In the
heart of Haïta the illusions of youth had not been supplanted by those
of age and experience. His thoughts were pure and pleasant, for his
life was simple and his soul devoid of ambition. He rose with the sun and
went forth to pray at the shrine of Hastur, the god of shepherds, who heard
and was pleased. After performance of this pious rite Haïta
unbarred the gate of the fold and with a cheerful mind drove his flock
afield, eating his morning meal of curds and oak cake as he went, occasionally
pausing to add a few berries, cold with dew, or to drink of the waters
that came away from the hills to join the stream in the middle of the valley
and be borne along with it, he knew not whither.
During the long summer day, as
his sheep cropped the good grass which the gods had made to grow for them,
or lay with their forelegs doubled under their breasts and chewed the cud,
Haïta, reclining in the shadow of a tree, or sitting upon a rock,
played so sweet music upon his reed pipe that sometimes from the corner
of his eye he got accidental glimpses of the minor sylvan deities, leaning
forward out of the copse to hear; but if he looked at them directly they
vanished. From thisfor he must be thinking if he would not turn into
one of this own sheephe drew the solemn inference that happiness may come
if not sought, but if looked for will never be seen; for next to the favor
of Hastur, who never disclosed himself, Haïta most valued the friendly
interest of his neighbors, the shy immortals of the wood and stream. At
nightfall he drove his flock back to the fold, saw that the gate was secure
and retired to his case for refreshment and for dreams.
So passed his life, one day like
another, save when the storms uttered the wrath of an offended god.
Then Haïta cowered in his cave, his face hidden in his hands, and
prayed that he alone might be punished for his sins, and the world saved
from destruction. Sometimes when there was a great rain, and the stream
came out of its banks, compelling him to urge his terrified flock to the
uplands, he interceded for the people in the cities which he had been told
lay in the plain beyond the two blue hills forming the gateway of his valley.
"It is kind of thee, O Hastur,"
so he prayed, "to give me mountains so near to my dwelling and my fold
that I and my sheep can escape the angry torrents; but the rest of the
world thou must thyself deliver in some way that I know not of, or I will
no longer worship thee."
And Hastur, knowing that Haïta
was a youth who kept his word, spared the cities and turned the waters
into the sea.
So he had lived since he could
remember. He could not rightly conceive any other mode of existence.
The holy hermit who dwelt at the head of the valley, a full hour's journey
away, from whom he had heard the tale of the great cities where dwelt people
poor souls! who had no sheep, gave him no knowledge of that early time,
when, so he reasoned, he must have been small and helpless as a lamb.
It was through thinking on these
mysteries and marvels, and on that horrible change to silence and decay
which he felt sure must some time come to him, as he had seen it come to
so many of his flockas it came to all living things except the birdsthat
Haïta first became conscious how miserable and hopeless was his lot.
"It is necessary," he said, "that
I know whence and how I came; for how can one perform his duties unless
able to judge what they are by the way in which he was intrusted with them?
And what contentment can I have when i know not how long it is going to
last? Perhaps before another sun I may be changed, and then what
will become of the sheep? What, indeed, will have become of me?"
Pondering these things Haïta
became melancholy and morose. He no longer spoke cheerfully to his
flock, nor ran with alacrity to the shrine of Hastur. In every breeze
he heard whispers of malign deities whose existence he now first observed.
Every cloud was a portent signifying disaster, and the darkness was full
of terrors. His reed pipe when applied to his lips gave out no melody,
but a dismal wail; the sylvan and riparian intelligences no longer thronged
to the thicket-side to listen, but fled from the sound, as he knew by the
stirred leaves and bent flowers. He relaxed his vigilance and many of his
sheep strayed away into the hills and were lost. Those that remained became
lean and ill for lack of good pasturage, for he would not see it for them,
but conducted them day after day to the same spot, through mere abstraction,
while puzzling about life and deathof immortality he knew not.
One day while indulging in the
gloomiest reflections he suddenly sprang from the rock upon which he sat,
and with a determined gesture exclaimed: "I will no longer be a suppliant
for knowledge which the gods withhold. Let them look to it that they do
me no wrong. I will do my duty as best I can and if I err upon thier
own heads be it!"
Suddenly, as he spoke, a great
brightness fell upon him, causing him to look pward, thinking the sun had
burst through a rift in the clouds; but there were no clouds. No
more than an arm's length away stood a beautiful maiden. So beautiful she
was that the flowers about her feet folded their petals in despair and
bent their heads in token submission; so sweet her look that the humming
birds thronged her eyes, trusting their thirsty bills almost into them,
and the wild bees were about her lips. And such was her brightness
that the shadows of all objects lay divergent from her feet, turning as
she moved.
Haïta was entranced.
Rising, he knelt before her in adoration, and she laid her hand upon his
head.
"Come," she said in a voice that
had the music of all the bells of his flock'come, thou are not to worship
me, who am no goddess, but if thou art truthful and dutiful I will abide
with thee."
Haïta seized her hand, a
stammering his joy and gratitude arose, and hand in hand they stood
and smiled into each other's eyes. He gazed on her with
reverence and rapture.
He said: "I pray thee, lovely maid, tell me thy name and whence and why
thou comest."
At this she laid a warning finger
on her hip and began to withdraw. Her beauty underwent a visible alteration
that made him shudder, he knew not why, for still she was beautiful.
The landscape was darkened by a giant shadow sweeping across the valley
with the speed of a vulture. In the obscurity the maiden's figure grew
dim and indistinct and her voice seemed to come from a distance, as she
said, in a tone of sorrowful reproach: "Presumptuous and ungrateful youth!
must I then so soon leave thee? Would nothing do but thou must at once
break the eternal compact?"
Inexpressibly grieved, Haïta
fell upon his knees and implored her to remainrose and sought her in the
deepening shadowsran in circles calling her aloud, but all in vain.
She was no longer visible, but out of the gloom he heard her voice saying:
"Nay, thou shalt not have me by seeking. Go to thy duty, faithless
shepherd, or we shall never meet again."
Night had fallen; the wolves
were howling in the hills and the terrified sheep crowded about Haïta's
feet. In the demands of the hour he forgot his disappointment, drove
his sheep to the fold and repairing to the place of worship poured out
his heart in gratitude to Hastur for permitting him to save his flock,
then retired to his cave and slept.
When Haïta awoke the sun
was high and shone in at the cave, illuminating it with a great glory.
And there, beside him, sat the maiden. She smiled upon him with a
smile that seemed the visible music of his pipe of reeds. He dared
not speak, fearing to offend her as before, for he knew not what he could
venture to say.
"Because," she said, "thou didst
thy duty by the flock, and didst not forget to thank Hastur for staying
the wolves of the night, I am come to thee again. Wilt thou have
me for a companion?"
"Who would not have thee forever?"
replied Haïta. "Oh! never again leave me untiluntil Ichange
and become silent and motionless."
Haïta had no word for death.
"I wish, indeed," he continued,
"that thou wert of my own sex, that we might wrestle and run races and
so never tire of being together."
At these words the maiden arose
and passed out of the cave, and Haïta, springing from his couch of
fragrant boughs to overtake and detain her, observed to his astonishment
that the rain was falling and the stream in the middle of the valley had
come out of its banks. The sheep were bleating in terror, for the
rising waters had invaded their fold. And there was danger for the unknown
cities in the distant plain.
It was many days before Haïta
saw the maiden again. One day he was returning from the head of the
valley, where he had gone with ewe's milk and oat cakes and berries for
the holy hermit, who was too old and feeble to provide himself with food.
"Poor old man!" he said aloud,
as he trudged along homeward. "I will return to-morrow and bear him
on my back to my own dwelling, where I can care for him. Doubtless it is
for this that Hastur has reared me all these many years, and gives me health
and strength."
As he spoke, the maiden, clad
in glittering garments, met him in the path with a smile that took away
his breath.
"I am come again," she said,
"to dwell with thee if thou wilt now have me, for none else will.
Thou mayest have learned wisdom, and art willing to take me as I am, nor
care to know."
Haïta threw himself at her
feet. "Beautiful being," he cried, "if thous wilt but deign to accept
all the devotion of my heart and soul after Hastur be served it is thine
forever. But, alas! thou are capricious and wayward. Before
to-morrow's sun I may lose thee again. Promise, I beseech thee, that
however in my ignorance I may offend, thou wilt forgive me and remain always
with me."
Scarcely had he finished speaking
when a troop of bears came out of the hills, racing toward him with crimson
mouths and fiery eyes. The maiden again vanished, and he turned and
fled for his life. Nor did he stop until he was in the cot of the
holy hermit, whence he had set out. Hastily barring the door against
the bears he cast himself upon the ground and wept.
"My son," said the hermit from
his couch of straw, freshly gathered that morning by Haïta's hands,
"it is not like thee to weep for bearstell me what sorrow hath befallen
thee, that age may minister to the hurts of youth with such balms as it
hath of its wisdom."
Haïta told him all: how
thrice he had met the radiant maid, and thrice she had left him forlorn.
He related minutely all that had passed between them, omitting no word
of what had been said.
When he had ended, the holy hermit
was a moment silent, then said: "My son, I have attended to thy story,
and I know the maiden. I have myself seen her, as have many.
Know, then, that her name, which she would not even permit thee to inquire,
is Happiness. Thou saidst the truth to her, that she is capricious
for she imposeth conditions that many can not fulfill, and delinquency
is punished by desertion. She cometh only when unsought, and will
not be questioned. One manifestation of curiosity, one sign of doubt,
one expression of misgiving, and she is away! How long didst thou
have her at any time before she fled?"
"Only a single instant," answered
Haïta, blushing with shame at the confession. "Each time I drove
her away in one moment."
"Unfortunate youth!" said the
holy hermit, "but for thine indiscretion thou mightst have had her for
two."
The End
