Part 9

Eric descended the small bank that separated the wood from the river and hesitatingly approached the shabby tents. As he did so a whole swarm of nut-brown children came running towards him, from every corner, with outstretched, begging hands, their rags hanging in tatters around their thin little bodies.

Some were quite naked and as dark as mahogany, with enormous black eyes and feathery lashes. They screamed and chattered, and many of them turned mad somersaults over the stony ground to attract the wanderer's attention.

In a second the whole settlement was in a violent uproar of excitement, mixed with the barking of dogs.

From each dwelling dark, curiously clad men and women trooped out.

Many were beautiful, and all had marvellous eyes; the younger men wore their hair in thick black curls, hanging about their faces. There were frightful old hags amongst them draped in discoloured garments that almost fell from their withered limbs, held only together by broad scarlet girdles that were wound innumerable times around their waists.

One or two young girls were startlingly handsome; they stood with heads thrown back, their hands on their hips, holding short white pipes between their flashing teeth.

Their tresses were bound in gaudy rags, and each wore a flower of brightest hue stuck behind her ear. Round their necks they had hung strings of beads and shells, of all sorts and sizes, that shone in varying colours as they moved about.

They were slim and upright, with narrow hips and beautiful feet and hands, but one and all were as dark as Indians, their faces having taken the tint of the long roads they were for ever pursuing.

As Eric had immediately guessed, this was a troop of that mysterious race of gypsies that comes from no one knows whither, and wanders over the world with no destination in view. Everywhere they are dreaded by the quiet inhabitants of the villages, for they are ready to steal all that comes their way, and never respect what belongs to another.

At the slightest provocation their knives are ready to spring from their belts; their tempers blaze like scorching flames; to them it seems but part of the day's work to leave a dagger within the heart of any who have awakened their resentment.

Now they all clamoured and yelled as they dragged at his cloak, touched his clothes, fingered his sword, and nearly pulled the staff from his hand.

But they were all laughing and excited, evidently enchanted to meet so fair a traveller who had so unexpectedly fallen in their midst.

Eric felt quite confused by this turbulent greeting, and was wondering what was going to happen next, when one of the quite old women moved out of the mob, took hold of his cloak, and pulled him towards her tent.

She was clothed in an old carpet-like cloth that she had wrapped round her loins over a discoloured shift that might once have been white, but was now the shade of the earth; the whole was held together by a long band of faded colours that was twisted several times round hips and waist. Her grey hair hung in thin strands over her face, that was wrinkled and brown like the bark of a tree, but which still showed signs of former beauty. She was bent almost double, and dragged herself along with the help of a twisted staff. Like all the others she had a short white pipe in her mouth, and her head was covered with a kerchief of brilliant colour.

From her belt hung a curiously shaped shell, a sign that she was a teller of fortunes, and therefore a respected personage amongst this troop of nomads.

Eric followed her without resistance, but hesitated at the entry to her dark dwelling, very reluctant to penetrate within anything so unclean; but the old woman was insistent, and our young traveller had to yield and even to take his place upon some indescribable rags that served as a bed and seat all in one.

The air was stifling and full of smoke, the whole place so devoid of cleanliness that Eric hardly dared to look about. The gypsy took his hand in hers, but Eric found great difficulty in understanding what she was saying, in spite of the knowledge that had come to him through the old man's tablets. With her bony finger she began following the lines on his palm. Outside the tent the other gypsies stood jabbering and laughing.

All of a sudden the old woman gave a start, and declared that whatever his fate had been, now he was near a critical moment in his life, and must expect either a great joy or a great pain, she could not tell which; ... "but," added the old creature, "great joy and great pain lie very near together, and often one rises out of the other; it is hard to say which is nearer truth.

"I am the wise woman of this wandering people; from near and far they come to listen to my words; much could I tell thee of what I have seen, for there is not a road on this earth upon which my weary feet have not moved.

"If thou wilt not hurry away I shall tell thee many a tale; but to-day I can show thee something which we call the treasure of our clan, though in truth it belongs not to us; we believe, however, that it brings luck to our wandering tribe. Come quickly, before the light bids us farewell."

The strange old thing again seized our astonished traveller and dragged him after her out of the tent.

The rest of the dark mob wanted to follow, but the fortune-teller, who seemed to be the respected head of this curious people, stopped them with loud imprecations, and none dared oppose her wishes. She told them to go back to their camp, because she alone had the right to lead the fair stranger whither she would--that he was her guest and she would have none of their noisy company.

With incredible agility for her age she led the way, over several streams of shallow water, over rolling stones and wet sand, to a small island in the middle of the river's bed. Eric marvelled at the rapidity with which she moved along, helping herself with her stick; above their heads the white falcon flew, as always, showing the way.

Here the willows grew thick and grey, trailing their sinuous branches down to the ground where they mixed with earth and sand.

The gypsy parted the thick boughs, and as she did so a sound of sweet music came wafted on the air, dream-like, something within its notes that was at once both ghostly and unreal, something that made the heart stand still in an ecstasy of wonder.

Eric's leader scrambled up the steep bank, still firmly clutching his cloak, and almost ran along, winding her way in and out, amongst the thick growth of shrubs.

There was deep shade here in this silent place. A soft grey-green light was over all, only from between the leaves the sky could be seen blood-red.

The ground was covered with a thick carpet of harebells the colour of an Italian sky; they swayed their heads with a tinkling sound whenever a breath of wind stirred the air.

It was a spot where fairies would surely dwell, mysterious, cool, and full of secret promise.

And there, in the midst of this carpet of blue, leaning against a moss-grown crumbling tree, was a spirit-like being out of another world!

No words can describe what Eric felt!

He only knew he was at the end of his way ... that all his wanderings were not in vain--that something marvellous and unspeakably sweet had suddenly flooded earth and sky, that the entire universe had become one song of praise, one cry of hope, one yearning desire of fulfilment....

There, before him in all their wonder and perfection, were the face and eyes that had stolen the peace from his soul and the art from his hands.

He fell on his knees, overcome by the surging emotion that filled heart and brain.

He could not grasp this amazing miracle that completely overwhelmed his being; the hermit's words alone rang in his ears: "It may not come in splendid raiment with a crown on its head, but keep thy heart open as well as thy eyes...." Yes, his eyes and heart both were open and a glorious light swept over his life, like a warm wave before which all resistance gives way, covering both past and future, with an immense longing for perfect achievement.

And this was the vision that had been at last revealed to the eyes that had searched with such tireless persistence, with such strong and faithful belief in the ultimate crowning of their desire: A girl, slim and ethereal, clad in the garment of poverty, a shirt-like dress over which a colourless scarf had been many times wound till the delicate figure resembled that of an Egyptian fresco; feet and arms were bare, and of utmost perfection.

From under a wreath of fragile harebells streamed the most exquisite tresses ever seen--rich brown in tone, but the sun had shone on them so lovingly long, that a haze of golden red had been breathed over them by all the rays that had ceaselessly caressed their softness.

She stood, her head thrown back; within her hand she held an old violin on which she was playing like one in a far-off world, for whom neither turmoil nor strife can exist, playing like an angel from the regions above, where no sin and no sorrow can have place....

But her face. Oh! her face ... in truth it was not of this world!

A radiance seemed to illuminate it from within, a shine that could come but from a soul in touch with the infinite, a soul full of light and love and hope, that no material distance could sever from its perfect communion with God. And then her eyes! Large and grey, with a far-away look--eyes that see visions and dreams past the knowledge of man; starry and clear, yet deep as a summer sea; eyes in which lay hidden all the boundless illusions of our human race, mixed with a peace that has no name.

Above her head the leaves rustled with a whispering sound; the flowers trembled, shaking their bells in waves of blue. The last glow in the sky fell slanting through the branches upon the girlish figure, till she appeared to be a transparent apparition out of the legends of yore.

Serenely indifferent to the two who watched her in rapture and silence, she played her heavenly music, a distant hymn to a being she alone could see; and upon invisible wings the gentle evening breeze carried the rippling notes far away into the fading red of the sky....

The old woman came quite near to Eric and whispered in his ear:

"They say that she is mad; but I know things that lie deeper than the deepest ocean, which they never can understand; however, I shall teach thee some of my wisdom: God has pressed His lips on her eyes, so she ever sees visions we earthly mortals have not the power to conceive.

"She is not one of us! She is of a race as far removed from ours as the sky is removed from the earth. But those that live in the dust, whose feet move amidst the mud of the roads, cannot believe that a creature so spotless and pure can exist in this world and yet never soil its perfection!

"So they say she is daft and turn lightly away from a problem too deep for the comfort of their shallow souls: for verily it is easier to disbelieve what the common brain cannot fathom."

"But who is she?" queried Eric, with bated breath.

"Ah! that we shall never know.

"In a distant land far over the sea we were once wandering on a rich-coloured autumn morning, and there we found, on the grey steps of a church, an infant of marvellous beauty. Her pearly limbs were enfolded in fine linen and lace. We had mercy upon the innocent babe, for our hearts have not the colour of our faces; and since that blessed day she has been the joy of our tribe and the pride of both young and old.

"But when she grew to the age when she could talk, not a syllable could we understand. Her eyes for ever were searching the skies, and her words spoke of things she alone could perceive. Even I, who am wise, could not follow her sayings.

"But gradually an inner voice told me that there was something holy about this stranger maiden, something which removed her far from us, something that mortal hands should not touch.

"Then I understood that God had laid His hand upon her brain. Now she seldom speaks, but always plays these heartrending notes. Hark, fair stranger, listen if it is not unearthly and sweet."

Eric listened with all his soul; never before had such music come to his ears.

It was full of tears, and sighs, and hopes, and dreams; it was heavenly indeed, and yet a sobbing human chord pierced the whole, with a never-ending cry for the things that every poor mortal needs. It rose and fell, carried upon the changing tides of love and hope; it contained a yearning effort, a boundless longing, towards that land of chimeras and dreams beyond the boundaries of the earth.

Every chord seemed strung to a pulsing heart bound and fettered, yet gasping to be free.

Then it changed into an intensity of peace, like the soft winds of night descending slowly upon the heat and toil of the day; dying away into fading notes always fainter and sweeter, like the first breath of spring over sleeping woods, like the hushed voice of a great sadness that can still hope and believe ... and then, quite suddenly, there was silence, and only the summer breeze stirred amongst the boughs of the trees.

XXI

At last! The fount of beauty, Fountain of all dreams, Now am I come upon my long desire.

FIONA MACLEOD.

Each day Eric came to this spot of beauty to look upon the being who was the realization of his soul's desire.

But the terrible mystery, that God allowed, was that this girl never even seemed to see that he was there.

Eric Gundian, who was adored of all--Eric of the golden locks, Eric the sweet-voiced,--could not make her eyes realize his presence.

The wandering people had received him into their hearts, as every man did upon whom he turned and smiled. They gave him a tent and begged him never more to depart.

But the living dream he had come so far to seek remained in a world of her own, to which he could not find the key. The dark tribe felt no rivalry towards this being of light who had so suddenly appeared in their midst. They saw that he was a creature apart, made of another clay, filled with another life; something that they could dearly love, but never completely understand.

Like the rough seamen on the ship, they hoped he would for ever cast in his lot with theirs and not depart as suddenly as he had come.

Zorka, the old fortune-teller, was his daily guide; and they all considered it natural that this glorious youth should have fallen beneath the spell of the mad girl, who was their greatest pride and deepest grief.

Had they not sought in turn a smile from her lips, a look out of the wonder of her eyes, and had she not always seen past them, far beyond, into horizons all her own, never noticing the glowing worship that was cast at her feet?

Now they watched with growing anxiety if this handsome stranger would move her heart and bring her eyes down to this earth. They both hoped and feared.

They longed that the miracle should come to pass, and yet, in the deepest recesses of their hearts, there was not one who did not jealously dread the moment when, perchance, she might turn in love to this youth they knew was not as they. But none feared so much as old Zorka the witch--because had she not read within the flames of the fire, within the flight of the birds, within the forms of the smoke, within the ripples of the wave-kissed sands, that this maiden was not for earthly love, that the day when mortal lips should touch her with human caress she would fade away like vapour on the sea!

Indeed she may have erred in the reading of the signs, but it would be for the very first time in her life. So she cursed the day when she had led this beautiful boy into the presence of the girl she adored. And yet--and yet--can ever Fate be turned from the path upon which she glides? Must not one and all drink from the cup which has been fashioned for each separate lip?

Stella she had called the stranger maiden--Stella, because of her shining orbs; and no doubt when God needed her amongst His other stars, He would then take her for His very own. Ah, the wise woman, with her weak and trembling hands, how could she change the course of the moving worlds!

So she sat by her fire and stared into the bluey flames, her old head bent, her knotted palms resting on her knees, puffing away at her pipe of clay, seeing weird shapes in the smoke that rose quivering to the sky.

So much had she seen, so much ... so much:

Lands of sunshine and regions of snow, storm-tossed waves and calmest sea, visions of beauty and visions of pain; men that live in the clear light of day and men that crawl in the shadows of night. She had seen things that had their beginnings in joy, and things that ended in sorrow, creatures that live and creatures that die, women that love and others that hate. Murder she had seen; and her ears had heard the last groaning sighs of the dying, as they had hearkened for the sounds of hope when the human soul was being cast naked into this world of sorrow.

The beginnings and the ends. Yes, everything had come her way,--her eyes were dim and tired from having seen all too much!

And now as she waited here not far from that island of promise, she knew that the youthful wanderer was giving all his soul in an agony of hope and expectation. She knew she was poor and helpless before these mysteries of life; that at times even the wisest hands must hang in idle rest.

Yes, day by day Eric came and sat beside this treasure he had found, and yet it was still as far removed as in the days when he was only dreaming.

Instead of in sleep, now his waking sight drank in the vision which was part of his living being. But although he had poured out every supplication and ardent prayer his mind could conceive, he never could imprison a single look that he knew was conscious of his presence.

She sometimes would talk, but more often she would play upon her beloved violin, and then Eric would feel that each drop of his blood was rushing through his veins like a mountain torrent; or he would be possessed by a frantic longing to be free of his body to soar with the music far up into heaven.

It would happen that she would take hold of his hand and lead him to places of strangest solitude, and there her visionary words would try to describe the marvellous things her brain was seeing.

He followed the flight of her extraordinary thoughts; but each day he was filled with deeper depression, knowing that never had she consciously looked at his face, never had she realized that it was an unusual companion who was now at her side, that she was alone with a being consumed by love.

She talked in a confiding voice as a child speaks to its mother, or as one that had the habit of conversing alone in the night.

The things she said, and conjured up before his eager mind, were saturated with such unheard-of sweetness that Eric lived in a world he had never known.

And so the days passed one by one; the bluebells faded and died, and still Eric clung to the forlorn hope that Stella's eyes would suddenly open and see him at her side. The gypsies folded their tents and moved farther on, roaming from spot to spot.

Wherever they went Eric was always with them.

For hours he would walk in the dust of the roads, keeping pace with the bare feet of the woman he loved.

The falcon was always there, and still flew like a white banner before him, as it had done on the very first day. But now Eric no more followed the shine on its wings; he was following a lowly maiden who held his beating heart within her careless hand.

He passed through many villages such as Radu had described: the savage dogs rushed out and surrounded their wandering procession, the maize-thatched cottages had their doors wide open, and it was true that the tall sunflowers could peep in at the tiny windows, and that the maidens sat upon the thresholds drawing their tireless needles through the snowy linen that lay in their laps.

The peasants looked at the earth-coloured travellers with glances of disdain; and seldom did a kindly welcome greet them as they came.

Only for Eric they made an exception, and more than one dark-eyed girl would have given much to keep him at her side.

Autumn was turning the leaves into glorious colours. The woods were a never-ending marvel of red, gold, and brown. On the freshly reaped maize-fields the Indian corn lay in small pyramids of ripest orange. The peasants sat about in groups singing the songs of harvest, whilst the early night did its best to hurry the glowing sunsets out of the flaming sky.

Always smaller grew the hope in our wanderer's heart, always more weary were the endless roads.

Stella still had her eyes turned upon things he could not see. He had not been able to make her grasp the fact that she had a stranger at her side.

Each day he brought her another wreath for her burnished tresses--a wreath that he wound with his artist fingers from whatever flowers he could find along his road.

They were becoming scarcer and rarer because of the descending autumn that lay like a hush over the tired world. He made them of pale-tinted crocuses that hung upon her forehead like tired sighs--he bound them with the brightest leaves of the season that resembled the spreading sunsets he so loved at the end of the day. Often he had plucked shining berries that surrounded her waxen brow like heavy drops of blood. And one day the wreath he brought her was all feathery and white, plaited with the fluffy ghosts of the wild clematis that climbs over rock and tree.

On a morning when the clouds hung heavy over their heads he pressed above her lovely face a garland of sloe-berries entwined with grey leaves of the weeping-willow; they fell about her delicate temples, touching her rounded cheeks with loving caresses as a mother's hand would do.

Once as she sat on a hard heap of stones, spent after the tramp of the day, he left her to glean from the barren fields ripe ears of corn that had been scattered by the reapers on their way.

He made them into a golden crown which he laid at her feet in the dust, looking into her eyes, trembling under the weight of his love.

And always he found some lowly plant which he plucked with the thought of bringing a smile to her lips. He even conjured into a circlet of silver the star-shaped thistles that grew amongst the wilting grass, and so that their prickles should not wound her delicate skin, he lined it with soft green moss that lay close against her forehead, guarding it from the slightest scratch.

But the days when he found neither flower nor plant he felt like a beggar that dare not come before the face of his queen....

Often when the roving tribe had pitched their tents for the night, Gundian would go and sit beside the fire with old Zorka the witch, and he never wearied of the tales she told, listening, with interest that was always new, to the quaint words that fell from her lips.

Zorka's heart had made him her own, and she dearly loved to have him at her side; but never did she find the needed courage to urge him to relinquish his quest; yet, as the days rolled by, she feared more and more that the signs might really come true.

On a night when all was dark and still, the very old woman and the beautiful youth sat side by side looking into the leaping flames.

Zorka raised her careworn face and scanned his thinning cheeks, his sunken eyes, and the beautiful hands that were nervously clasped on his knee. Her old heart ached with fearful desire for all that could not be.