The Source
IIn the middle of the land that is called by its inhabitantsKoorma, and by strangers the Land of the Half-forgotten, I wastoiling all day long through heavy sand and grass as hard aswire. Suddenly, toward evening, I came upon a place where agate opened in the wall of mountains, and the plain ran inthrough the gate, making a little bay of level country amongthe hills.Now this bay was not brown and hard and dry, like themountains above me, neither was it covered with tawny billowsof sand like the desert along the edge of which I had wearilycoasted. But the surface of it was smooth and green; and asthe winds of twilight breathed across it they were followed bysoft waves of verdure, with silvery turnings of the undersides of many leaves, like ripples on a quiet harbour. Therewere fields of corn, filled with silken rustling, andvineyards with long rows of trimmed maple-trees standingeach one like an emerald goblet wreathed with vines, andflower-gardens as bright as if the earth had been embroideredwith threads of blue and scarlet and gold, and olive-orchardsfrosted over with delicate and fragrant blossoms. Red-roofedcottages were scattered everywhere through the sea ofgreenery, and in the centre, like a white ship surrounded bya flock of little boats, rested a small, fair, shining city.I wondered greatly how this beauty had come into being onthe border of the desert. Passing through the fields andgardens and orchards, I found that they were all encircled andlined with channels full of running water. I followed up oneof the smaller channels until it came to a larger stream, andas I walked on beside it, still going upward, it guided meinto the midst of the city, where I saw a sweet, merry riverflowing through the main street, with abundance of water anda very pleasant sound.There were houses and shops and lofty palaces and all thatmakes a city, but the life and joy of all, and the one thingthat I remember best, was the river. For in the open square atthe edge of the city there were marble pools where the childrenmight bathe and play; at the corners of the streets and on thesides of the houses there were fountains for the drawing ofwater; at every crossing a stream was turned aside to run out tothe vineyards; and the river was the mother of them all.There were but few people in the streets, and none of theolder folk from whom I might ask counsel or a lodging; so Istood and knocked at the door of a house. It was opened by anold man, who greeted me with kindness and bade me enter as hisguest. After much courteous entertainment, and when supperwas ended, his friendly manner and something of singularattractiveness in his countenance led me to tell him of mystrange journeyings in the land of Koorma and in other landswhere I had been seeking the Blue Flower, and to inquire ofhim the name and the story of his city and the cause of theriver which made it glad."My son," he answered, "this is the city which was calledAblis, that is to say, Forsaken. For long ago men lived here,and the river made their fields fertile, and their dwellings werefull of plenty and peace. But because of many evil things whichhave been half-forgotten, the river was turned aside, or else itwas dried up at its source in the high place among the mountains,so that the water flowed down no more. The channels and thetrenches and the marble pools and the basins beside the housesremained, but they were empty. So the gardens withered; thefields were barren; the city was desolate; and in the brokencisterns there was scanty water."Then there came one from a distant country who was verysorrowful to see the desolation. He told the people that itwas vain to dig new cisterns and to keep the channels andtrenches clean; for the water had come only from above. TheSource must be found again and reopened. The river would notflow unless they traced it back to the spring, and visited itcontinually, and offered prayers and praises beside it withoutceasing. Then the spring would rise to an outpouring, and thewater would run down plentifully to make the gardens blossomand the city rejoice."So he went forth to open the fountain; but there were fewthat went with him, for he was a poor man of lowly aspect, andthe path upward was steep and rough. But his companions sawthat as he climbed among the rocks, little streams of watergushed from the places where he trod, and pools began togather in the dry river-bed. He went more swiftly than theycould follow him, and at length he passed out of their sight.A little farther on they came to the rising of the river andthere, beside the overflowing Source, they found their leaderlying dead.""That was a strange thing," I cried, "and very pitiful.Tell me how it came to pass, and what was the meaning of it.""I cannot tell the whole of the meaning," replied the oldman, after a little pause, "for it was many years ago. Butthis poor man had many enemies in the city, chiefly among themakers of cisterns, who hated him for his words. I believethat they went out after him secretly and slew him. But hisfollowers came back to the city; and as they came the riverbegan to run down very gently after them. They returned to theSource day by day, bringing others with them; for they said thattheir leader was really alive, though the form of his life hadchanged, and that he met them in that high place while theyremembered him and prayed and sang songs of praise. More andmore the people learned to go with them, and the path grewplainer and easier to find. The more the Source was revisited,the more abundant it became, and the more it filled the river.All the channels and the basins were supplied with water, and menmade new channels which were also filled. Some of those who werediggers of trenches and hewers of cisterns said that it wastheir work which had wrought the change. But the wisest andbest among the people knew that it all came from the Source,and they taught that if it should ever again be forgotten andleft unvisited the river would fail again and desolationreturn. So every day, from the gardens and orchards and thestreets of the city, men and women and children have gone upthe mountain-path with singing, to rejoice beside the springfrom which the river flows and to remember the one who opened it.We call it the River Carita. And the name of the city is no moreAblis, but Saloma, which is Peace. And the name of him who diedto find the Source for us is so dear that we speak it only whenwe pray."But there are many things yet to learn about our city,and some that seem dark and cast a shadow on my thoughts.Therefore, my son, I bid you to be my guest, for there is aroom in my house for the stranger; and to-morrow and on thefollowing days you shall see how life goes with us, and read,if you can, the secret of the city."That night I slept well, as one who has heard a pleasanttale, with the murmur of running water woven through mydreams; and the next day I went out early into the streets,for I was curious to see the manner of the visitation of theSource.Already the people were coming forth and turning theirsteps upward in the mountain-path beside the river. Some ofthem went alone, swiftly and in silence; others were in groupsof two or three, talking as they went; others were in largercompanies, and they sang together very gladly and sweetly.But there were many people who remained workingin their fields or in their houses, or stayed talking on thecorners of the streets. Therefore I joined myself to one ofthe men who walked alone and asked him why all the people didnot go to the spring, since the life of the city depended uponit, and whether, perhaps, the way was so long and so hard thatnone but the strongest could undertake it."Sir," said he, "I perceive that you are a stranger, forthe way is both short and easy, so that the children are thosewho most delight in it; and if a man were in great haste hecould go there and return in a little while. But of those whoremain behind, some are the busy ones who must visit thefountain at another hour; and some are the careless ones whotake life as it comes and never think where it comes from; andsome are those who do not believe in the Source and will hearnothing about it.""How can that be?" I said; "do they not drink of thewater, and does it not make their fields green?""It is true," he said; "but these men have made wellsclose by the river, and they say that these wells fillthemselves; and they have digged channels through theirgardens, and they say that these channels would always havewater in them even though the spring should cease to flow.Some of them say also that it is an unworthy thing to drinkfrom a source that another has opened, and that every manought to find a new spring for himself; so they spend the hourof the visitation, and many more, in searching among themountains where there is no path."While I wondered over this, we kept on in the way. Therewas already quite a throng of people all going in the samedirection. And when we came to the Source, which flowed froman opening in a cliff, almost like a chamber hewn in the rock,and made a little garden of wild-flowers around it as it fell,I heard the music of many voices and the beautiful name of himwho had given his life to find the forgotten spring.Then we came down again, singly and in groups, followingthe river. It seemed already more brightand full and joyous. As we passed through the gardens I sawmen turning aside to make new channels through fields whichwere not yet cultivated. And as we entered the city I saw thewheels of the mills that ground the corn whirling moreswiftly, and the maidens coming with their pitchers to drawfrom the brimming basins at the street corners, and thechildren laughing because the marble pools were so full thatthey could swim in them. There was plenty of watereverywhere.For many weeks I stayed in the city of Saloma, going upthe mountain-path in the morning, and returning to the day ofwork and the evening of play. I found friends among thepeople of the city, not only among those who walked togetherin the visitation of the Source, but also among those whoremained behind, for many of them were kind and generous,faithful in their work, and very pleasant in theirconversation.Yet there was something lacking between me and them. Icame not onto firm ground with them, for all their warmth ofwelcome and their pleasant ways. They were by nature of therace of those who dwell ever in one place; even in their thoughtsthey went not far abroad. But I have been ever a seeker, and theworld seems to me made to wander in, rather than to abide in onecorner of it and never see what the rest has in store. Nowthis was what the people of Saloma could not understand, andfor this reason I seemed to them always a stranger, an alien,a guest. The fixed circle of their life was like an invisiblewall, and with the best will in the world they knew not how todraw me within it. And I, for my part, while I understoodwell their wish to rest and be at peace, could not quiteunderstand the way in which it found fulfilment, nor share therepose which seemed to them all-sufficient and lasting. Intheir gardens I saw ever the same flowers, and none perfect.At their feasts I tasted ever the same food, and none thatmade an end of hunger. In their talk I heard ever the samewords, and none that went to the depth of thought. The veryquietude and fixity of their being perplexed and estranged me.What to them was permanent, to me was transient. They wereinhabitants: I was a visitor.The one in all the city of Saloma with whom was most at homewas Ruamie, the little granddaughter of the old man with whomI lodged. To her, a girl of thirteen, fair-eyed and full ofjoy, the wonted round of life had not yet grown to be a matter ofcourse. She was quick to feel and answer the newness of everyday that dawned. When a strange bird flew down from themountains into the gardens, it was she that saw it and wonderedat it. It was she that walked with me most often in the path tothe Source. She went out with me to the fields in the morningand almost every day found wild-flowers that were new to me.At sunset she drew me to happy games of youths and children,where her fancy was never tired of weaving new turns to thefamiliar pastimes. In the dusk she would sit beside me in anarbour of honeysuckle and question me about the flower that Iwas seeking,--for to her I had often spoken of my quest."Is it blue," she asked, "as blue as the speedwell thatgrows beside the brook?""Yes, it is as much bluer than the speedwell, as the riveris deeper than the brook.""And is it she asked, "as bright as the drops of dew inthe moonlight?""Yes, it is brighter than the drops of dew as the sun isclearer than the moon.""And is it sweet," she asked, "as sweet as the honeysucklewhen the day is warm and still?""Yes, it is as much sweeter than the honeysuckle as thenight is stiller and more sweet than the day.""Tell me again," she asked, "when you saw it, and why doyou seek it?""Once I saw it when I was a boy, no older than you. Ourhouse looked out toward the hills, far away and at sunsetsoftly blue against the eastern sky. It was the day that welaid my father to rest in the little burying-ground among thecedar-trees. There was his father's grave, and his father'sfather's grave, and there were the places for my mother andfor my two brothers and for my sister and for me. I countedthem all, when the others had gone back to the house. I pacedup and down alone, measuring the ground; there wasroom enough for us all; and in the western corner where ayoung elm-tree was growing,--that would be my place, for I wasthe youngest. How tall would the elm-tree be then? I hadnever thought of it before. It seemed to make me sad andrestless,--wishing for something, I knew not what,--longing tosee the world and to taste happiness before I must sleepbeneath the elm-tree. Then I looked off to the blue hills,shadowy and dream-like, the boundary of the little world thatI knew. And there, in a cleft between the highest peaks I sawa wondrous thing: for the place at which I was looking seemedto come nearer and nearer to me; I saw the trees, the rocks,the ferns, the white road winding before me; the enfoldinghills unclosed like leaves, and in the heart of them I saw aBlue Flower, so bright, so beautiful that my eyes filled withtears as I looked. It was like a face that smiled at me andpromised something. Then I heard a call, like the note of atrumpet very far away, calling me to come. And as I listenedthe flower faded into the dimness of the hills.""Did you follow it," asked Ruamie, "and did you go away fromyour home? How could you do that?""Yes, Ruamie, when the time came, as soon as I was free,I set out on my journey, and my home is at the end of thejourney, wherever that may be.""And the flower," she asked, "you have seen it again?""Once again, when I was a youth, I saw it. After a longvoyage upon stormy seas, we came into a quiet haven, and therethe friend who was dearest to me, said good-by, for he wasgoing back to his own country and his father's house, but Iwas still journeying onward. So as I stood at the bow of theship, sailing out into the wide blue water, far away among thesparkling waves I saw a little island, with shores of silversand and slopes of fairest green, and in the middle of theisland the Blue Flower was growing, wondrous tall anddazzling, brighter than the sapphire of the sea. Then thecall of the distant trumpet came floating across the water,and while it was sounding a shimmer of fog swept over theisland and I could see it no more.""Was it a real island," asked Ruamie. "Did you ever findit?""Never; for the ship sailed another way. But once againI saw the flower; three days before I came to Saloma. It wason the edge of the desert, close under the shadow of the greatmountains. A vast loneliness was round about me; it seemed asif I was the only soul living upon earth; and I longed for thedwellings of men. Then as I woke in the morning I looked upat the dark ridge of the mountains, and there against thebrightening blue of the sky I saw the Blue Flower standing upclear and brave. It shone so deep and pure that the sky grewpale around it. Then the echo of the far-off trumpet drifteddown the hillsides, and the sun rose, and the flower wasmelted away in light. So I rose and travelled on till I cameto Saloma.""And now," said the child, "you are at home with us. Willyou not stay for a long, long while? You may find the BlueFlower here. There are many kinds in the fields. I find newones every day.""I will stay while I can, Ruamie," I answered,taking her hand in mine as we walked back to the house atnightfall, "but how long that may be I cannot tell. For withyou I am at home, yet the place where I must abide is theplace where the flower grows, and when the call comes I mustfollow it.""Yes," said she, looking at me half in doubt, "I think Iunderstand. But wherever you go I hope you will find theflower at last."In truth there were many things in the city that troubledme and made me restless, in spite of the sweet comfort ofRuamie's friendship and the tranquillity of the life inSaloma. I came to see the meaning of what the old man hadsaid about the shadow that rested upon his thoughts. Forthere were some in the city who said that the hours ofvisitation were wasted, and that it would be better to employthe time in gathering water from the pools that formed amongthe mountains in the rainy season, or in sinking wells alongthe edge of the desert. Others had newly come to the city andwere teaching that there was no Source, and that the story ofthe poor man who reopened it was a fable, and that the hours ofvisitation were only hours of dreaming. There were many whobelieved them, and many more who said that it did not matterwhether their words were true or false, and that it was of smallmoment whether men went to visit the fountain or not, providedonly that they worked in the gardens and kept the marble poolsand basins in repair and opened new canals through the fields,since there always had been and always would be plenty of water.As I listened to these sayings it seemed to me doubtfulwhat the end of the city would be. And while this doubt wasyet heavy upon me, I heard at midnight the faint calling ofthe trumpet, sounding along the crest of the mountains: and asI went out to look where it came from, I saw, through theglimmering veil of the milky way, the shape of a blossom ofcelestial blue, whose petals seemed to fall and fade as Ilooked. So I bade farewell to the old man in whose house Ihad learned to love the hour of visitation and the Source andthe name of him who opened it; and I kissed the hands and thebrow of the little Ruamie who had entered my heart, and wentforth sadly from the land of Koorma into other lands, to look forthe Blue Flower.
IIIn the Book of the Voyage without a Harbour is written therecord of the ten years which passed before I came back againto the city of Saloma.It was not easy to find, for I came down through themountains, and as I looked from a distant shoulder of thehills for the little bay full of greenery, it was not to beseen. There was only a white town shining far off against thebrown cliffs, like a flake of mica in a cleft of the rocks.Then I slept that night, full of care, on the hillside, andrising before dawn, came down in the early morning toward thecity.The fields were lying parched and yellow under thesunrise, and great cracks gaped in the earth as if it werethirsty. The trenches and channels were still there, butthere was little water in them; and through the ragged fringes ofthe rusty vineyards I heard, instead of the cheerful songs of thevintagers, the creaking of dry windlasses and the hoarse throb ofthe pumps in sunken wells. The girdle of gardens had shrunk likea wreath of withered flowers, and all the bright embroidery, ofearth was faded to a sullen gray.At the foot of an ancient, leafless olive-tree I saw agroup of people kneeling around a newly opened well. I askeda man who was digging beside the dusty path what this mightmean. He straightened himself for a moment, wiping the sweatfrom his brow, and answered, sullenly, "They are worshippingthe windlass: how else should they bring water into theirfields?" Then he fell furiously to digging again, and Ipassed on into the city.There was no sound of murmuring streams in the streets,and down the main bed of the river I saw only a few shallowpuddles, joined together by a slowly trickling thread. Eventhese were fenced and guarded so that no one might come nearto them, and there were men going among to the houses withwater-skins on their shoulders, crying "Water! Water to sell!"The marble pools in the open square were empty; and at oneof them there was a crowd looking at a man who was beingbeaten with rods. A bystander told me that the officers ofthe city had ordered him to be punished because he had saidthat the pools and the basins and the channels were not all ofpure marble, without a flaw. "For this," said he, "is theevil doctrine that has come in to take away the glory of ourcity, and because of this the water has failed.""It is a sad change," I answered, "and doubtless they whohave caused it should suffer more than others. But can youtell me at what hour and in what manner the people now observethe visitation of the Source?"He looked curiously at me and replied: "I do notunderstand you. There is no visitation save the inspection ofthe cisterns and the wells which the syndics of the city ,whom we call the Princes of Water, carry on daily at everyhour. What source is this of which you speak?"So I went on through the street, where all the passers-byseemed in haste and wore weary countenances, until I came tothe house where I had lodged. There was a little basin hereagainst the wall, with a slender stream of water still flowinginto it, and a group of children standing near with theirpitchers, waiting to fill them.The door of the house was closed; but when I knocked, itopened and a maiden came forth. She was pale and sad inaspect, but a light of joy dawned over the snow of her face,and I knew by the youth in her eyes that it was Ruamie, whohad walked with me through the vineyards long ago.With both hands she welcomed me, saying: "You areexpected. Have you found the Blue Flower?""Not yet," I answered, "but something drew me back to you.I would know how it fares with you, and I would go again withyou to visit the Source."At this her face grew bright, but with a tender, half-sadbrightness."The Source!" she said. "Ah, yes, I was sure that you wouldremember it. And this is the hour of the visitation. Come, letus go up together."Then we went alone through the busy and weary multitudesof the city toward the mountain-path. So forsaken was it andso covered with stones and overgrown with wire-grass that Icould not have found it but for her guidance. But as weclimbed upward the air grew clearer, and more sweet, and Iquestioned her of the things that had come to pass in myabsence. I asked her of the kind old man who had taken meinto his house when I came as a stranger. She said, softly,"He is dead.""And where are the men and women, his friends, who oncethronged this pathway? Are they also dead?""They also are dead.""But where are the younger ones who sang here so gladly asthey marched upward? Surely they, are living?""They have forgotten.""Where then are the young children whose fathers taughtthem this way and bade them remember it. Have they forgotten?""They have forgotten.""But why have you alone kept the hour of visitation? Whyhave you not turned back with your companions? How have youwalked here solitary day after day?"She turned to me with a divine regard, and laying her handgently over mine, she said, "I remember always."Then I saw a few wild-flowers blossoming beside the path.We drew near to the Source, and entered into the chamberhewn in the rock. She kneeled and bent over the sleepingspring. She murmured again and again the beautiful name ofhim who had died to find it. Her voice repeated the song thathad once been sung by many voices. Her tears fell softly onthe spring, and as they fell it seemed as if the water stirredand rose to meet her bending face, and when she looked up itwas as if the dew had fallen on a flower.We came very slowly down the path along the river Carita,and rested often beside it, for surely, I thought, the risingof the spring had sent a`little more water down its dry bed, andsome of it must flow on to the city. So it was almost eveningwhen we came back to the streets. The people were hurrying toand fro, for it was the day before the choosing of new Princes ofWater; and there was much dispute about them, and strife over thebuilding of new cisterns to hold the stores of rain which mightfall in the next year. But none cared for us, as we passed bylike strangers, and we came unnoticed to the door of the house.Then a great desire of love and sorrow moved within mybreast, and I said to Ruamie, "You are the life of the city,for you alone remember. Its secret is in your heart, and yourfaithful keeping of the hours of visitation is the only causewhy the river has not failed altogether and the curse ofdesolation returned. Let me stay with you, sweet soul of allthe flowers that are dead, and I will cherish you forever.Together we will visit the Source every day; and we shall turnthe people, by our lives and by our words, back to that whichthey have forgotten."There was a smile in her eyes so deep that its meaning cannotbe spoken, as she lifted my hand to her lips, and answered,"Not so, dear friend, for who can tell whether life ordeath will come to the city, whether its people will rememberat last, or whether they will forget forever. Its lot ismine, for I was born here, and here my life is rooted. Butyou are of the Children of the Unquiet Heart, whose feet cannever rest until their task of errors is completed and theirlesson of wandering is learned to the end. Until then goforth, and do not forget that I shall remember always."Behind her quiet voice I heard the silent call thatcompels us, and passed down the street as one walking in adream. At the place where the path turned aside to the ruinedvineyards I looked back. The low sunset made a circle ofgolden rays about her head and a strange twin blossom ofcelestial blue seemed to shine in her tranquil eyes.Since then I know not what has befallen the city, norwhether it is still called Saloma, or once more Ablis, whichis Forsaken. But if it lives at all, I know that it isbecause there is one there who remembers, and keeps the hour ofvisitation, and treads the steep way, and breathes the beautifulname over the spring, and sometimes I think that long before myseeking and journeying brings me to the Blue Flower, it willbloom for Ruamie beside the still waters of the Source.
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