Cup of Gold [Золотая чаша] Read online

  Merlin searched the boy’s face closely. Sadly he looked up at his harps. “I think I understand,” he said softly. “You are a little boy. You want the moon to drink from as golden cup; and so, it is very likely that you will become a great man-if only you remain a little child. All the world’s great have been little boys who wanted the moon running and climbing, they sometimes caught a firefly. But if one grow to a man’s mind, that mind must see that it cannot have the moon and would not want it if it could.-and so, it catches no fireflies.

  “But did you never want the moon?” asked Henry in a voice hushed with the room’s quiet.

  “I wanted it. Above all desires I wanted it. I reached for it and then-then I grew to be a man, and a failure. But there is this gift for the failure; folk know he has failed, and they are sorry and kindly and gentle. He has the whole world with him; a bridge of contact with his own people; the cloth of mediocrity.

  But he who shields a firefly in his hands, caught in reaching for the moon, is doubly alone; he only can realize his true failure, can realize his meanness and fears and evasions.

  “You will come to your greatness, and it may be in time you will be alone in your greatness and no friend anywhere; only those who hold you in respect or fear or awe. I am sorry for you, boy with the straight, clear eyes which look upward longingly. I am sorry for you, and-Mother Heaven! how I envy you.”

  Dusk was stealing into the mountain creases, filling them with purple mist. The sun cut itself on a sharp hill and bled into the valleys. Long shadows of the peaks crept out into the fields like stalking gray cats.

  When Merlin spoke, it was with a little laugh.

  “Do not think deeply of my words,” he said, “for I myself am not at all sure of them. Dreams you may know by a quality we call inconsistency-but how could you classify the lightning?” Now the night was closing in quickly, and Henry jumped to his feet.

  “Oh, but I must be going! The dark is in!”

  “Yes, you must go, but do not think closely of my words. I may have been trying to impress you with these words. Old men need a certain silent flattery when they have come to distrust that which is spoken.

  Only remember that Merlin talked with you. And if you come on the Welsh folk anywhere, singing my songs that were made so long ago, tell them that you know me; tell them that I am a glorious creature with blue wings. I don’t want to be forgotten, Henry. That is greater horror to an old man than death-to be forgotten.”

  Henry said, “I must be going now; it’s really dark. And thank you, sir, for telling me these things, but you see, I must be sailing outward to the Indies.”

  Merlin laughed softly. “Of course you must, Henry. And catch a big firefly, won’t you. Good-by, child.”

  Henry looked back once as the black silhouette of the house sank behind the crag’s shoulder, but no light had flashed behind the windows. Old Merlin sat there pleading with his harps, and they echoed him jeeringly.

  The boy quickened his steps down the path. All below was a black lake; and the farm lights stars’ reflections in its deep. The wind had died, leaving a thick silence on the hills. Everywhere the sad, soundless ghosts flitted about their haunting. Henry walked carefully, his eyes on the path which glimmered pale blue before him.

  On the path there is the dark, Henry’s mind went back to the first speech of Merlin. Should he see Elizabeth before he went sailing away? He did not like her; sometimes he thought he had discovered hatred for her, and this he nursed and warmed only to feel it grow to a desire to see her.

  She was a thing of mystery. All girls and women hoarded something they never spoke of. His mother had terrific secrets about biscuits, and cried, sometimes, for no known reason. Another life went on inside of women-some women-ran parallel to their outward lives and yet never crossed them.

  A year before; Elizabeth had been a pretty child who whispered to the other girls and giggled and pulled hair when he was about; and then suddenly she had changed. It was nothing Henry could see, exactly, but rather he felt that a deep, quiet understanding had been given her. It frightened him, this wisdom which had come all at once to Elizabeth.

  Then there was her body-different somehow from his, and capable, it was whispered, of strange pleasures and alchemies. Even this flowering body she kept a secret thing. A time ago they had gone together to swim in the river, and she had been unconscious of it; but now she covered herself carefully from him and appeared stricken with the thought that he might see. Her new character frightened and embarrassed Henry.

  Sometimes he dreamed of her, and waked in agony lest she should ever know his dream. And sometimes it was a strange, shadowy composite of Elizabeth and his mother that came to him in the night.

  After such a dream, the day brought loathing of himself and her. He considered himself an unnatural monster and her a kind of succubus incarnate. And he could tell no one of these things. The people would shun him.

  He thought perhaps he would like to see her before he left. There was a strange power in her this year, a drawing yet repelling power which swayed his desire like a windblown reed. Other boys might have gone to her in the night and kissed her, after they had boasted a little of their going; but then, the other boys did not dream as he did, nor did they think of her, as he sometimes did, as a loathsome being.

  There was surely something monstrous about him, for he could not distinguish between desire and disgust.

  And then, she could embarrass him so easily.

  No, certainly, he would not go to her. Where had Merlin-where had any one-caught the idea that he cared a farthing for her, the daughter of a poor tenant? Not worth bothering about!

  Footsteps were coming down the path behind him, loud clashes in the quiet night, and soon a quick, thin figure came up with him.

  “Might it be William?” Henry asked politely, while the road-mender stopped in the path and shifted his pick from one shoulder to the other.

  “It’s William right enough. And what are you doing on the path, and the dark come?”

  “I’ve been to see Merlin and to hear him talk.”

  “Peston him! That’s all he ever does now. Once he made songs-good, sweet songs as I could repeat to you if I’d a mind to-but now he roosts up on that Crag-top like an old molted eagle. Once when I was going past I spoke to him about it, too, as I can prove by him. I’m not a man to be holding my tongue when I’ve been thinking.

  “Why are you making no more songs?’ I said to him in a tone like that. ‘Why are you making no more songs?’

  ‘I have grown to be a man,’ he answered, ‘and there be no songs in a man. Only children make songs-children and idiots.‘Pest on him! It’s an idiot himself, is the thought is on me. But what did he say to you, the old whitebeard?”

  “Why, you see, I’m going to the Indies and-”

  “The Indies, and are you? Ah, well-I was at London once. And all the people at London are thieves, dirty thieves. There was a man with a board and little flat sticks on it. ‘Try your skill, friend?’ he says.

  ‘What stick has a black mark on the underside of it?’

  ‘That one,’ says I; and so it was. But the next time-Ah, well, he was a thief, too; all of them thieves.

  “People there are at London, and they do nothing but drive about and about in carriages, up one street and down another, bowing to each other, while good men sweat out their lives in the fields and the mines to keep them bowing there. What chance have I or you, say, with all the fine, soft places taken up by robbers? And can you tell me the thieving price of an egg at London?”

  “I must take this road now,” said Henry. “I must go home.”

  “Indies.” The road-mender sighed with longing. Then he spat in the trail. “Ah, well-I’ll stake it’s all thieves there, too.”

  The night was very black when Henry came at last to the poor hut where Elizabeth lived. There was a fire in the middle of the floor, he knew, and the smoke drifted up and tried to get out at a small hole in the thatch. The h
ouse had no flooring, but only rushes strewn on the packed ground, and when the family slept they wrapped themselves in sheepskins and lay in a circle with their feet to the fire.

  The windows were not glazed nor curtained. Henry could see old black-browed Twym and his thin, nervous wife, moving about inside. He watched for Elizabeth to pass the window, and when at last she did, he whistled a shrill bird-call. The girl stopped and looked out, but Henry was quiet in the dark.

  Then Elizabeth opened the door and stood framed against the inside light. The fire was behind her. Henry could see the black outline of her figure through her dress. He saw the fine curve of her legs and the swell of her hips. A wild shame filled him, for her and for himself. Without thought and without reason he ran away into the dark, gasping and almost sobbing under his breath.

  Old Robert looked up hopefully when the boy came into the room, and then the hope died away and he turned quickly to the fire. But Mother Morgan jumped from her seat and went angrily to Henry.

  “What is this foolishness? You going to the Indies!” she demanded.

  “But, Mother, I must go; truly I must-and father understands.

  Can’t you hear how the Indies are calling to me?”

  “That I cannot! It’s wicked nonsense is in it. A little child you are, and not to be trusted from home at all.

  Besides, your own father is going to tell you it may not be.”

  The strong jaw of the boy set like a rock and the muscles stood out in his cheeks. Suddenly there came a flash of anger into his eyes.

  “Then, Mother, if you will not understand, I tell you that I am going the morrow-in spite of all of you.”

  Hurt pride chased incredulity from her face, and that, too, passed, leaving only pain. She shrank from the bewildering hurt. And Henry, when he saw what his words had done, went quickly to her.

  “I’m sorry, Mother-so very sorry; but why can you not let me go as my father can? I don’t want to hurt you, but I must go. Won’t you see that?” He put his arm about her, but she would not look at him.

  Her eyes stared blankly straight in front of her.

  She was so sure that her view was right. Throughout her life she had insulted and browbeaten and scolded her family, and they had known her little tyranny to be the outcropping of her love for them.

  But now that one of them, and he the child, had used the tone she spoke with every hour, it made a grim hurt that might never be quite healed again.

  “You spoke with Merlin? What did he say to you? asked Robert from the hearth.

  Henry’s mind flashed quickly to Elizabeth. “He talked of things that are not in my belief,” he said.

  “Well-it was only a chance,” murmured Robert. “You’ve hurt your mother badly, boy,” he went on.

  “I’ve never seen her so-so quiet.” Then Robert straightened himself and his voice became firm.

  “I have five pounds for you, son. It’s little enough; I suppose I might give you a small matter more, but not enough to help much. And here is a letter recommending you to my brother, Sir Edward. He went out before the king was murdered, and for some reason-perhaps because he was quiet-old Cromwell has let him stay. If he is there when you come to Jamaica, you may present this letter; but it’s a cold, strange man who takes great pride in his rich acquaintance, and might be a little annoyed with a poor relative. And so I do not know that good will come of this letter. He would dislike you unless you were able to see nothing funny in a man who looks like me, only strides about with a silver sword and plumes on his head. I laughed once, and he has not been a near brother to me since. But keep the letter, it may help you with other people if not with your uncle.”

  He looked at his wife sitting huddled in the shadow. “Will we not have supper, Mother?”

  She made no sign that she heard him, and Robert himself poured the pot and brought the food to the table.

  It is a cruel thing to lose a son for whom you have lived continuously. Somehow, she had imagined him always beside her-a little boy, and always beside her. She tried to think of the coming days, and Henry not there, but the thought was shattered on the bleak wall of a lean imagination.

  She attempted to consider him ungrateful so to run away from her; she recalled the harsh blow he had dealt her-but always the mind snapped back. Henry was her little boy, and, naturally, he could not be mean nor treacherous.

  In some way, when all this talk and pain had drifted into the thin air, he would be yet beside her, deliciously underfoot.

  Her mind which had been always a scalpel of reality, her imagination which dealt purely with the. present outsides of things, went fondling back to the baby who had crawled and stumbled and learned to talk.

  She forgot that he was going away at all, so deeply was she laved in a reverie of the silver past.

  He was being baptized in a long white dress. All the water of baptism collected in one big drop and rolled down his blobby nose, and she, in her passion for tidiness, wiped it off with a handkerchief and then wondered if he shouldn’t be baptized again. The young Curate was perspiring and choking over his words. He was lately come to the parish and was only a local boy anyway. He was really too young, she thought, to be trusted with an affair of this importance. Perhaps it wouldn’t take. He might get the words in the wrong order or something. And then-Robert had made a mess of his waistcoat again. He never could get the right button in the right hole to save him. It made him look all wracked to one side. She must go and tell Robert about his waistcoat before people in the church noticed it. Small things like that were surest to cause talk. But could she trust this foolish young Curate not to let the baby fall while she went?

  Supper was over, and aged Gwenliana rose from the table to struggle back to her seat before the fire.

  Quietly she was slipping back into her friendly future.

  “What time will you be starting, the morning?” asked Robert.

  “Why, about seven, I think, father.” Henry tried to sound casual.

  The ancient woman paused in her journey and looked sharply at him.

  “Now where is Henry going?” she asked.

  “Why, don’t you know? Henry is going away from us in the morning. He is going to the Indies.”

  “And not coming back again?” she questioned anxiously.

  “Not for a time, anyway. It’s a great distance.”

  “Why, but-I must lay the future before him then, that’s what I must do-before him like the white pages of an open book,” she exclaimed in pleased excitement. “I must tell him of the future and the things in it. Let me look at you, boy.”

  Henry went to her and sat at her feet while she talked. There is truly a spell in the ancient Cumric tongue.

  It is a speech made for prophecy.

  “Of course,” Gwenliana said, “if I had only known of this today I should have got the shoulder bone of a new-killed sheep. It’s a means of greater antiquity and better thought of than just snap-prophecy. And since I have grown old and rusty and lame I cannot go about any more to meet the spirits that wander the high-road. You cannot do as well if there is not the means in you to walk among the strolling dead and listen to their thoughts. But I shall give you a thorough life, grandson, and as fine a future as I ever pondered on.”

  She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, but if one had looked closely he might have seen their glint below the lids where they peered out at the set face of the boy. A long time she sat entranced, and it seemed that her old brain combed out the tangles of the past to make a straight, tellable future. At length she spoke in the low, hoarse, chanting voice that is reserved for dread things.

  “This is the tale out of Abred, when earth and water battled. And from the impact of their clash was born a little, struggling life to squirm upward through the circles toward Gwynfyd, the sheening Purity. In that first blundering flesh is written the world’s history and the world’s journey through the Void.

  “And thou-often has Annwn set its fanged maw to entrap the littl
e pinch of life thou carryest about, but thou hast made thy path to go around its snaring. A thousand centuries hast thou lived since earth and sea struggled in thy generation, and a thousand eons shalt thou carry about the little pinch of life that was given thee, so only thou shelterest it from Annwn, the Chaos.”

  Always she began her prophecies thus. It was a thing taught her by a wandering Bard, to whom it had come, from Bard to Bard, back and back to the white Druids. Gwenliana paused to let her words find footing in the boy’s brain. She continued: “This is the tale of thy present wandering. Thou shalt become a great shining for the Divine, teaching the things of God.” Her secret eyes saw the boy’s face fall in disappointment, and she cried: “But wait a moment! I go too far ahead. There shall be fighting and shedding of blood, and the sword shall be thy first bride.” Henry’s face lighted up with pleasure. “The whisper of thy name shall be a foregathering command to the warriors of the world. Thou shalt sack the cities of the infidel and spoil him of his plunderings. The terror will precede thee like a screaming eagle over the shields of men.” She knew, now, that her forecast was a success, but she hastened on to greater glories.

  “The government of islands and continents shall be thine, and thou shalt bring justice and peace to them.

  And at last, when thou art girded with honor and repute, thou shalt marry a white-souled maiden of mighty rank-a girl of good family, and wealthy,” she finished. Her eyes opened and she glanced about for their approbation.

  “I could have done better with a sheep’s shoulder,” she said plaintively, “or if I could be walking about on the high-road now and then; but age robs you of your little pleasures and leaves you with only a cold, quiet waiting.”

  “Ah, well, mother, it was a good prophecy,” said Old Robert; “as good as I ever heard you make. You are just coming to the peak of your occult strength, I think. And you have taken away my dread and reassured me about Henry’s going. Now I am only proud of what my boy is to be. Only I wish he didn’t have to kill people.”

  “Well, then-if you think it was really good!” said Gwenliana happily. “It did seem to me that the air was propitious and my eyes clear tonight. Still, I should have liked a sheep’s shoulder.” She closed her eyes contentedly and went to dozing.