Part 5

“There is magic in the air.”

Another pedestal is being occupied by Show Off and Serpenta, who are dancing a betrothal. In graceful pose and gesture, his movements are an epic poem in majesty and solid grandeur, hers the duplicate shadow of his, with interlacing quicksteps. An ice dance on the ice, the feet not raised off. The complication of steps is insidious to the eye in their noiseless turns. Noiseless? rising on the air is a melody, that grows and lessens, produced by the swift slipping. Ending in smooth tone as true love ought.

When it is over, and the company dispersed, I wander around by myself to soon get lost in the tangle of halls, which labyrinth every way. Just here are niches in the walls with statues of people and animals like life. Here is a family group. The host is deep in Arc news ball (writing rolled up) his wife is crossing the floor toward the grandma, asleep in her arm chair, a kitten rolled up beside it. A child is playing on the floor. I touch its soft hair. It is cold. An idea enters my mind. Have not all these been once alive, and now ice embalmed? I intrude no farther. None look up to ask me to stay. A charm comes over me driving all uncanny sense away. How pleasant to have our dead welcome among us, as though not lost.

Now I come to rooms of birds and other pets. A boa that swung Robet in olden time. What is this, an elephant like the mammoth, ice-locked in southern zone. Washed away?

“O auntie!”

I turn nervously around. It is not Miss Mae but Miss Serpenta. Show Off’s betrothed, who has mistaken my name.

“Miss Robet is in the great hall, where Charley (mistake) is going to lecture. It is superbly decorated, a great globe of the earth in the center, colored. He will tell all about it. He has counted out a thousand and one inventions never seen here. He says he will lionize the natives. She told me to find you, for though any can enter an open archway, none can open a closed door.”

I begin to feel as if Blue Beard lived here. The open rooms are so magnificent and shining one need not hunt him up.

“The cue in the halls,” goes on the friendly girl, “is to keep on the smooth path. The lecture will soon begin. She is afraid you will take cold or something and wants you by to watch you.”

“To watch me!” I muse maliciously. “Did I come, clear to Arc to be watched by an old maid, an old one truly?”

_I turn to the rough path._ What is that under that chair? I do believe it is a paper. Charley has dropped some of his notes. I am so tired. I will sit down while I pick them up. Why don’t they come out? I get up and perceive the chair is an open work door, solid built.

“O,” says Serpenta, trembling, as I hurry to undo the bar. She is paralyzed. As I open the door a little way, I see in the jar a Blue Beard. I said the lions are pink, this one is blue. His paw on the paper, his breath on me. No art manufacture now.

I dream in shadow. I see Show Off, who has followed his girl, with one tremendous blow put us two around an archway. The lions are in the room. They mind him not. When did a king mind? They see me not. I see them from reflections on the ice mirror walls.

He leans against a column and plays. (He has in his mouth a harmonica, Saucy’s property.) Plaintive at first, then shrill, one note touches a chord in the lions’ ears. They shake their heads. It comes again. They snort. A mother back of them calls to a lost babe; three heroes go to her aid flying. The door is shut. Tableau.

The lecture is very good. When it comes to lions I am surprised to see in the archway behind Charley, no less than Show Off astride his young thoroughbred, who, when lions are said to dance and play music in America, this one dances and plays behind the speaker, who looks back wild-eyed. The harmonica in its mouth, Show Off chokes out the strains with his hands. So apt and comical is it, the speaker himself breaks out laughing. Show Off has learned to read Unit writing. He got the paper under the door. Did not get left by a Unit scion.

I am sitting by the girl, who says:

“I could listen all day about the marvelous people when Aunt Robet takes you home I will go along.”

“O say no more, I implore. I feel so lost when I think of home.”

“To-morrow,” I see she is going to make me happy again, “I will take you over the city. It is one of many that occur every ten miles. This side the river is our summer home, the other is our winter.”

The next morning I take to the tower top and delight myself by discovering another motion still of the chairs. It is a circle whirl which I practice until I feel I am seasoned to any mode of motion sprung on me.

Serpenta seeks me out, and asks me sweetly what place we shall visit first.

“O, no matter.”

“A library?”

“Very well.”

She connects our chairs securely, as did Robet, and presses them to motion, without saying as did Robet, “look out.”

We are moving—how, _how_? Her “look out,” had she said it, would have helped one less than Robet’s. For this is worse—so much more worse.

Not so exhilarating, quite the opposite. I am losing my breath in a faint, so utterly unprepared am I, for we are moving straight out into space. I look sideways to see Serpenta calm. I look in front, if to see a track, none there. Nothing above or below to hold, not even a wire. Still we are steady and aim to another tower top that is rapidly nearing. Now we stop on it. I get down and walk around my chair to find its wizard action. No track, did I say? There is a track—good rail track behind. It pops into my head it is after the method devised some years ago for a railroad to lay its track as it went, but must have land to lay it on. This carries and steadies its supplements—bridge-like.

We descend the elevator into an elegant room of many windows and drapery, seat ourselves beside one, high and wide. The scene outside is exquisite. Some fur-clad people are on the ice around a fire cooking. A ship in the distance is ice locked.

But there is no ice in this neighborhood.

“How do you like the picture?” asked Serpenta eagerly.

“O, the window is a picture; it is fine,” I reply enlightened.

“Is it like your people that go in ships?”

“They must be the last explorers whom Savant found. How I wish I could rescue them and bring them into Arc.”

“Did you say this is a library, where are the books?”

She presses on the picture frame; it changes as a part advances, opens and is a book. The back was part of the picture. It is Savant’s story in pictured writing and quite enlists my sympathy. Seeing me tearful she takes me outside and leaves me in a shrubbery plot, while I attempt to compose my features.

Hearing a sob from someone else close by, I am upset again and weep in sympathy. I peer through the low-lying branches and see Robet in a mossy nook, giving way to hysterical bitterness, her hands over her face.

Now, two other hands pull them away to give her view of the laughing face of Show Off. She pushes him off spitefully. Partly losing his balance, he settles back on his heels, still laughing, seeing which with her toe she completes his overthrow and leaves him in the moss as she continues unconstrained her grief.

Show Off picks himself up sobered and looks around for other occupation. I do also view the surroundings. I perceive this building is over the river. Before I salute Robet, she arises and stamps away.

Passing my retreat I hear her moan:

“You are lost, O my darling.”

Something drops gently upon my hand. I look down to see a round button-like object attached to a line that goes up above.

I raise it, when the string sways out from the tree, free from aught else but the sky.

I feel in my hand a signal, which I recognize. By my knowledge of Arc as a “hello,” which I answer back. Then comes a communication:

“I am away up in the sky. Who are you?”

Thinking some trick is being played on me I answer:

“Robet.”

Ting a ling ling. They are happy. (Can it be the Traveler?)

Hoping so, I telephone on the line, in Robet’s voice:

“It is my darling!”

I hear back: “It is sounding from the clouds in accents of her voice. O, clouds, speak again.”

“When will my darling come again?”

“Do you want me, dear? I will wander no more. But it is fine up here. I go like light. Thoughts cannot travel faster.”

“My darling is like a spirit of air for speed.”

“I will speed to you, dear.”

“His daughter pines for him.”

“Not her.”

“My heart is full of love. This winter I will marry him and journey with him in the famous sky. Here are ten thousand kisses to last till winter shall bring him home.”

“My coach frets to be going. But this winter it shall stop for a season.”

The button darts upward.

Robet—I say in my mind—weep not. There are fairies around. I look up to see Show Off in front of me.

“What,” he says, “come to school?”

“Yes,” I answer vaguely, seeing no sign of such institution.

He slides back of me in the foliage, a door revealing a busy scene:

Men, women and children are scattered about, variously occupied. Some are writing upon sheets of transparent material. The pictured script, which subjected to a solution, is shrunk to microscopic dimensions. Other occupations are on each side, extending in a line.

On the farther side of each room are windows looking outside. The school rooms being divided from the inner halls and libraries by the umbrageous alley, in which we sit.

Wheeling my seat ahead (which goes, tree and all, as though one piece on rollers) Show Off explains:

“This school or fair, as Charley calls it, (would I could take it home for exhibition) is devoted to silk.”

I see in process of construction pictures, screens, garments, carpets (which I had taken for sward) with American articles devised from Charley’s lectures. These last are brought out to me for my benefit. A worker hands me a glass of water, which another puts a bouquet of flowers into, on which lights a canary and sings a song, as a fuzzy dog puts up his paws at my side. All are silk.

Down spinning comes a spider. I did not like its looks. It opens its mouth saying:

“Come into my parlor.”

I turn away saying: “No American parlor this, but fairyland, sung of poets and imagined in spirit by painters. As I become absent-minded, Show Off closes the doors and leaves me alone.”

I look straight up into the sky, thinking of the button, when an odd little sky speck attracts my inquisitiveness, for it is growing larger very last, as it no doubt is coming down very fast. Strangely heavy for a fleecy cloud, which it looks to be. Down to the opening, through to the tower top it stops by my side. The cloud is off, as out steps father and Saucy, and I spring convulsively to my feet off the rock I had leaned on in case.

Holding my hands together Mae quiets my nerves.

“O, auntie,” with glowing cheeks and shining eyes of sky angel. “Did you not know they do this here? See, this is the string of the cloud balloon I hold.”

“But Mae, the Traveler is up there and is not friendly.”

“O, Grandpa has been civilizing him, so I have asked him to the wedding.”

“How is that?”

“Serpenta is his niece, so he might as well come and be reconciled. Won’t there be an explosive,” she adds gleefully.

“Now Grandpa and Auntie,” as she sits down by my side, “take up your bill of fare, and while we dine, we will talk of going home.”

A table in our midst has been spread, a la American.

“Bill of fare?” I query.

“Yes, that menu by your plate.”

I had taken it for a leaf decoration. It is named at the top _A Leaf From Webster_. Webster’s dictionary? It is the first page of S as that initial heads each dish. Sabine-fish, sacar-game, saccharine-pastry, sack-drink.

Serpenta comes in with Show Off behind her and sits up opposite. As we part the fish with our knives and forks, so new to them, they are delighted and get us to do theirs.

As Saucy blandly puts a piece in her mouth with her fork, they rush to her, thinking her mouth speared. She drops the fork.

In father’s hand is so familiar shape of white China cup and filling also. I hastily taste my own. It is “ice cream,” the white cup a macaroon.

But as the spoon, with which I tasted, goes into my mouth, they rush to me, thinking it strained. We drop now our spoon and take up the sack, which is in Arc cups shaped like bottles, which are gum paste.

To cover our discomfiture, we arise in unison, touch and drink boon fashion. When boom, crack, roar, the ground beneath us shakes.

The two opposite, natives here, spring to their feet with distending eyes, standing transfixed as the cracking roar continues, listening to the approach of a sucking, whistling sound, which long drawn, lessens and gradually disappears when they recover composure.

My first idea of the panic was that it was God’s displeasure of our dissipation. Quickly banishing this I recognized the crackling as that of ice, which denoted the real danger. The sucking sound was so like water, which, escaping to the river, had ended the commotion. Ah Arc! Highest of all! Yet is death ever beneath!

Resuming our seats I bethink me of Saucy’s proposition:

“Going home, Saucy?”

“Yes, to America.”

“To America!” I echo again.

“Yes, will this be an easy way?” getting up and coming to take hold of me, as though I was to be scared.

“An easy way.” I cannot think what she is driving at, when it comes out.

“Yes, the way we are sailing in the air.”

I clutch the rock (as did Fitz James) muttering as did he, “This rock shall fly from its firm base, as soon as I.”

But too late, the rock is flying with me on it through the air in combination of the rest on the plot. Tower and schools are left behind, so quick done I had been unobservant.

By effort accepting the situation, I turn to Show Off, jocularly:

“How far can this go?” in reference to the proposition.

“To the sun, if you want a scorcher,” he answers with assurance.

“I have been studying, Auntie.” She studying, “We can place relays of these over the border.”

“But the compass?” I interrupt.

“We will measure straight between each relay until the compass rights itself,” sitting down herself contentedly.

I get up and choke her with a hug. “You blessed child, given me a way to get home.”

I forgive her immediately and all the rest for the dreadful scares I have been victim. I think of home scenes, so far away, and compare with these of this delightful land. I must confess, I prefer as magnificence, these. But the blessed mascot has studied how to get home.

It being possible, my full spirits rebound.

“Next spring will do to go,” I say, anxious now to stay, where before I was anxious to go—now that I could.

The next day I am so light of heart and light of step, I take trust that my old statue heaviness cannot again weigh me down.

Initiated to the schools, as the place where all work, (Arc life above, mostly a recreation) I become alert to choose an industry. Saucy arriving, takes from her pocket silk and needle, deftly fashions a butterfly, which she affixes, waving to my shoulder. As I ask: “What can I do?”

“O, you can print the books you write, you know. And Charley,” laughing, “can paint.”

The days fly swiftly by. The sun has rounded down toward the horizon. Twilight is our only day. Clouds skim the blue sky. Cream foam in portend of storm, driving us to the warmth of the towers that are now getting a layer of arctic protection.

Bright days only let us out to tour the cities, making the round trip roundly. Each tour develops a new specialty, marvelous and absorbing our interest. Though the upper sky, out of the crevasse, is getting a soft black color, still the air around has a light of its own that is not artificial in any sense—proceeding from the center aurora, that is becoming oftener in action. Scanning it closely one day, as I am returning home, I mistake the door and curiously look around at the grand hall in which I find myself.

The walls, like all others, shining and sparkling, are here, strangely glimmering and glinting, quite dazing my eyes.

I ask a slim little Arc maid I see walking about in absorbed fashion, “What place is this?”

“Holy Hall,” is her impressive reply.

“Then you have a church after all. Do you pray to God?”

“Not in words as you. God knows before.”

“Then what is Holy Hall?” I persist.

“Where people are holy.”

“O, what makes it glisten so?”

“It holy spiritualizes all within.”

“Then no evil spirits can come to this communion of saints.” Quite bestows comfort and relief.

The walls are landscaped in crackled scenery, and at intervals against their centers aloft, are fastened most gorgeous state chairs, supported by brackets that have a separate and more distinct gleam. I turn again quickly, awed to inquire. I look into the face of Savant, who is intently regarding my expression.

“The chairs,” I say, “are they alive?”

“Yes,” he replies, “to make the dead alive, who will come to sit in them.”

“O, is this where Roban saw the scientific angel?”

I rigidly regard the one nearest to me to see it being occupied by a familiar face and form. (Familiar by engraving). “It is _George Washington_.”

A hand appears from the air, resting on his arm, which slowly materializes the form to which it is attached.

I open my mouth in awe, for I recognize again President Lincoln—the _martyr_, as joining him in touch appear his generals. My memory goes back to that struggle of civil strength, at the sight.

Then I strive to awaken myself, as though I must have fallen strangely asleep, scarcely believing the illusion before me.

Not crediting the tales of spiritualist societies, I cannot likewise discredit the Bible records. Knowing I have not, as likely the excellent souls in Arc, have not, in wantonness profanely tempted this array, I, in deference to the manifestation, wait resignedly. I clasp my hands in added awe as Savant touches me to inquire:

“Who are they?”

“Upon the other side of our country’s father has appeared. Ah, who? Jefferson Davis and his gray-clad staff.”

I wring my hands as Savant touches me again.

“There was a war,” I gasp. “Do they hear? They look down and smile at me, even the rebel, at whom I shake my finger.”

“You caused it, to be a President. You tried to cut a great country in two; deluging it in blood.”

In my electric state I see the root of the real cause—ambition of earthly state. The root of evil that grew to a tree of distrust of brother to brother. Each aroused in strength of pride to combat of their separate interests.

He replies resignedly. “I did not want war. It conquered back the Union.”

The father hastily spreads his hands in benediction. So like prayer I ask:

“Do _you_ go to _see God_ in _spirit_ form?”

Then dropping on my knees, “O tell me of Jesus.”

“It was my republic. The kingdom of God to men—the people. He taught to pray for.”

“How could you be ‘Our Father’ before you were born?”

“The testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy.”

“You, the Father of Jesus, how is He the son of God?”

“As such to teach republic love. I will ask my pastor.”

“Will He come at the end of the second millennium in body form and bestow body life on good spirits to that end preserved?” I, endeavoring to prophecy.

“It will be evolved scientifically to all,” astounds me.

“Good and bad, where will be room for them?” skeptic.

“Some will dwell in air; O, in cloud balloons.”

“Will they eat and work as they do now?”

“The same.”

“Must they live and cannot die?”

“Live or die as they do choose?”

“Have war?”

“There will be universal peace in a universal republic,” as one foot steps forward to disappear.

I hurry to ask: “Was Jesus the Christ of the Jews?”

“The seed of Abraham in which all nations should be blessed.”

“What about David’s throne?”

“The promise was to Abraham, not to David. The latter’s throne will be raised to a republic.”

“Was the spirit of republic first of Jesus?”

“From the beginning of God.”

As a foot disappears. “Will woman equalize in its rule, Presidentess as of God?”

“That is the universal rule.”

Another foot starts, I haste again. “Who is the devil?” But he is gone too quick. And around about me come living people; friends at home.

“Can the living come?” I ask Savant, who is still near.

“In spirit form just the same.”

I talk to them; they to me, the news of each. We walk about and discuss the people and the occasion, quite content in each other’s society.

In the center of the room, upon a pedestal are Serpenta and Show Off. I do believe they have been married, for this has been the assembly. We arrive at their side with loving wishes, in time to see a chamois garlanded close by. We hear the word “initiation” and stuff our mouths at its American misapplication.

The crowd are gone and spirit friends. I say to Saucy:

“Let’s go to bed,” who replies:

“I have just woke up. I went in dream to see Mamma. She was crying. I put my arm around her neck and she leaned her head on me and was comforted. I told her I would come home in a cloud, which scared her so, I laughed out loud. She heard, and looked about the room, then took her work. I think I will go every night to see her.”

My father is brushing by my arm. I say:

“O, what do you think, I saw my little children who are dead, in dear mother’s care. They have been growing by my side. I knew them plainly and realize I have oft consciously caressed them. What is the element producing the phenomena?”

“It is positive electricity confined by glass. The balloons of clouds are thus manipulated and strong to carry a number of people. I am studying how constructed, to use them in our return.”

I go out hastily into the night, the long night of this city. My mind so wrought upon by home people I look up at the velvet black sky, and pray:

Silent night! Above me Thy sublimity far reaching Opens to Omniscience! Specks are thy sun system In dotted plain! Mindful of human pain— Communest thou peace? Longing to leave this place. Great everywhere, guide me, Guiding me here, guide me hence. I await thy signal In calm acceptance.

What? A Crown of Radiance arisen there. A solemn bell tolls forth; streams of light are shed around in spectrum sparks; the river banks are deserted; the towers tenantless, as each citizen hastens to the inner aisles of verdure depths, where issues shadowed fire.

I keep pace with Savant, whom first I see and reach with him an inner balcony that is endless in curving ring each side, making amphitheater around the city. The center is a great open rotunda, of fields, miles broad, of shaking ice. A flame of gold supplying the Crown above ascends out of a round cavernous crater in the center.

Savant seats himself on a raised broad platform, commanding a view of the whole scene. I unconsciously sit beside him. Beneath our feet I see a rug of “hel”iotrope. (NOTE. The quotation marks in the flowers give a double meaning. A “hel” meaning heel on the rug.) A hedge of “wall”flower hems us in from a row of poplar tree columns. Before us on a table is spread a set of “China” asters under a canopy of blue iris (flag). As Canterbury “bells” ring forth, we begin a feast.

The centerpiece is a large “sweet-pea”cock, flanked by “chick”weed on each side, “butter”cup, “pica”lily and “pitcher”plant have places.

Alarm at my heart at the solemn tolling bell had hastened my feet hither. To find a scenic banquet is somewhat puzzling. The usual ascending glow, with its usual reversal of shadows, is augmented by the added source, in new portraiture, adding to the picturesqueness of the occasion. Taught at home that all people without Christ are barbaric, I was expecting an abject worship of the disturbed elements. Instead I am pleased as surprised to find it an inspiration of interest only.