfland again. For
Elfland drew its happiness from the calm of that palace, which was its
centre, and of which only song may tell; and now its spires were
troubled and the light of its walls was dim, and a sorrow was floating
from its vaulted doorway all over the fields of faery and over the dells
of dream. If she were happy Elfland might bask again in that untroubled
light and eternal calm whose radiance blesses all but material things;
and though his treasury were open and empty yet what more were needed
then?
So he commanded, and a coffer was brought before him by elfin things,
and the knight of his guard who had watched over it forever came
marching behind them.
He opened the coffer with a spell, for it opened to no key, and taking
from it an ancient parchment scroll he rose and read from it while his
daughter wept. And the words of the rune as he read were like the notes
of a band of violins, all played by masters chosen from many ages,
hidden on midsummer's midnight in a wood, with a strange moon shining,
the air all full of madness and mystery; and, lurking close but
invisible, things beyond the wisdom of man.
Thus he read that rune, and powers heard and obeyed it, not alone in
Elfland but over the border of Earth.