For, to him, there were no clouds in the sky. There were no destroying waves, no litter on the marvelous beach he strolled. He did not recognize it as Haga Bay. He sat alone and gazed out over the water, and there, where the water dome bad risen, he now saw rise the faintly scaled, exquisitely shaped form of Ahuni-i.
She raised her webbed hand to him La greeting and sank again below the surface—Corenice’s affectionate goddess, the Spirit of the Wave, speeding back to her deep and distant home.
In the sky was not the sun he knew, but a thing of supernal glory. It was no longer round and yellow, but framed in twisting fountains of flame that spouted and flung themselves out into space in joyous splendor. All the air was filled with harmony and he recognized it as the music the spheres of Heaven make as they roll upon their appointed way.
Here was beauty, here was magic; here was no enemy, no worry, no carking care. Here was the Land of Dream—the rolling hills, the perfumed zephyrs, the place of seeking where wishes are always granted—the home of angels, where lost loves are always to be found.
He picked himself up from the soft ground and went in languid reverie to seek Corenice.
As though his wish had called her, she was there. They were not again to be soon parted, he knew, for this was not a place of partings, but a country of enchantment wherein they could live enchanted lives.
Somehow, in this one spot on earth, perfection from another dimension impinged upon the soil and the seas we know; somehow they had passed through to where it lay in all its unmarred loveliness—the Terrestrial Paradise, lost Eden, the Blessed Isles, the Delectable Country where were all the denied delights to which the finite perceptions of man have wistfully aspired to attain.
They subsisted on nectar and ambrosia and the fragrance of flowers. They slept when they were weary and weariness was bliss and waking together was happiness. They wandered up and down the foam-edged coasts, where seagulls do not cry but sweetly sing, and where little boats with rainbow sails dot the water like floating blossoms.
Across and back and roundabout the Land of Dream they roved in delight with the restless winds.
19
Soldier of Jortune
Gwalchmai awoke.
He found himself standing upon the beach, looking up at the undamaged outlines of Shori Castle, clean-etched against the cliff. There were no signs here of war, or that there had ever been such.
The fisher village stood unmarred by fire. The Itari flowed smoothly in its accustomed course, crossed by its two bridges, and once more “the moat Was fed by it, protecting the gateways where the gates stood strong and undamaged, as he had seen them first.
He looked quickly toward the sea. Behind him a little boat was drawn up on the sand. Evidently he had just disembarked from it, for he held a fishing spear in his hand and a net was draped wetly over its shaft.
He suddenly felt dizzy. A scintillating wheel of light spun before his eyes and he swayed unsteadily. A gong beat in his ears.
A strong hand grasped his arm, and he saw for the first time that two people were near him. One was a sobbing woman, upon her knees before him. She lifted a tear-wet face.
“Come, my Lord Gorome! Oh, come quickly! She is asking for you. There is not much time!”
Gwalchmai did not at first understand. He shook off the strong hand of the man who supported him. “Thank you, Chikara. I am myself now.”
Concern deepened upon the man’s countenance. He peered closely at Gwalchmai.
“Are you sure, Lord? Do you not know me? I am Han-shiro. My father was Chikara. He died thirty years ago.”
Gwalchmai’s blurred vision cleared. Split memories joined. The past came rushing back and he realized the truth. While he and Corenice had remained young and live and loving, their eyes touched with magic, their souls hi union as never before, denizens of that perfect country— cruel Time had lain his withering hand upon the bodies in which those souls were housed.
He remembered, in one crowded awakening instant, the rebuilding of the castle, the honors that came to him and the other survivors of the dreadful siege, the confirming of his status as Daimyo by the Emperor, his long and happy life with the Lady Mitami, last of the Hidayama, as his wife.
As he hurried through the gates, he recalled that she had expressed a desire for a slice of turbot and that he had gone out to find and spear a fish, thinking that her sickness was on the upturn.
She had refused all food the previous day.
Had she sent him away that he might not see her die? He ran up the ramp. As he did so the great bell, which he had thought to be a gong, tolled out another slow and muted stroke.
Was it over, then? All that they had shared? Their double life of the body and the soul? For the better part of a century he had lived two lives in one. With her passing, one of them was ending, but which was reality and which illusion he did not know.
When he entered her chamber, gasping for breath, he could not see her because of his misted eyes and the weeping women gathered around her sleeping mats.
He pushed them aside and sank to his knees beside her.
Was this aged woman, with hair of silver, his sweet young playmate? Oh, God! Was this what time could do?
Then she smiled, that smile which alone in all her changes had always remained the same. It seemed only a moment ago that they had walked together upon a whispering strand and he had kissed her when she smiled that way. > He knew now that it had been in the Land of Dream. ,
(Ah, Corenice, ever ageless, ever young, ever loving, are we to part once more? When, if ever, shall we meet again and in what distant place?
Oh, cruel Fate, which toys so harshly with us—make an end! Release me from my vow! It has cost us far too much and there is no purpose jn’it!)
Thinking tfius, he felt her gaze upon him. She saw his grief and feebly raised her hand .to his face, gently cupping it against his cheek. Her fingers were soft and wrinkled, but he saw nothing now but the delicate beauty he wanted to see.
Time does not destroy such memories. It only fixes them more permanently—with brighter colors drawn from the heart.
Looking upon her whom he loved, he saw the two in one. The Lady Mitami Uyume, daughter of the Hidayamas, fragile, doll-like, patient and devoted, and Corenice, warrior-maid, ever-changing- faithful comrade and sweetheart— equally patient, gallant, ^ and brave, making his destiny hers and waiting on its accomplishment So closely intertwined were these two lives he had lived, that he did not know which of the twain he loved was speaking.
“Do not despair, my darling, We part but for a little while, though it comes to me that we shall not meet another time in this manner.
“Do you remember the swans? What a day that was for us! We agreed that if we became as they, then we should never really be separated and it has been so.
“I think it may be now that we have had as much as we deserve. Our lives have been like no others since the beginning of the world. Perhaps we have been allowed more than our share of love, if it so be that affection can be apportioned.
“I know what you have been thinking. Release your dagger. When were our thoughts ever secret from each other? This is not the place for an ending. Look into your ring and you will see that you must complete that destiny which •is also mine.
“Farewell, for a little while.”
Her hand fell away from his cheek and he knew that those last moments of waiting had been possible only because her iron will had made them so. Her fingers were cold and her eyes had closed. He placed her hands together across her breast and laid his own upon her brow.
For a brief glance his eyes fell upon the ring as she had bid. In the depths of the opal he saw a swift blur of motion. Armored men, in fire and smoke, rushing headlong at a mighty fortress. He saw himself in that frantic crowd, crying on those behind to the assault, but among them no face that he had ever seen before. Where or when this battle was to be fought he could not tell, but he knew that he must be there.
In
the van, he saw the standard bearer, enshrouded in smoke, pointing the way with a gleaming sword, standing in a‘ hail of missiles. He could not see the device upon the banner, nor the face of the bearer, but he knew that the days of his years were not yet counted and that this battle was a part of his destiny yet to be.
He turned his back upon the wailing attendants and did not glance at them again. Nothing he had loved remained in that deserted room. He was certain that if this long existence be spun out, through the curse of Merlin’s elixir, till the end of time, another moment so terrible as this must never recur again.
He went directly to his room and began to pack. Once more, Corenice had given him courage to go on to an appointed time, although the thought of long, bleak, lonely years appalled him.
Midway in his sad labor he heard a scratching on the door and slid it back. Hanshiro stood there, his face twisted by grief. He could hardly speak, but his swift glance took in what was going on. The samurai dropped to his knees upon the matting and touched his forehead to the floor. Gwalch-mai bade him rise.
“My Lord, where is your desire? What would you?”
“I would seek the wars of the world and die in battle!”
“Then, not alone, my Daimyo. Not alone.”
When the mourning was over and the bell had stopped ringing and that which must be done had taken place and the lights of Shori Castle had been extinguished, Gwalchmai and Hanshiro slipped away under cloud of night.
A long wandering began. As two masterless men they fought as ronin, for whatever feudal lord would hire them. They gained scars and honor and some wealth. They were widely known as grim fighters.
They roamed the island chain of Nihon from one end to the other. Never did Gwalchmai see the scene he had beheld in the magic ring, and finally he came to realize that it was in another country and perhaps another time.
He scarcely realized where he was or what he was doing. He had no plans, except to die. Once he came to himself, sitting upon a rock, gazing eastward upon the sea. Beyond that tossing waste of water he knew Alata lay and although he realized that the centuries of his life had brought inevitable change, he was filled with such a longing for the land of his birth that it seemed his heart would burst.
He muttered to himself, “What curse is there that lies upon me or Alata, that never may I cross the ocean to my beloved home?”
It has been said that wherever Adam was outcast that place was Eden, if only Eve was there. So Gwalchmai had thought of Corenice, but now that she was gone, Nihon was no more than a wilderness to him and he desired to leave. His opportunity came soon.
A sickness of land came upon him. They sought a harbor and took passage upon a coaster that had many ports of call —southward along the islands, westward across the Yellow Sea, south again .to Taprobane.
The inseparables met pirates and fought them, saw elephants and rode them, starved together or banqueted side by side. In India they sold their swords to the highest bidder, went singing into battle and came out alive—to be paid in diamonds and rubies, which they scattered like wheat and went on as wanderers.
It was a new and dreadful period of Gwalchmai’s life. As time went on, he forgot how to laugh. He strode through the world with a bloody sword, hardly conscious of where he went or how the years passed. One day he saw that his hair was entirely gray.
Where war was, there they went. He was wounded often; he suffered fell blows that would have killed another man and he recovered from them more slowly than in the past; he was many times in deadly peril, but he could not die.
Many countries knew him as a leader of forlorn hopes, a roisterer without joy. Then he became aware that he was alone. Either age or warfare had taken Hanshiro from him, but he felt no older unless a cold weariness was age. He had no desire to mark the passage of time.
It was enough that somewhere he would see that fortress wall and stand behind that waving banner. That day might mark the end he yearned for. He came, out of Asia into
Europe by way of countless wars, still a terror to his ene-mies. He made no effort to make friends.
Finally his loneliness and desperation subsided. . There is a perversity in existence. Ah-Puch, the Black Captain, does not always take those who wish to die. In time grief passes, for it is no more permanent than other emotions; dynasties perish; Kings know despair; swords can break in battle or they can rust away from lack of use; men return to recapture a lost moment in the haunts where they dimly remember they once were happy.
A sorcerer was busily engaged in a fair little meadow in France. It was the first week in April, and although the rain had fallen, the sun had come out warmly and dried the ground, so that he was comfortable and whistled as be worked.
He was a brilliant man for his age and time; an amateur physician, a theologian, philosopher, astronomer, and chemist—all of which talents were useful to him hi his profession.
At the moment, he was crucifying a pale-green butterfly.
Being thoroughly absorbed in building a tiny pyre of twigs, he did not hear a man approaching him from behind in the deep soft grass. He placed the last twig, refastened a tiny thorn into a whig that the suffering insect had torn loose in its struggles, and was about to set the little crucifix into the pyre when a scornful voice said, “It would seem that wanton pain amuses you, my Lord. Kill the helpless thing mercifully and at once, or release it”
The sorcerer slid his hand under his cloak, slowly and with care. He prepared to turn, but a sharp point pricked into his neck above the spinal cord and just below the hairline. The hand came back into sight, open and empty. He did not turn or try to rise, but knelt without moving, his eyes fixed upon the butterfly.
“Are you Annagnac or Burgundian? Do you declare for England or for France?”
The point sank a hairsbreadth deeper and the sorcerer felt a warm trickle run down his neck, as his captor answered casually;
“My political affiliations need not concern you, for I have none. However, what you are doing concerns me much. I heard a prayer for help from one who was being tortured.
I answered that call and have found you. Say now, to whom should I grant mercy—the criminal or the victim?“
Despite his predicament, the necromancer began to laugh.
“I cannot imagine who you may be, but surely you are mad! What is the life of an insect against that of a human being?”
“The Earth belongs to all things that live upon it and not to man alone. It may well be that in God’s sight we three are equal here and one to be regarded no more than another.”
“Ah, God indeed!” The sorcerer spat in disgust. “There have been many gods. Some I have served and some serve me, as you may soon learn, rash fellow! You hold me at your pleasure now, but you little realize in what danger you lie. Still, because of your ignorance, I will be merciful and explain the importance of this work, which you so stupidly believe to be wantonness.
“Know then, rash fool, that I have accepted English gold from Duke Philip of Burgandy, to slay a witch and lay France at his feet.
“When this butterfly burns, so then will Charles, the false Dauphin, be bedded with a wasting fever; the fleur-de-lis, of which the butterfly stands symbol, shall vanish from his banner and the witch who influences him shall meet her doom and his gathering army be destroyed to a man.”
“Then it is hardly meet that such calamities shall occur, if the scattering of one life can save so many. Say, sorcerer, are you familiar through your grimoires, or even by hearsay, of this Ring?”
The point did not stir from the kneeling man’s neck, but a hand came within his vision. His eyes opened wide and rolled upward in a vain effort to see the face of the man behind him.
“Not you? Not Merlin! Hecate! Oduarpa! Belphegor! To me, I command you! This man is dead!”
“So are you!” Gwalchmai said grimly and thrust the dagger home.
Gently and tenderly he drew out the tiny thorns. The butterfly fluttered weakly, then took the air, circling,
dipping erratically around its savior’s head.
“Flit home, little fay,” he murmured. “I have thought about you. I have missed you, as you said. I am happy that not all of you are gone. Do not judge all men by such as these. We need you more than you will ever know.”
He drew out the poniard and looked at it with disgust. It was dark with blood. He dropped it and rubbed his dry hands together.
“It would poison me to handle it again!”
He watched the butterfly staggering hi zigzag flight across the meadow. When it was out of sight, he muttered to himself: “I told that monster I had no interest in his politics, but I have in those of whoever is against him and those he served. If I am to fight them I must reclaim my sword once more. Perhaps here in this struggle I nfay find that fortress and that banner.”
He stood there thinking, remembering. A long time ago, he had passed this way.
“Yes. The shrine of Saint Catherine de-Fierbois should lie a day’s journey to the west.”
A moment later the little meadow was empty, except for the body of a man who had been slain to save the life of a butterfly.
No longer were the islands of Britain harassed by the Danes, no longer were they ravaged by internecine war; Norman and Saxon had melded by time into one nation— young, arrogant, venturesome—and now there were other wars.
Many changes had also taken place hi France since Gwalchmai had been away. Torn between England and the expanding rival power of Burgundy, true France lay as a corridor that had been trampled, marched over and ravaged “by organized armies and warring groups of outlaws, thieves, and bandits. Yet, somehow, cities still existed as such after a hundred years of war.
Somehow, the baking of bread continued as it always had, fields were tilled, cows freshened, and life went precariously on. New thatch replaced the burned, babies were born although fathers might be slain and never see them. Youths looked into the eyes of maidens and each saw there what they wished to see and dared to dream.
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