Part 10

Above stairs, Johannes heard moaning, as low and as regular as the slow ticking of a clock. It was a heart-rending and doleful sound. The door of his own little room stood open; he timidly glanced in. The strange flowers on the curtains stared at him with unmeaning surprise. The clock had stopped. They went on to the room whence the groaning came. It was his father's bedroom. The sun shone in brightly, on the green bed-curtains which were drawn close. Simon, the cat, sat on the window-sill, in the sun. There was an oppressive smell of wine and camphor; the low moaning now sounded close at hand.

Johannes heard whispering voices and carefully softened footsteps. Then the green curtains were opened.

He saw his father's face, which had so often risen before him during the last few weeks. But it was quite different. The kind, grave expression had given way to a rigid look of suffering, and his face was ashy pale, with brown shadows. The teeth showed through the parted lips, and the white of the eyes under the half-closed lids. His head lay sunk in pillows, and was lifted a little with every moaning breath, falling back wearily after each effort.

Johannes stood by the bed without stirring, staring with wide fixed eyes at the well-known features. He did not know what he thought; he dared not move a finger, he dared not take the wan old hands, which lay limp on the white linen sheet.

All about him was black, the sun and the bright room, the greenery outside and the blue air he had come in from--all the past was black--black, heavy and impenetrable. And that night he could see nothing but that pale face. He could think of nothing but the poor head which seemed so weary, and yet was lifted again and again with a groan of anguish.

But there was a change in this regular movement. The moaning ceased, the eyes slowly opened and stared about inquiringly, while the lips tried to say something.

'Good-morning, father,' whispered Johannes, looking into the seeking eyes and trembling with terror. The dim gaze rested on him, and a faint, faint smile moved the hollow cheeks; the thin clenched hand was lifted from the sheet and made a feeble movement towards Johannes, but it dropped again, powerless.

'Come, come,' said Pluizer. 'No scenes here.'

'Get out of the way, Johannes,' said Doctor Cypher. 'We must see what can be done.'

The Doctor began his examination, and Johannes went away from the bed-side and stood by the window, looking out at the sunlit grass and broad chestnut leaves on which large flies were sitting which shone blue in the sun.

The groaning began again with the same regularity.

A blackbird was hopping among the tali grass, large red and black butterflies fluttered over the flower-beds, and from the topmost boughs of the highest trees a soft, tender cooing of wood-pigeons, fell on Johannes's ear. In the room the moaning went on--without ceasing. He could not help listening--and it came as regularly, as inevitably as the falling drip which may drive a man mad. He watched anxiously at every interval and it always came again--as awful as the approaching footsteps of Death.

And outside, warm and rapturous delight in the sunshine reigned. Everything was basking and happy. The blades of grass thrilled and the leaves whispered for sheer gladness. High above the trees in the deep, distant blue, a heron was soaring on lazy wing.

Johannes did not understand--it was all a mystery to him. Everything was confused and dark in his soul--

'How can all this exist in me at the same time?' thought he. 'Am I really myself? Is that my father--my own father? Mine--Johannes's?' And it was as though a stranger spoke.

It was all a tale which he had heard. He had heard some one tell of Johannes, and of the house where he dwelt with his father from whom he had run away, and who was now dying. This was not himself--he had only heard of it all; and indeed it was a sad story,--very sad. But it had nothing to do with him.

And yet--and yet.--It was he himself, Johannes.

'I cannot understand the case,' said Doctor Cypher, pulling himself up. 'It is a very mysterious attack.'

Pluizer came up to Johannes.

'Come and look, Johannes; it is a very interesting case. The Doctor knows nothing about it.'

'Leave me alone,' said Johannes, without turning round. 'I cannot think.'

But Pluizer went close behind him and whispered sharply in his ear, as was his wont--

'You cannot think? Did you fancy that you could not think? That is a mistake. You must think. Staring out like this at the green grass and the blue sky will do no good. Windekind will not come to you. And the sick man is sinking fast; that you must have seen as clearly as we did. But what is his disorder, do you think?'

'I do not know!--I do not want to know!'

Johannes said no more, but listened to the moaning; it sounded like a gentle complaint and reproach. Doctor Cypher was taking notes in a book. At the head of the bed sat the dark figure which had followed them in; his head was bowed, his lean hand extended towards the sick man, and his hollow eyes steadfastly gazing at the clock.

That sharp whisper in his ear began again.

'Why are you so unhappy, Johannes? You have got what you wished for. There lie the sand-hills, there is the sunshine through the verdure, there are the dancing butterflies, the singing birds. What more do you want? Are you waiting for Windekind? If he exists anywhere, it must be there. Why does he not come to you? He is frightened, no doubt, by our dark friend by the bed. He always has been afraid of him. Don't you see, Johannes, that it was all fancy? And listen to the moaning. It is weaker than it was just now. You can hear that it will soon cease altogether. Well, and what matter? Many folks must have groaned just so when you were at play here among the wild roses. Why do you now sit here grieving instead of going out to the sand-hills as you used to do? Look! Out there everything is as flowery and fragrant as if nothing had happened. Why do you care no more for all the gladness of that life?

'First you complained and longed to be here. Now I have brought you where you yearned to be, and yet you are not content. See. I will let you go--go out into the tall grass, lie in the cool shade, let the flies hum about you, and breathe the perfume of growing herbs. You are free! Go. Find Windekind once more. You will not? Then do you now believe in me alone? Is all I have told you true? Am I or is Windekind the false one?

'Listen to the moans! So short and feeble! They will soon be stilled. But do not look so terrified, Johannes, the sooner it is ended, the better. There could be no long walks now, no more seeking for violets together. With whom has he wandered these two years, do you think, while you were away? You can never ask him now. You can never know. If you had known me a little earlier you would not look so wretched now. You are a long way yet from being what you must become. Do you think that Doctor Cypher in your place would look as you do? It would sadden him no more than it does the cat blinking there in the sunshine. And it is best so. Of what use is brooding sorrow? Have the flowers learnt to grieve? They do not mourn if one of them is plucked. Is not that far happier? They know nothing, and that is why they are thus content. You have begun to know something; now you must learn everything to become happy. I alone can teach you. All, or nothing.

'Listen to me. What is there remarkable in your father's case? It is the death of a man--that is a common occurrence. Now do you hear the gasping? Weaker still! It must be very near the end!'

Johannes looked at the bed in agonised fear.

Simon the cat jumped down from the window-sill, stretched himself, and then, still purring, lay down on the bed by the dying man.

The poor weak head moved no longer; it lay still, sunk in the pillows, but the short, dull panting still came through the half-open mouth.

It grew weaker and weaker till it was scarcely audible.

Then Death took his hollow eyes off the clock and looked at the weary head; he raised his hand. Then all was still.

A grey shadow fell on the rigid features.

Silence, oppressive, unbroken silence!

Johannes sat and sat, waiting. But the regular sound was heard no more. All was still--a great, murmuring stillness.

The tension of the last hours of listening was over, and to Johannes it seemed that his soul had been let fall down into black and bottomless space. Deeper and deeper he fell. All about him grew darker and more silent.

Then he heard Pluizer's voice as if it were a long way off.

'There! That tale is told.'

'That is well,' said Doctor Cypher. 'Now you can see what was wrong with him. I leave that to you. I must be off.'

Still, as if half-dreaming, Johannes saw the gleam of bright knives. The cat set her back up. It was cold by the corpse, and she returned to the sunshine.

Johannes saw Pluizer take a knife, which he examined carefully, and then went up to the bed.

Then he shook off his lethargy. Before Pluizer could get to the bed he stood in front of him.

'What do you want?' he asked. His eyes were wide open with horror.

'We must see what he died of,' said Pluizer.

'No,' said Johannes, and his voice was as deep as a man's.

'What is the meaning of this?' said Pluizer, with a glare of rage. 'Can you hinder me? Do you not know how strong I am?'

'I will not have it,' said Johannes. He drew a deep breath and set his teeth, staring firmly at Pluizer, and put out his hand against him.

But Pluizer came nearer. Then Johannes gripped him by the wrists and struggled with him.

Pluizer was strong; he knew that; nothing had ever been able to resist him. But he did not leave go, and his will was steadfast.

The knife gleamed before his eyes; he seemed to see sparks and red flames, but he did not give in, and wrestled on. He knew what would happen if he yielded. He knew--he had seen it before. But that which lay behind him was his father, and he would not see it now.

And while he panted and struggled, the dead body lay stretched out motionless, just as it was lying when the silence fell; the white of the eyes visible through a narrow opening, the corners of the mouth curled to a ghastly smile. Only as the two knocked against the bed in their wrestling, the head gently moved a little.

Still Johannes held his own. His breath came hard and he could not see; a blood-red mist was before his eyes--and still he stood firm.

Then gradually the resistance of those wrists grew weaker in his grasp, his muscles relaxed, his arms fell limp by his sides and his clenched hands were empty.

When he looked up Pluizer had vanished. Death sat alone by the bed and nodded to him.

'That was well done, Johannes,' said he.

'Will he come back again?' whispered Johannes. Death shook his head.

'Never. Those who have once defied him, never see him again.'

'And Windekind? Shall I ever see Windekind again?'

The gloomy man gazed long at Johannes. His look was no longer terrible, but gentle and grave. It seemed to allure Johannes like some great deep.

'I alone can take you to Windekind. Through me alone can you find the Book.'

'Then take me too, there is no one left. Take me with you as you have taken others. I want nothing more.'

But again Death shook his head.

'You love men, Johannes. You do not know it, but you have always loved them. You must grow up to be a good man. It is a very fine thing to be a good man.'

'I do not want that--take me with you.'

'You are mistaken; you do want it; you cannot help it.'

The tall dark figure became dim in Johannes' sight--it melted into a vague shape--a formless grey mist filled its place and floated away on the sunbeams.

Johannes bowed his head on the edge of the bed and mourned for the dead man.

XIV

It was long before he looked up again. The sun's rays fell aslant into the room and were glowing red, looking like straight bars of gold.

'Father, father!' whispered Johannes.

Outside, the sun filled the whole atmosphere with a cloud of glittering golden fire. Every leaf was motionless, and all was still in the solemn, holy sunshine.

A low sighing chant came down on the sun's rays; it was as though they were singing: 'Child of the Sun--Child of the Sun!'

Johannes raised his head and listened. It was in his ears, 'Child of the Sun--Child of the Sun!'

It was like Windekind's voice. No one else had ever called him so. Was it he who called him now? But he looked at the face before him; he would listen no more.

'Poor, dear father!' he murmured.

But suddenly it sounded again close to him, on every side of him, so loud, so urgent, that he thrilled with strange excitement--

'Child of the Sun--Child of the Sun!'

Johannes rose and looked out. What radiance! What a glory of light! It flooded the leafy tree-tops, it sparkled in the grass, and danced even in the dappled shadows. The whole air was full of it, high up towards the blue sky where the first soft clouds of evening were beginning to gather.

Beyond the meadows, between the green trees and shrubs, he could see the sand-hills. They were crowned with glowing gold, and the blue of heaven hung in their dells.

There they lay, at rest, in their robe of exquisite tints. The beautiful curves of their expanse were as peace-giving as a prayer. Johannes felt once more as he had felt when Windekind had taught him to pray.

And was not that he, his slender form in its blue robe? There in the very heart of the light--gleaming in a shimmer of gold and blue--was not that Windekind beckoning to him?

Johannes flew out into the sunshine. There he stood still for a moment. He felt the consecration of the light, and scarcely dared stir where the very leaves were so motionless. But the figure was there, before his eyes. It was Windekind. Certainly, surely! The radiant face was turned towards him with parted lips, as if to call him. He beckoned Johannes with his right hand. In his left he held some object on high. He held it very high with the tips of his slender fingers, and it trembled and shone in his hand.

With a glad cry of joy and yearning, Johannes flew to meet the beloved vision. But it floated up and away before his eyes. With a smile on his face, and waving his hand now and then, he touched the earth, descending slowly; but then he rose again lightly and swiftly, soaring higher than the thistle-down borne by the wind.

Johannes, too, would fain float up and fly, as of yore--and as in his dreams. But the earth clung to his feet, and his tread was heavy on the grassy sod. He had to make his way with difficulty through the brushwood where the leaves caught and rustled against his clothes, and the lithe branches lashed his face. He climbed the moss-grown hillocks panting as he went. Still he went on, unwearied, and never took his eyes off the radiant vision of Windekind and the object which shone in his uplifted hand.

There he was, in the midst of the sandy downs. The wild roses of that soil were in bloom in the warm hollows, with their thousand pale yellow cups gazing up at the sun. There were many other flowers too, light-blue, yellow and purple; sultry heat lurked in the little hollows, warming the fragrant herbs; the air was full of strong aromatic scents. Johannes inhaled them as he toiled onward. He smelt the thyme and the dry reindeer-moss, which crackled under his feet. It was overpoweringly delightful.

Between him and the lovely vision he was pursuing, he saw the gaudy butterflies flitting--small ones, black and red, and the 'sand-eye' as they call it--the restless little flutterer with sheeny wings of tenderest blue. Round his head buzzed golden beetles that live on the wild rose--and heavy bumble-bees buzzed from blade to blade of the scorched short grass. How delicious it all was, how happy he could be, when he should find himself with Windekind once more!

But Windekind glided away, farther and farther, Johannes breathlessly following. The straggling, pale-leaved thorn bushes stopped his way and tore him with their spines; the grey woolly mulleins shook their tall heads as he pushed them aside in his course. He scrambled up the sandy slopes and scratched his hands with the prickly broom. He struggled through the low birch-wood where the tall grass came up to his knees, and the water-fowl flew up from the little pools which glistened among the trees. Thick white-blossomed hawthorns mingled their perfume with that of the birches and of the mints which grew all over the marshy ground.

But presently there were no more trees, or shade, or flowers. Only weird-looking grey eryngium growing amid the parched white-blossomed broom.

On the top of the farthest knoll rested the image of Windekind. That which he held up shone blindingly. From beyond, with mysterious allurement, there came, borne on a cool breeze, the great unceasing, surging roar. It was the sea. Johannes felt that he was getting near to it, and slowly climbed the last slope. At the top he fell on his knees, gazing over the ocean.

Now he had got above the sand-hills he found himself in the midst of a ruddy glow. The evening clouds had gathered round the departing day. They surrounded the sinking sun like a vast circle of immense rocks with fringes of light. Across the sea lay a broad band of living, purple fire--a flaming sparkling path of glory leading to the gates of distant heaven. Below the sun, on which the eye could not yet rest, soft hues of blue and rose mingled together in the heart of that cave of light; and all over the expanse of sky crimson flames and streaks were glowing, and light fleeces of blood-red down, and waves of liquid fire.

Johannes gazed and waited, till the sun's disc touched the rim of the path of light which led up to him.

Then he looked down; and at the beginning of the path of light he saw the bright form he had followed. A boat, as clear and bright as crystal, floated on the fiery way. At one end of the boat stood Windekind, slender and tall, with that golden object shining in his hand. At the other end, Johannes recognised the dark figure of Death.

'Windekind! Windekind!' he cried.

But as he approached the strange barque, he also saw the farther end of the path. In the midst of the radiant space, surrounded by great fiery clouds, he saw a small dark figure. It grew bigger and bigger, and a man slowly came forward, treading firmly on the surging glittering waters. The glowing waves rose and fell under his feet, but he walked steadily onward. He was a man pale of aspect, and his eyes were dark and deep-set: as deep as Windekind's eyes, but in his look was an infinite, gentle pity, such as Johannes had never seen in any other eyes.

'Who are you?' asked Johannes, 'are you a man?'

'I am more,' was the reply.

'Are you Jesus?--are you God?' said Johannes.

'Do not speak those names!' said the figure. 'They were holy and pure as priestly raiment, and precious as nourishing corn; but they are become as husks before swine, and as motley to clothe fools withal. Speak them not, for their meaning has become a delusion, and their sacredness is laughed to scorn. Those who desire to know me cast away the names and obey themselves.'

'I know Thee! I know Thee!' cried Johannes.

'It was I who made you weep for men when as yet you knew not the meaning of your tears. It was I who made you love before you understood what love was. I was with you, and you saw me not; I moved your soul and you knew me not!'

'Why have I never seen Thee till now?'

'The eyes that shall see Me must be cleared by many tears. And you must weep not for yourself alone, but for Me also; then I shall appear to you, and you will recognise Me for an old friend.'

'I know Thee! I recognised Thee. I will ever remain with Thee!'

Johannes stretched out his hand but the figure pointed to the gleaming barque which slowly drifted off up the fiery path.

'Look!' said he, 'that is the way to all you have longed for. There is no other. Without those two you will never find it. Now, take your choice; there is the Great Light; there you would yourself be what you crave to know. There,' and he pointed to the shadowy East, 'where men are, and their misery, there lies my way. I shall guide you there, and not the false light which you have followed. Now you know--take your choice.'

Then Johannes slowly took his eyes off Windekind's vanishing form, and put up his hands to the grave Man. And led by Him, he turned and faced the cold night wind, and made his toilsome way to the great dismal town where men are, and their misery.

* * * * *

Perhaps I may some day tell you more about Little Johannes; but it will not be like a fairy tale.

THE END.

Contents

Introduction

I VIII II IX III X IV XI V XII VI XIII VII XIV