by C. A. Frazer
CHAPTER VII.
Atma directed his steps on the morning following his interview withJunda Kowr northward towards the confines of Kashmir. It was a lovelymorning. A humid mist veiled the distant mountains, towards which hissteps tended. Seen through its tender swaying folds, how vague andbeautiful their savage slopes appeared. Light and shade, ominous gloomand shining crag were hid from view. How often thus the morn of life,
"In dim eclipse disastrous twilight sheds."
A twilight not dispelled until the light dawns on a retrospect whosebitterness could not be borne unless seen side by side with the otherpicture of Paradise.
But he had no thoughts other than of glad anticipation. Past pain andrecent unrest were forgotten in the renewed joy of freedom. He cast careto the breeze for he had not lived long enough to know that thediscontent which is the birthright of the children of Adam is notdependent on circumstances, but often attains most baleful activity whenevents seem least likely to harass the spirit. It was the morning oflife and of love, and the obscurity in which youth walks is no dull hazebut a golden glamour.
In one old form of the creation story is told the first utterance ofNature, the cry of chaos, "Let love be!" Through what inspiration ofwisdom it comes to us out of the silence we do not know, but feel thatthe earlier tale of a divine mandate, "Light be!" is not at variancewith it. The cry of chaos lingers in the heart of the race, and each newman in the morning of his being utters it in no doubt of its fulfilmentin his own destiny. He loves mankind, and would be beloved; he lovesnature, and perceives no relentless purpose in her variable moods; andperhaps most of all he loves his own soul with a love whosedisenchantment is to be the sorest agony that an eternity can afford.
The cry of chaos lingers, and the story of creation is repeated in eachlife history. The cry meets with no response, but instead, relentlessly,surely, aye, and most mercifully, the facts and events group themselvesabout the cowering spirit, that before Love celestial Light may arise.It is a terrible destiny, devised by a God, and only possible in itsseverity for creatures to whom it has been declared, "Behold, ye aregods!"
At noon Atma rested beside a pool. It was a sequestered spot surroundedby thickets. The rushes grew rank and tall on the margin and in thewater. The soft cooing of the doves hidden in the wood broke thestillness. He ate of the slender fare which he carried, and reclined ona flower couch until sleep closed his eyes. The doves cooed on, andbright lizards watched him.
Presently he awoke with a start. A rush of wind, a sudden plash of waterwere followed by the whizzing of an arrow through the air. He was closeto the water. Softly peering through the reeds he saw, palpitating andstricken with fear, a snowy swan. The arrow had missed the stainlessbreast and it was unhurt. The wild creatures of his mountain home weredear to Atma, and he would fain shield the beautiful bird.
Two youths emerged from the thicket at some distance from where hestood. He went to meet them, smiling at the folly of his half-formedintention of guiding them from their prey. After courteous salutationthey inquired whether he had seen the swan.
"It is a bird reared by ourselves," they said, "which strayed from ustwo days ago. We thought to wound it in the wing and recover it, but thecreature is so wild that doubtless it is as well that it be killedout-right."
Atma had slept, he told them, had been aroused by their approach, hadhardly realized the cause of his awakening. "The swan is difficult torear," he said, "if indeed such effort be not fruitless."
"It is fruitless," they assented, "but we need not search hereabout ifyou have not seen it. You must have heard the flap of his wing had italighted near you," and they turned their steps in a contrary direction.Atma watched their vain search until on the opposite side of the poolthey disappeared into the wood.
He stole a glance into the hiding place of the swan. The soft plumagehad not the dazzling purity which he had known, and the beautiful neckthat should be proudly curved, drooped.
"Poor imprisoned creature," he thought, "grown in bondage, alien to itsown nature of strength and beauty."
He watched it unperceived, timidly washing its plumage in the stilldeep water. Soon it floated further from the bank. Now and then itwaited and listened. The story of its captivity was told again in itsstealthy, trembling happiness.
But high overhead, between it and a disc of blue sky, intervened astream of lordly birds flying south. From their ranks wafted a cry, andas it fell there rose a wild echo, an unfamiliar note from the captiveswan.[1] It rose skyward, wearied wing and broken spirit forgotten. Itmight be danger, but it was Home, and like a disembodied spirit itascended to a life that, altogether new, was to be for the first timealtogether familiar.
A thought of kindred saddened the heart of Atma. In the loss of parentsand brethren lay, he thought, the sole cause of the heaviness thatoppressed him. Their restoration would have made existence complete. Hehad lost them before he had awakened to the knowledge that those we loveare even, when nearest, very far away. Humanity does not hear the voiceof kindred on earth.
I find In all the earth Like things with like combined, How happy, happy from their birth Are silly things, in guileless mirth Who seek them out and greatly love their kind.
How e'en The crafty snake, Like dove of gentle mien, Doth with his fellows converse take The love-notes well from wood and brake That tell betwixt some lives some barriers intervene.
Ah me, Shall only one Of golden things that be, One only underneath the sun In dolour here life's journey run, Speeding the way alone to great Eternity?
The Soul It sits apart, Craving a prison dole Of ruth and healing for its hurt, As piteous captive should cajole, Vainly, unheeding ear afar in stranger mart.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] That this incident is suggested by Hans Andersen's beautiful storyis so evident as scarcely to need acknowledgment. The thoughts embodiedhere occurred to me in such early childhood that I do not experience asense of guilt in thus appropriating the lesson which I have no doubtthe writer intended.