Part 4

One look, and I am curious too. For deep within the luminous vapor are human beings, lace seated and draped. They are singing, their countenances reflecting the inspiring symphony. Studying closely, I detect a peculiarity of expression, as if masculine and feminine are combined, both strong and tender. Coming swiftly, and bending low, they must brush us as they pass. A child in front of adult, eyes exhilarantly my exotic bouquet. I select a dainty bud, and raise it over my head. The gust shuts my eyes. But I feel a tiny touch that wisps away my bud. From our slow journeying, we are too late to make our address at Roban’s, before the election, which occurs to-day. So proceed to that function. Seated comfortably upon the Central Plaza, a nice esplanade covered with rugs, we are scarcely seated when two ladies and a gent approach us, who by their family resemblance are no doubt sisters of Robet. One hugs her tremblingly. The other is hugged vigorously by Savant, his wife Roba. She is, though of exact likeness, still of different temperament from the others. More sedate, quite stately, though none the less lovable. When Savant puts my father with his silver hair and shining black eyes on her lap, she is quite awe struck. When my father reaches up and kisses her reverently on the cheek; she is more nonplussed still, and takes her muff to sit him on.

The gent is no doubt the husband of the other sister, who snaps his fingers at Charley, when he wishes he did not, for the latter bites it viciously; then rubbing the bite over, he lays his cheek on it, in penitence. He is forgiven, but not taken up on his lap, but I am instead, and smile profusely to keep the peace. Saucy is on Roban’s shoulder, and chatting like a parrot into her ear, which just suits this lady, she answering as glibly.

“O, how late you are! We could not wait for you, but left the castle open and came on. Has the Traveler come?” That individual passes without seeing us. Before we hail him, we hear music of a band approach. The melody is whistling as will Boreas shortly whistle over the land.

Conducting two lines in grand march, in election mode, headed by the chosen Mayor and Mayoress, respectively, or as they call them, god and goddess.

The evolutions ended, the two lines join, and the crowd standing, all sing.

E’er the sun our father leaves us He, as a parent, leads us To the indoor mother’s side To spend the winter tide.

The candidates, now in full view, are recognized by Robet with consternation. “Roban’s son, and his daughter,” are her startling words.

We all turn silently toward Roban’s home. The ceremonies now ended. The new city officers, receiving congratulations around, also join our party, staying in our rear.

The castle supposed to be open is not so now, but is double barred inside against us, as we arrive.

Through the crystal portal, we see in the center court, sitting nonchalantly as revengefully, the man who rode over us. We are out in the cold, and what is worse, quite hungry.

Savant calls out, “Hello, neighbor.” He arises and is about to come forward, when his daughter laughs out, “Now papa, good papa,” which stops him, and he turns square his back to us.

Beyond and near to him is a revolving plant stand, reaching high above his head. A plant is moving mysteriously. I see my father under a leaf (I had not missed him). He is arranging something under a blossom. I cannot tell what.

Now before us and at our feet down drops the nervous Robet, who cannot keep her dignity longer.

Around goes the plant stand and sounds out this word, which is from a phonograph (placed by father) in Arc, “Look ye.” Around again, it is above him. “Looky,” now one side, now behind. Mystified, the stolid man looks around as directed, not at our faces, where he will see the mirthful countenance of his daughter, but at our feet where he sees a countenance pale and in tears. The spell is broken, and as father leaps on his shoulder like a good fairy, he lets us in.

A castle band now starts up to a tune resembling the snapping of a fire, reminding us of the day of the Inning Fireside. Now crackling forth with renewed zest, the people arrange themselves in cavalcade, and slowly march, with spiral inclination, around the hall, towards its center.

Robet, supported by her lover, pulls me out of her bag to amuse him, much to my ill-will. But father winks to me over his head, and pulls his hair. Nearing the center of the room, the Traveler firmly and (I see his daughter grimacing close by) turning from the pleading Robet goes out of the room, and out of the house, disappearing down the street.

Wondering at this action, I look for information, to the center gathering, I see a crystal floor in circle shape, with round divans in its center. I am mystified as we are seated on this divan, and look down at the crystal floor. I get a great start, for my feet seem to be standing up in the sky, so far down is the crevasse below, whence comes up a brilliant glow, the only light in the apartment now, as blinds and shades are placed to protect it. Whence this light arises, I cannot imagine, as the sun is not in focus, or other light.

I take a great like to Roban, who is as friendly as vivacious. I get upon her lap to hear her chat.

“Good-bye,” she says, “my upper sky home, for the winter. My plant stand you may rest until spring (outing as she calls it).”

I am mystified why the people stop to sit here, as there is no table.

With a slight jar, the crystal floor now loosens, and more surprise, descends. Now beneath the floor, the light is increasing, and a warmth also, at which we cast off our wraps, displaying evening costume of home. The car, I now see it to be, is in triplet decoration. Triplet bell clusters favor us with melodies. I wonder how long we are descending, when jar, sway, float, as in water. I look about. “Where, oh where is this?”

We are on the bosom of a broad river in a scene of tropical beauty and grandeur.

Mae and Charley, as I, are as completely surprised, the others enjoying its fulness.

“Eden, Eden, garden paradise, whence came you here?” I weep beside myself in joy. Is this what explorers seek? But they will never get here. It is hemmed in by the iceberg, two-edged swords, as effectually as the other one of our first parents.

Roban asks, “What is Eden?” I told her of Adam’s, and the one to come down to us from the sky. “No,” she says gravely, “the city will grow up to God.”

Is San Francisco (San-Zion) thus growing?

I see that Show Off, unlike all the others, is in a growing state of excitement. I jump down quickly and climb to his side, where he is leaning on the railing of the barge, looking expectantly into the water. I punch him vigorously. “Tell me, tell me, how came this river down here, and its vicinity?” He answers vaguely, not looking up, “By the melting of the under ice.”

“Yes, but to be a flowing river?”

“We confined it for safely, by dykes and jetties,” becoming quite distraught at some inward thought. Does he mourn the Traveler’s daughter?

Roban has followed me, and now explains to me more fully.

“When the river got to going good, it melted the ice above clear through to the sky.” I look up at the faraway opening.

“The sky opening,” she continues, “vegetation started.” I look now eagerly at the nearby banks in begonia bloom, and crowned with palms. Long aisles of verdure penetrate the vista, closed by green sheen. One specialty of form is general, that of vine-climbing and up-looking.

Returning my attention to Roban, she resumes her coaching. “Cities too sprang up. We will stop now and get some of the luscious fruit,” as the car-barge slows and draws up to an orchard station.

We who have listened spellbound to explanation are getting over our paralysis, and are the first to jump on land. Saucy running crazy is soon lost to view. We dart hither and thither with delight, pulling mangoes, decking ourselves with orchids, mimicking songsters. I wonder no more where they get their conservatory plants. When a bell calls us to dinner.

In a bower, vine surrounded and bird enlivened, we draw up to board, not a board, either—none, or saws to make them are in the land, it is a great lily leaf, hardened and enameled.

Indentations serve for places. The food, on small leaf trays, arises from the table center dummy like. It is in mouthful-size pastry cups (that makes me think of home tarts), blending grain food with other kinds. Raised with the fingers, nothing can be neater.

The seats are leaves. Springs raise us smaller people to a level with the rest.

I observe greatly rejuvenated looks in us and say to Charley: “Do you see we are getting younger?” He stops picking a pomegranate. “Certainly. It is the purity of the atmosphere. Have you noticed, my dear, that there has been no dust since our arrival? And, tho’ the sun is constantly shining, no one carries a shade or is overheated. Ah, this is the Country to live in!” Smacking his lips before starting in again on the fruit.

“Glorious Arc!” I can not say it enough! None other place like thee on earth in gorgeous marvels! Nearest to God above! I could climb a Pole to see Him, hadst thou one! I look around to see the climatic effect upon my aged father; but he is not here. I remember he may be yet on the Traveler’s shoulder for farther travel. This somewhat modifies my charm—for a short time only, then I give way like the rest to the fulness of this Inning Reception. As bright tints float around in the air, on the water, and foliage, I wonder what pencil but God’s could put them there.

As we return to the barge Saucy at my elbow grasps my sleeve, saying, “Auntie, did you see the team that draws the barge? If you did not, look this time, now.”

What?—what? Crocodiles?

I stagger back, then renerve myself, reassured that what I had always supposed so hideously untamable could be well broke, kept well in hand, presenting an innocent pair of open countenances.

“How odd the water is Auntie,” says Mae, when we are calmly seated. She is looking over the side, then rises and crosses to the other. “It is high up on one side and low down on the other.”

Robet speaks without looking up, her eyes intent on her nephew, leaning moodily on the railing. “The river flows sideways.”

“How—how can it?”

“It melts on its inward side, freezing on its outward again.”

“Making ice for cool drinks,” says the child.

While dropping in the incline I commenced a study of the triplet sisters. Observing them distinct in style with the river people (of whom they are, and are now to visit their parents, Robet has said), I will describe them.

Tall and sinuous from a constant looking up to the sky. A changeable coloring or iridescence enhances their supple attenuation. Robet, when musing, as I have related in the arbor above, was sober gray-eyed; when demanding so proudly Charley’s pedigree, intensely black-eyed; then, in tears recovering him, her eyes were blue, vapor-covered lakes. Seeing this variableness repeated in her sisters I decided it to be constitutional; I looked to see if it was a water reflection. No, for it is not on us others.

Roban and Roba are on each side getting acquainted.

To start conversation instructive to myself I ask the gracious ladies; “How was it before the country was dyked into a river?”

“We were not born then. Our father was contractor and has told us how unpleasant were the freshets and disasters yearly.”

“Whole nations were swept away. Did you not find any down there?” Roba relates.

“I never heard, though Adam, the father of all mankind, was very large in size, the people became smaller afterwards.”

Looking earnestly at me I see them change slowly from blonde to a gray tint, bending their heads in reflection, (I see with great surprise.)

“We have always been large. I think it is the cold zone; its slow revolution causing it. The torrid, as Charley says, with its far revolution is very hot.” A flush on her face as she raises her serpentine head.

“It gets more sun and the people there are larger, too,” I correct.

Their eyes, my surprise increasing, turn brown as she steadfastly gazes.

“Then it is not the cold that makes us grow, but preserves us, giving us great age. We are millenniums old,” she breathes gently, chestnut-haired.

I am transfixed. When able to look up I see a halo round her head; a slight toss and it is dislodged in a ring leaving her in violet.

Going on with her deductions a dawn color follows her words.

“Our great size is due to our daylight.”

“But we have as much as you, tho’ more subdivided,” I correct again.

“You have not counted our winter daylight,” she persists.

“Winter daylight? What is that?” I inquired.

“From the center of Arc is always arising, from a deep cavity there, a constant glow, Aurora! In summer it is not seen, but all winter we bask in its light.”

“How is that? I supposed Aurora only sent up fitful lights.”

“Instead, this constant, interspersed with fitful sputterings, that send the flame so high, lower zones do gaze upon it.” Closing a phosphor color enfolds us, then rises above. Notes in the waves—trumpet notes, conducted toward us till they sound all about us. A mist-like spray is rising around. Looking out I am startled to see a large company of people standing on the water in the center of the river playing lily-tube trumpets as in graceful ease they dance a stately minuet.

Raising aloft their tubes they spray the air with perfumed drops, which, catching the rays of the sun through the ice-cleft, a glorious rainbow arch settles above as we draw to shore and alight upon a wharf of lily pads.

The sun passes on ahead having kept such even pace with us all day that it had appeared to be standing still in the sky. The heat had called for our light dress. To-morrow it will be in lower horizon.

We have arrived in a city that is like the people, tall and pointing high—a city of slim, needle-like towers.

Passing toward a mansion I turn to tell Show Off to pattern after the young man with the river dancers, looking so like him who was gay, when lo! he is not with us.

“It was Show Off himself, Auntie, I saw him put on the funny boat-shoes and drop overboard.”

“Who is the young lady he was bending over,” I inquire.

“I do not know, some more complications I expect,” inimicably.

“Saucy,” I say comically, “he is not for you.”

“I know it,” sighing, “I will never have him to carry me around on his shoulder.”

What are Savant and Roba doing ahead, walking up the outside of a tower residence? Truly they are, and our turn come we see plenty of steps and walk up too.

Arrived at the second story we enter a low gate into a circular room the size of the tower. Around the outside is a row of seats which we proceed to occupy. In front of us are promenading round and round the river dancers, buoyant in youth.

From these Show Off leads a lustrous river maid and presents as betrothed to his family, who can but smile upon them, except Robet who gets quite pale. Whispering to her, “Cheer up, Auntie, love is might,” he draws her to her feet and waltzes her around until she is hopeful again. We all get up and dance in honor of the betrothal.

When we sit again the others wait upon us from the center of the room, which is a mass of flowers, fruit and pastry.

The dance starting on, Robet says to me, “Let’s go out.”

“All right.”

She touches a button and we elevate to the top of the tower. A branch of clove-scented vine brushes my cheek. Seeing me peer down Robet hands me a glass to see into the shade of the tropical park beneath.

Seeing me occupied she bends down her head in meditation. Then sighs and sighs to herself, bravely struggling with these breakers in her love stream.

I am examining each detail in the grounds beneath. From the palm leaf that is so strong Saucy runs up and slides down it. Tired of this she picks an odd blossom in shape of a tiny cupid with drawn bow. At her touch shoots the tiny arrow and to break in fragrance. Would that all Love’s arrows were so sweet. I suddenly realize where the verdure of Upper Arc is produced, as familiar forms greet me, faithfully growing up as to the summer day. Where are they now? Glass protected in upper arbor.

Tired of the Cupids, Mae now rolls over and over in the grass with abandon of childish glee until she suddenly comes upon two lovers—Show Off and Serpenta (I have named) which latter smiles her a welcome, stooping down to raise her to where they sit, a long, slim, rope looking swing or hammock. But Mae starts back with a scream, which makes me look close. O, dear, it is the live folds of a boa constrictor.

I get faint as Robet looks up and takes in the situation.

“Do not fear,” she says, “it does not eat children, it is better fed.”

Imagining she is laughing at me I brace up to great bravery, asking, “Can I ride, too?”

“Yes, we will go down, look out;” the latter in reference to the chair upon which I sit—one of a row of seats around the lower edge, facing outward. I look quite curiously and assure myself its rails are in front as on each side of me, inclosing me quite secure. Connecting it to her own, she presses on them heavily downward. Feeling warned, as curious, I feel the top bend over forwards, still more. I hold quite fast. My head is now where my heels have been. This is not all; increasing the velocity we complete the revolution, and repeat it to the foot of the tower, where I come standing, red with vexation (the idea of a lady of my age rolling down the side of a house), my temperate zone stomach quite upset.

But “click” at the top. There is Roba in similar chair, who signifying that she will join us is about to round the edge. I recover my temper in anticipation of being witness to her acrobatic descent—stateliness combined. But no; she slowly goes over, smoothly, down to the bottom dignifiedly—right side up with care. I turn reproachfully to Robet.

“I thought you were in for a frolic,” she says innocently.

This restores my gaiety and we return to the arbor with zest and join the jolly crowd who are making the garden ring. They make room for me on the boa, where I ride, the danger enhancing the delight. I regret to get down for others. As I do so, the great graceful head of the boa swings close to me, the mouth opens, the eyes dart fire; then next I discover it is an art manufacture.

“There are real ones, Auntie, but they do not let strangers ride.”

A storm is brewing, as I hear a thunder peal; no clouds above—some are in the vista, rapidly drawing near, close to the ground. What an odd hurricane! No; with bounds and roars a herd of white lions rush into near precinct and wait, low crouched. Their long pink-tinted manes make them so handsome I forget they are fierce. Some are grand and nervous looking, others young and playful. Calling one of the latter by name, it wriggles from the rest to go to Show Off. Saucy stepping up too frightens it back; but trying again he coaxes it to him, where Saucy also strokes it, saying: “You must give it to me to take to America,” bless her.

A shout and he strides its back, then with merry bounds, race and glee, they give us quite a circus.

My attention is called to my side by a mysterious self-satisfied lisp. I turn to see Charley who is taking notes for future lectures. I look over to get the train of ideas. What do I see—“How lions dance in our country; machines put in their mouths, they sing.”

“O Charley, what a drop. I had counted on your wonderful conversion, and here are you improvising wonders.”

Roban is getting social. “There are not many lions now. They were dangerous; the city filling up has thinned them out. Do you want one?”

I am still in chagrin, so answer crossly the sweet-tempered lady, “What for? Will it take me home on its back?”

She eyes me sideways, still serene. “Do you want to go home?” I choke up in golden silence. “When you want to go the Traveler will take you,” complacently.

Roused to ire at my earnestness being taken for jest, I launch out disrespectfully, “That crusty man would drop me over an iceberg and think his duty done.”

She does not heed me as her sister Robet is now approaching quite rosy cheeked, and is about to dance me up and down, which I never allow, when I can help myself.

Roban says to her sorrowfully, “The little dear is going home with the Traveler.”

I smile, then say to Robet, “When he and you are married I will go.” Then I eye her sideways.

O what a drop! My Charley untruthful! When he says my church raises money untruthfully in its fairs and suppers.

I was about to have him teach this people how Christ incarnated is to come on the earth from the clouds. Shall I now do so instead? Yes. I select the Traveler’s daughter as one quite wayward, and say: “Dear lady, an American (oh no!) a man like us little folks is in the sky; some day he will come down and make us golden streets,” smiling broadly.

“What is gold?” she inquires.

“Something harder than rock.”

“’Twill hurt your feet; grass is better.”

“Glass houses,” I continue. “That is fine.”

“No one will marry.” O what a face she makes.

“No dear little children?” she pleads.

“No one dies,” I continue.

“O how nice and old.”

“Always fruit and flowers.” I feel I am getting along nicely. When she asks:

“How is that? they being the children of tree and plant marriage.”

“I never thought of that,” but continue:

“All dead will come to life.”

“Where is the room for them?”

“All bad men will be killed off.”

“Who will kill them off?”

“He that comes out of the sky.”

“Their spirits would haunt him.”

“He would kill their spirits, too.”

“None but God can do that.”

“He is the Son of God.”

“O, is God married?” so impiously, I lose heart. But Roban comes to my aid. With shining expectant eyes she now interrogates me.

“When will He come?” I shake my head.

“_Who_ will He bring to life?” persisting.

“Those who love Him. O dear, dear Roban, do you love God?” I am pleading for a soul.

“That I do,” is her positive confession.

“Do you love His Son?” my hands clasped toward her.

“Anything that belongs to Him,” so beatifies me I spring to my feet to declare:

“Then _you_ will be saved, for love is the fulfilling of the law.”

Drops sprinkle all about. I look back of me to see Saucy with inspired face who has been listening. Thus bestowing this rite upon this new convert, who strangely takes on a serious look.

“I know whom you mean,” she says. “He does like this,” pointing her hands as in prayer. What can she mean?

“He comes here to teach us.”

“Who, who? It cannot be He, the Son. Does the spirit of an apostle transfigured appear in this city—this city of love? I am astounded.”

“He says that in a century hence electricity will create a human being.”

What can she mean? Is the camera-eye, telephone-ear to be supplemented by a dynamo head, put on locomotive lungs and stood on wheel feet?

Truly here is sympathy in Arc for such invention.

Twenty-four hours without sleep. I yawn so terribly. Robet anxiously straightens me out on a chair for repose.

I dream in shadow of friends and home. Saucy’s mother hugs her close.

Next my chair is moved easily along and I open my eyes in an ice grotto, where a large company is assembled, whom I imagine are the many relatives.

As older people, like them in feature are occupying special chairs of state—the parents?

The change to cool arbor from summer heat is so greatly refreshing I regain animation.

At the parents’ request, we are placed on pedestals for exhibition.

“Are all so small?” they inquire.

“We are medium. There are midgets and giants,” we reply.

“How greatly you have multiplied. How great the size of the earth in comparison with Arc. You do more wonderful acts in proportion as you have more land to work upon.”

They place their hands upon our heads in token of membership in their family.