in secret places, hard to find. Whence it came, that, to a stranger, the whole isle looked care-free and beautiful. Deep among the ravines and the rocks, these beings lived in noisome caves, lairs for beasts, not human homes; or built them coops of rotten boughs — living trees were banned them — whose mouldy hearts hatched vermin. Fearing infection of some plague, born of this filth, the chiefs of Odo seldom passed that way and looking round within their green retreats, and pouring out their wine, and plucking from orchards of the best, marveled how these swine could grovel in the mire, and wear such sallow cheeks. But they offered no sweet homes; from that mire they never sought to drag them out; they open threw no orchard; and intermitted not the mandates that condemned their drudges to a life of deaths. Sad sight! to see those round-shouldered Helots, stooping in their trenches: artificial, three in number, and concentric: the isle well nigh surrounding. And herein, fed by oozy loam, and kindly dew from heaven, and bitter sweat from men, grew as in hot-beds the nutritious Taro.
Toil is man’s allotment; toil of brain, or toil of hands, or a grief that’s more than either, the grief and sin of idleness. But when man toils and slays himself for masters who withhold the life he gives to them — then, then, the soul screams out, and every sinew cracks. So with these poor serfs. And few of them could choose but be the brutes they seemed.
Now needs it to be said, that Odo was no land of pleasure unalloyed, and plenty without a pause? — Odo, in whose lurking-places infants turned from breasts, whence flowed no nourishment. — Odo, in whose inmost haunts, dark groves were brooding, passing which you heard most dismal cries, and voices cursing Media. There, men were scourged; their crime, a heresy; the heresy, that Media was no demigod. For this they shrieked. Their fathers shrieked before; their fathers, who, tormented, said, “Happy we to groan, that our children’s children may be glad.” But their children’s children howled. Yet these, too, echoed previous generations, and loudly swore, “The pit that’s dug for us may prove another’s grave.”
But let all pass. To look at, and to roam about of holidays, Odo seemed a happy land. The palm-trees waved — though here and there you marked one sear and palsy-smitten; the flowers bloomed — though dead ones moldered in decay; the waves ran up the strand in glee — though, receding, they sometimes left behind bones mixed with shells.
But else than these, no sign of death was seen throughout the isle. Did men in Odo live for aye? Was Ponce de Leon’s fountain there? For near and far, you saw no ranks and files of graves, no generations harvested in winrows. In Odo, no hard-hearted nabob slept beneath a gentle epitaph; no requiescat-inpace mocked a sinner damned; no memento-mori admonished men to live while yet they might. Here Death hid his skull; and hid it in the sea, the common sepulcher of Odo. Not dust to dust, but dust to brine; not hearses but canoes. For all who died upon that isle were carried out beyond the outer reef, and there were buried with their sires’ sires. Hence came the thought, that of gusty nights, when round the isles, and high toward heaven, flew the white reef’s rack and foam, that then and there, kept chattering watch and ward, the myriads that were ocean-tombed.
But why these watery obsequies?
Odo was but a little isle, and must the living make way for the dead, and Life’s small colony be dislodged by Death’s grim hosts; as the gaunt tribes of Tamerlane o’erspread the tented pastures of the Khan?
And now, what follows, said these Islanders: “Why sow corruption in the soil which yields us life? We would not pluck our grapes from over graves. This earth’s an urn for flowers, not for ashes.”
They said that Oro, the supreme, had made a cemetery of the sea.
And what more glorious grave? Was Mausolus more sublimely urned? Or do the minster-lamps that burn before the tomb of Charlemagne, show more of pomp, than all the stars, that blaze above the shipwrecked mariner?
But no more of the dead; men shrug their shoulders, and love not their company; though full soon we shall all have them for fellows.
CHAPTER 64
YILLAH A PHANTOM
For a time we were happy in Odo: Yillah and I in our islet. Nor did the pearl on her bosom glow more rosily than the roses in her cheeks; though at intervals they waned and departed; and deadly pale was her glance, when she murmured of the whirlpool and mosses. As pale my soul, bethinking me of Aleema the priest.
But day by day, did her spell weave round me its magic, and all the hidden things of her being grew more lovely and strange. Did I commune with a spirit? Often I thought that Paradise had overtaken me on earth, and that Yillah was verily an angel, and hence the mysteries that hallowed her.
But how fleeting our joys. Storms follow bright dawnings. — Long memories of short-lived scenes, sad thoughts of joyous hours — how common are ye to all mankind. When happy, do we pause and say —“Lo, thy felicity, my soul?” No: happiness seldom seems happiness, except when looked back upon from woes. A flowery landscape, you must come out of, to behold.
Sped the hours, the days, the one brief moment of our joys. Fairy bower in the fair lagoon, scene of sylvan ease and heart’s repose — Oh, Yillah, Yillah! All the woods repeat the sound, the wild, wild woods of my wild soul. Yillah! Yillah! cry the small strange voices in me, and evermore, and far and deep, they echo on.
Days passed. When one morning I found the arbor vacant. Gone! A dream. I closed my eyes, and would have dreamed her back. In vain. Starting, I called upon her name; but none replied. Fleeing from the islet, I gained the neighboring shore, and searched among the woods; and my comrades meeting, besought their aid. But idle all. No glimpse of aught, save trees and flowers. Then Media was sought out; the event made known; and quickly, bands were summoned to range the isle.
Noon came; but no Yillah. When Media averred she was no longer in Odo. Whither she was gone, or how, he knew not; nor could any imagine.
At this juncture, there chanced to arrive certain messengers from abroad; who, presuming that all was well with Taji, came with renewed invitations to visit various pleasant places round about. Among these, came Queen Hautia’s heralds, with their Iris flag, once more bringing flowers. But they came and went unheeded.
Setting out to return, these envoys were accompanied by numerous followers of Media, dispatched to the neighboring islands, to seek out the missing Yillah. But three days passed; and, one by one, they all returned; and stood before me silently.
For a time I raved. Then, falling into outer repose, lived for a space in moods and reveries, with eyes that knew no closing, one glance forever fixed.
They strove to rouse me. Girls danced and sang; and tales of fairy times were told; of monstrous imps, and youths enchanted; of groves and gardens in the sea. Yet still I moved not, hearing all, yet noting naught. Media cried, “For shame, oh Taji; thou, a god?” and placed a spear in my nerveless hand. And Jarl loud called upon me to awake. Samoa marveled.
Still sped the days. And at length, my memory was restored. The thoughts of things broke over me like returning billows on a beach long bared. A rush, a foam of recollections! — Sweet Yillah gone, and I bereaved.
Another interval, and that mood was past. Misery became a memory. The keen pang a deep vibration. The remembrance seemed the thing remembered; though bowed with sadness. There are thoughts that lie and glitter deep: tearful pearls beneath life’s sea, that surges still, and rolls sunlit, whatever it may hide. Common woes, like fluids, mix all round. Not so with that other grief. Some mourners load the air with lamentations; but the loudest notes are struck from hollows. Their
