“I go” said the hunter; “but upon the mountains, tell me, which path shall I take?”
“I am the child of The-Accumulated-Knowledge-of-Ages,” said the man; “I can walk only where many men have trodden. On these mountains few feet have passed; each man strikes out a path for himself. He goes at his own peril: my voice he hears no more. I may follow after him, but cannot go before him.”
Then Knowledge vanished.
And the hunter turned. He went to his cage, and with his hands broke down the bars, and the jagged iron tore his flesh. It is sometimes easier to build than to break.
One by one he took his plumed birds and let them fly. But when he came to his dark-plumed bird he held it, and looked into its beautiful eyes, and the bird uttered its low, deep cry—“Immortality!”
And he said quickly: “I cannot part with it. It is not heavy; it eats no food. I will hide it in my breast; I will take it with me.” And he buried it there and covered it over with his cloak.
But the thing he had hidden grew heavier, heavier, heavier—till it lay on his breast like lead. He could not move with it. He could not leave those valleys with it. Then again he took it out and looked at it.
“Oh, my beautiful! my heart’s own!” he cried, “may I not keep you?”
He opened his hands sadly.
“Go!” he said. “It may happen that in Truth’s song one note is like yours; but I shall never hear it.”
Sadly he opened his hand, and the bird flew from him forever.
Then from the shuttle of Imagination he took the thread of his wishes, and threw it on the ground; and the empty shuttle he put into his breast, for the thread was made in those valleys, but the shuttle came from an unknown country. He turned to go, but now the people came about him, howling.
“Fool, hound, demented lunatic!” they cried. “How dared you break your cage and let the birds fly?”
The hunter spoke; but they would not hear him.
“Truth! who is she? Can you eat her? can you drink her? Who has ever seen her? Your birds were real: all could hear them sing! Oh, fool! vile reptile! atheist!” they cried, “you pollute the air.”
“Come, let us take up stones and stone him,” cried some.
“What affair is it of ours?” said others. “Let the idiot go,” and went away. But the rest gathered up stones and mud and threw at him. At last, when he was bruised and cut, the hunter crept away into the woods. And it was evening about him.
He wandered on and on, and the shade grew deeper. He was on the borders now of the land where it is always night. Then he stepped into it, and there was no light there. With his hands he groped; but each branch as he touched it broke off, and the earth was covered with cinders. At every step his foot sank in, and a fine cloud of impalpable ashes flew up into his face; and it was dark. So he sat down upon a stone and buried his face in his hands, to wait in the Land of Negation and Denial till the light came.
And it was night in his heart also.
Then from the marshes to his right and left cold mists arose and closed about him. A fine, imperceptible rain fell in the dark, and great drops gathered on his hair and clothes. His heart beat slowly, and a numbness crept through all his limbs. Then, looking up, two merry wisp lights came dancing. He lifted his head to look at them. Nearer, nearer they came. So warm, so bright, they danced like stars of fire. They stood before him at last. From the centre of the radiating flame in one looked out a woman’s face, laughing, dimpled, with streaming yellow hair. In the centre of the other were merry laughing ripples, like the bubbles on a glass of wine. They danced before him.
“Who are you,” asked the hunter, “who alone come to me in my solitude and darkness?”
“We are the twins Sensuality,” they cried. “Our father’s name is Human-Nature, and our mother’s name is Excess. We are as old as the hills and rivers, as old as the first man; but we never die,” they laughed.
“Oh, let me wrap my arms about you!” cried the first; “they are soft and warm. Your heart is frozen now, but I will make it beat. Oh, come to me!”
“I will pour my hot life into you,” said the second; “your brain is numb, and your limbs are dead now; but they shall live with a fierce free life. Oh, let me pour it in!”
“Oh, follow us,” they cried, “and live with us. Nobler hearts than yours have sat here in this darkness to wait, and they have come to us and we to them; and they have never left us, never. All else is a delusion, but we are real, we are real, we are real. Truth is a shadow; the valleys of superstition are a farce: the earth is of ashes, the trees all rotten; but we—feel us—we live! You cannot doubt us. Feel us how warm we are! Oh, come to us! Come with us!”
Nearer and nearer round his head they hovered, and the cold drops melted on his forehead. The bright light shot into his eyes, dazzling him, and the frozen blood began to run. And he said:
“Yes, why should I die here in this awful darkness? They are warm, they melt my frozen blood!” and he stretched out his hands to take them.
Then in a moment there arose before him the image of the thing he had loved, and his hand dropped to his side.
“Oh, come to us!” they cried.
But he buried his face.
“You dazzle my eyes,” he cried, “you make my heart warm; but you cannot give me what I desire. I will wait here—wait till I die. Go!”
He covered his face with his hands and would not listen; and when he looked up again they were two twinkling stars, that vanished in the distance.
And the long, long night rolled on.
All who leave the valley of superstition pass through that dark land; but some go through it in a few days, some linger there for months, some for years, and some die there.
At last for the hunter a faint light played along the horizon, and he rose to follow it; and he reached that light at last, and stepped into the broad sunshine. Then before him rose the almighty mountains of Dry-facts and Realities. The clear sunshine played on them, and the tops were lost in the clouds. At the foot many paths ran up. An exultant cry burst from the hunter. He chose the straightest and began to climb; and the rocks and ridges resounded with his song. They had exaggerated; after all, it was not so high, nor was the road so steep! A few days, a few weeks, a few months at most, and then the top! Not one feather only would he pick up; he would gather all that other men had found—weave the net—capture Truth—hold her fast—touch her with his hands—clasp her!
He laughed in the merry sunshine, and sang loud. Victory was very near. Nevertheless, after a while the path grew steeper. He needed all his breath for climbing, and the singing died away. On the right and left rose huge rocks, devoid of lichen or moss, and in the lava-like earth chasms yawned. Here and there he saw a sheen of white bones. Now too the path began to grow less and less marked; then it became a mere trace, with a footmark here and there; then it ceased altogether. He sang no more, but struck forth a path for himself, until it reached a mighty wall of rock, smooth and without break, stretching as far as the eye could see. “I will rear a stair against it; and, once this wall climbed, I shall be almost there,” he said bravely; and worked. With his shuttle of imagination he dug out stones; but half of them would not fit, and half a month’s work would roll down because those below were ill chosen. But the hunter worked on, saying always to himself, “Once this wall climbed, I shall be almost there. This great work ended!”
At last he came out upon the top, and he looked about him. Far below rolled the white mist over the valleys of superstition, and above him towered the mountains. They had seemed low before; they were of an immeasurable height now, from crown to foundation surrounded by walls of rock, that rose tier above