Lilith

by George MacDonald

  “We have long waited for thee, Lilith!” he said.

  She returned him no answer.

  Eve and her daughter came to the door.

  “The mortal foe of my children!” murmured Eve, standing radiant in her beauty.

  “Your children are no longer in her danger,” said Mara; “she has turned from evil.”

  “Trust her not hastily, Mara,” answered her mother; “she has deceived a multitude!”

  “But you will open to her the mirror of the Law of Liberty, mother, that she may go into it, and abide in it! She consents to open her hand and restore: will not the great Father restore her to inheritance with His other children?”

  “I do not know Him!” murmured Lilith, in a voice of fear and doubt.

  “Therefore it is that thou art miserable,” said Adam.

  “I will go back whence I came!” she cried, and turned, wringing her hands, to depart.

  “That is indeed what I would have thee do, where I would have thee go—to Him from whom thou camest! In thy agony didst thou not cry out for Him?”

  “I cried out for Death—to escape Him and thee!”

  “Death is even now on his way to lead thee to Him. Thou knowest neither Death nor the Life that dwells in Death! Both befriend thee. I am dead, and would see thee dead, for I live and love thee. Thou art weary and heavy-laden: art thou not ashamed? Is not the being thou hast corrupted become to thee at length an evil thing? Wouldst thou yet live on in disgrace eternal? Cease thou canst not: wilt thou not be restored and BE?”

  She stood silent with bowed head.

  “Father,” said Mara, “take her in thine arms, and carry her to her couch. There she will open her hand, and die into life.”

  “I will walk,” said the princess.

  Adam turned and led the way. The princess walked feebly after him into the cottage.

  Then Eve came out to me where I sat with Lona in my bosom. She reached up her arms, took her from me, and carried her in. I dismounted, and the children also. The horse and the elephants stood shivering; Mara patted and stroked them every one; they lay down and fell asleep. She led us into the cottage, and gave the Little Ones of the bread and wine on the table. Adam and Lilith were standing there together, but silent both.

  Eve came from the chamber of death, where she had laid Lona down, and offered of the bread and wine to the princess.

  “Thy beauty slays me! It is death I would have, not food!” said Lilith, and turned from her.

  “This food will help thee to die,” answered Eve.

  But Lilith would not taste of it.

  “If thou wilt nor eat nor drink, Lilith,” said Adam, “come and see the place where thou shalt lie in peace.”

  He led the way through the door of death, and she followed submissive. But when her foot crossed the threshold she drew it back, and pressed her hand to her bosom, struck through with the cold immortal.

  A wild blast fell roaring on the roof, and died away in a moan. She stood ghastly with terror.

  “It is he!” said her voiceless lips: I read their motion.

  “Who, princess!” I whispered.

  “The great Shadow,” she murmured.

  “Here he cannot enter,” said Adam. “Here he can hurt no one. Over him also is power given me.”

  “Are the children in the house?” asked Lilith, and at the word the heart of Eve began to love her.

  “He never dared touch a child,” she said. “Nor have you either ever hurt a child. Your own daughter you have but sent into the loveliest sleep, for she was already a long time dead when you slew her. And now Death shall be the atonemaker; you shall sleep together.”

  “Wife,” said Adam, “let us first put the children to bed, that she may see them safe!”

  He came back to fetch them. As soon as he was gone, the princess knelt to Eve, clasped her knees, and said,

  “Beautiful Eve, persuade your husband to kill me: to you he will listen! Indeed I would but cannot open my hand.”

  “You cannot die without opening it. To kill you would not serve you,” answered Eve. “But indeed he cannot! no one can kill you but the Shadow; and whom he kills never knows she is dead, but lives to do his will, and thinks she is doing her own.”

  “Show me then to my grave; I am so weary I can live no longer. I must go to the Shadow—yet I would not!”

  She did not, could not understand!

  She struggled to rise, but fell at the feet of Eve. The Mother lifted, and carried her inward.

  I followed Adam and Mara and the children into the chamber of death. We passed Eve with Lilith in her arms, and went farther in.

  “You shall not go to the Shadow,” I heard Eve say, as we passed them. “Even now is his head under my heel!”

  The dim light in Adam’s hand glimmered on the sleeping faces, and as he went on, the darkness closed over them. The very air seemed dead: was it because none of the sleepers breathed it? Profoundest sleep filled the wide place. It was as if not one had waked since last I was there, for the forms I had then noted lay there still. My father was just as I had left him, save that he seemed yet nearer to a perfect peace. The woman beside him looked younger.

  The darkness, the cold, the silence, the still air, the faces of the lovely dead, made the hearts of the children beat softly, but their little tongues would talk—with low, hushed voices.

  “What a curious place to sleep in!” said one, “I would rather be in my nest!” “It is SO cold!” said another.

  “Yes, it is cold,” answered our host; “but you will not be cold in your sleep.”

  “Where are our nests?” asked more than one, looking round and seeing no couch unoccupied.

  “Find places, and sleep where you choose,” replied Adam.

  Instantly they scattered, advancing fearlessly beyond the light, but we still heard their gentle voices, and it was plain they saw where I could not.

  “Oh,” cried one, “here is such a beautiful lady!—may I sleep beside her? I will creep in quietly, and not wake her.”

  “Yes, you may,” answered the voice of Eve behind us; and we came to the couch while the little fellow was yet creeping slowly and softly under the sheet. He laid his head beside the lady’s, looked up at us, and was still. His eyelids fell; he was asleep.

  We went a little farther, and there was another who had climbed up on the couch of a woman.

  “Mother! mother!” he cried, kneeling over her, his face close to hers. “—She’s so cold she can’t speak,” he said, looking up to us; “but I will soon make her warm!”

  He lay down, and pressing close to her, put his little arm over her. In an instant he too was asleep, smiling an absolute content.

  We came to a third Little One; it was Luva. She stood on tiptoe, leaning over the edge of a couch.

  “My own mother wouldn’t have me,” she said softly: “will you?”

  Receiving no reply, she looked up at Eve. The great mother lifted her to the couch, and she got at once under the snowy covering.

  Each of the Little Ones had by this time, except three of the boys, found at least an unobjecting bedfellow, and lay still and white beside a still, white woman. The little orphans had adopted mothers! One tiny girl had chosen a father to sleep with, and that was mine. A boy lay by the side of the beautiful matron with the slow-healing hand. On the middle one of the three couches hitherto unoccupied, lay Lona.

  Eve set Lilith down beside it. Adam pointed to the vacant couch on Lona’s right hand, and said,

  “There, Lilith, is the bed I have prepared for you!”

  She glanced at her daughter lying before her like a statue carved in semi-transparent alabaster, and shuddered from head to foot. “How cold it is!” she murmured.

  “You will soon begin to find comfort in the cold,” answered Adam.

  “Promises to the dying are easy!” she said.

  “But I know it: I too have slept. I am dead!”

  “I believed you dead long ago; but I see you aliv
e!”

  “More alive than you know, or are able to understand. I was scarce alive when first you knew me. Now I have slept, and am awake; I am dead, and live indeed!”

  “I fear that child,” she said, pointing to Lona: “she will rise and terrify me!”

  “She is dreaming love to you.”

  “But the Shadow!” she moaned; “I fear the Shadow! he will be wroth with me!”

  “He at sight of whom the horses of heaven start and rear, dares not disturb one dream in this quiet chamber!”

  “I shall dream then?”

  “You will dream.”

  “What dreams?”

  “That I cannot tell, but none HE can enter into. When the Shadow comes here, it will be to lie down and sleep also.—His hour will come, and he knows it will.”

  “How long shall I sleep?”

  “You and he will be the last to wake in the morning of the universe.”

  The princess lay down, drew the sheet over her, stretched herself out straight, and lay still with open eyes.

  Adam turned to his daughter. She drew near.

  “Lilith,” said Mara, “you will not sleep, if you lie there a thousand years, until you have opened your hand, and yielded that which is not yours to give or to withhold.”

  “I cannot,” she answered. “I would if I could, and gladly, for I am weary, and the shadows of death are gathering about me.”

  “They will gather and gather, but they cannot infold you while yet your hand remains unopened. You may think you are dead, but it will be only a dream; you may think you have come awake, but it will still be only a dream. Open your hand, and you will sleep indeed—then wake indeed.”

  “I am trying hard, but the fingers have grown together and into the palm.”

  “I pray you put forth the strength of your will. For the love of life, draw together your forces and break its bonds!”

  “I have struggled in vain; I can do no more. I am very weary, and sleep lies heavy upon my lids.”

  “The moment you open your hand, you will sleep. Open it, and make an end.”

  A tinge of colour arose in the parchment-like face; the contorted hand trembled with agonised effort. Mara took it, and sought to aid her.

  “Hold, Mara!” cried her father. “There is danger!”

  The princess turned her eyes upon Eve, beseechingly.

  “There was a sword I once saw in your husband’s hands,” she murmured. “I fled when I saw it. I heard him who bore it say it would divide whatever was not one and indivisible!”

  “I have the sword,” said Adam. “The angel gave it me when he left the gate.”

  “Bring it, Adam,” pleaded Lilith, “and cut me off this hand that I may sleep.”

  “I will,” he answered.

  He gave the candle to Eve, and went. The princess closed her eyes.

  In a few minutes Adam returned with an ancient weapon in his hand. The scabbard looked like vellum grown dark with years, but the hilt shone like gold that nothing could tarnish. He drew out the blade. It flashed like a pale blue northern streamer, and the light of it made the princess open her eyes. She saw the sword, shuddered, and held out her hand. Adam took it. The sword gleamed once, there was one little gush of blood, and he laid the severed hand in Mara’s lap. Lilith had given one moan, and was already fast asleep. Mara covered the arm with the sheet, and the three turned away.

  “Will you not dress the wound?” I said.

  “A wound from that sword,” answered Adam, “needs no dressing. It is healing and not hurt.”

  “Poor lady!” I said, “she will wake with but one hand!”

  “Where the dead deformity clung,” replied Mara, “the true, lovely hand is already growing.”

  We heard a childish voice behind us, and turned again. The candle in Eve’s hand shone on the sleeping face of Lilith, and the waking faces of the three Little Ones, grouped on the other side of her couch. “How beautiful she is grown!” said one of them.

  “Poor princess!” said another; “I will sleep with her. She will not bite any more!”

  As he spoke he climbed into her bed, and was immediately fast asleep. Eve covered him with the sheet.

  “I will go on her other side,” said the third. “She shall have two to kiss her when she wakes!”

  “And I am left alone!” said the first mournfully.

  “I will put you to bed,” said Eve.

  She gave the candle to her husband, and led the child away.

  We turned once more to go back to the cottage. I was very sad, for no one had offered me a place in the house of the dead. Eve joined us as we went, and walked on before with her husband. Mara by my side carried the hand of Lilith in the lap of her robe.

  “Ah, you have found her!” we heard Eve say as we stepped into the cottage.

  The door stood open; two elephant-trunks came through it out of the night beyond.

  “I sent them with the lantern,” she went on to her husband, “to look for Mara’s leopardess: they have brought her.”

  I followed Adam to the door, and between us we took the white creature from the elephants, and carried her to the chamber we had just left, the women preceding us, Eve with the light, and Mara still carrying the hand. There we laid the beauty across the feet of the princess, her fore-paws outstretched, and her head couching between them.

  CHAPTER XLI. I AM SENT

  Then I turned and said to Eve, “Mother, one couch next to Lona is empty: I know I am unworthy, but may I not sleep this night in your chamber with my dead? Will you not pardon both my cowardice and my self-confidence, and take me in? I give me up. I am sick of myself, and would fain sleep the sleep!”

  “The couch next to Lona is the one already prepared for you,” she answered; “but something waits to be done ere you sleep.”

  “I am ready,” I replied.

  “How do you know you can do it?” she asked with a smile.

  “Because you require it,” I answered. “What is it?”

  She turned to Adam:

  “Is he forgiven, husband?”

  “From my heart.”

  “Then tell him what he has to do.”

  Adam turned to his daughter.

  “Give me that hand, Mara, my child.”

  She held it out to him in her lap. He took it tenderly.

  “Let us go to the cottage,” he said to me; “there I will instruct you.”

  As we went, again arose a sudden stormful blast, mingled with a great flapping on the roof, but it died away as before in a deep moan.

  When the door of the death-chamber was closed behind us, Adam seated himself, and I stood before him.

  “You will remember,” he said, “how, after leaving my daughter’s house, you came to a dry rock, bearing the marks of an ancient cataract; you climbed that rock, and found a sandy desert: go to that rock now, and from its summit walk deep into the desert. But go not many steps ere you lie down, and listen with your head on the sand. If you hear the murmur of water beneath, go a little farther, and listen again. If you still hear the sound, you are in the right direction. Every few yards you must stop, lie down, and hearken. If, listening thus, at any time you hear no sound of water, you are out of the way, and must hearken in every direction until you hear it again. Keeping with the sound, and careful not to retrace your steps, you will soon hear it louder, and the growing sound will lead you to where it is loudest: that is the spot you seek. There dig with the spade I will give you, and dig until you come to moisture: in it lay the hand, cover it to the level of the desert, and come home.—But give good heed, and carry the hand with care. Never lay it down, in what place of seeming safety soever; let nothing touch it; stop nor turn aside for any attempt to bar your way; never look behind you; speak to no one, answer no one, walk straight on.—It is yet dark, and the morning is far distant, but you must set out at once.”

  He gave me the hand, and brought me a spade.

  “This is my gardening spade,” he said; “with it I hav
e brought many a lovely thing to the sun.”

  I took it, and went out into the night.

  It was very cold, and pitch-dark. To fall would be a dread thing, and the way I had to go was a difficult one even in the broad sunlight! But I had not set myself the task, and the minute I started I learned that I was left to no chance: a pale light broke from the ground at every step, and showed me where next to set my foot. Through the heather and the low rocks I walked without once even stumbling. I found the bad burrow quite still; not a wave arose, not a head appeared as I crossed it.

  A moon came, and herself showed me the easy way: toward morning I was almost over the dry channels of the first branch of the river-bed, and not far, I judged, from Mara’s cottage.

  The moon was very low, and the sun not yet up, when I saw before me in the path, here narrowed by rocks, a figure covered from head to foot as with a veil of moonlit mist. I kept on my way as if I saw nothing. The figure threw aside its veil.

  “Have you forgotten me already?” said the princess—or what seemed she.

  I neither hesitated nor answered; I walked straight on.

  “You meant then to leave me in that horrible sepulchre! Do you not yet understand that where I please to be, there I am? Take my hand: I am alive as you!”

  I was on the point of saying, “Give me your left hand,” but bethought myself, held my peace, and steadily advanced.

  “Give me my hand,” she suddenly shrieked, “or I will tear you in pieces: you are mine!”

  She flung herself upon me. I shuddered, but did not falter. Nothing touched me, and I saw her no more.

  With measured tread along the path, filling it for some distance, came a body of armed men. I walked through them—nor know whether they gave way to me, or were bodiless things. But they turned and followed me; I heard and felt their march at my very heels; but I cast no look behind, and the sound of their steps and the clash of their armour died away.