“Perhaps I won’t promise that,” said Maskull slowly, “but I’ll undertake something more tangible. I will never lift my hand against a living creature without first recollecting you, Joiwind.”
She turned a little pale. “Now if Panawe knew that Panawe existed, he might be jealous.”
Panawe put his hand on her gently. “You would not talk like that in Shaping’s presence,” he said.
“No. Forgive me! I’m not quite myself. Perhaps it is Maskull’s blood in my veins. … Now let us bid him adieu. Let us pray that he will do only honourable deeds, wherever he may be.”
“I’ll set Maskull on his way,” said Panawe.
“There’s no need,” replied Maskull. “The way is plain.”
“But talking shortens the road.”
Maskull turned to go.
Joiwind pulled him around toward her softly. “You won’t think badly of other women on my account?”
“You are a blessed spirit,” answered he.
She trod quietly to the inner extremity of the cave and stood there thinking. Panawe and Maskull emerged into the open air. Halfway down the cliff face a little spring was encountered. Its water was colourless, transparent, but gaseous. As soon as Maskull had satisfied his thirst he felt himself different. His surroundings were so real to him in their vividness and colour, so unreal in their phantom-like mystery, that he scrambled downhill like one in a winter’s dream.
When they reached the plain he saw in front of them an interminable forest of tall trees, the shapes of which were extraordinarily foreign looking. The leaves were crystalline and, looking upward, it was as if he were gazing through a roof of glass. The moment they got underneath the trees the light rays of the sun continued to come through—white, savage, and blazing—but they were gelded of heat. Then it was not hard to imagine that they were wandering through cool, bright elfin glades.
Through the forest, beginning at their very feet an avenue, perfectly straight and not very wide, went forward as far as the eye could see.
Maskull wanted to talk to his travelling companion, but was somehow unable to find words. Panawe glanced at him with an inscrutable smile—stern, yet enchanting and half feminine. He then broke the silence, but, strangely enough, Maskull could not make out whether he was singing or speaking. From his lips issued a slow musical recitative, exactly like a bewitching adagio from a low toned stringed instrument—but there was a difference. Instead of the repetition and variation of one or two short themes, as in music, Panawe’s theme was prolonged—it never came to an end, but rather resembled a conversation in rhythm and melody. And, at the same time, it was no recitative, for it was not declamatory. It was a long, quiet stream of lovely emotion.
Maskull listened entranced, yet agitated. The song, if it might be termed song, seemed to be always just on the point of becoming clear and intelligible—not with the intelligibility of words, but in the way one sympathises with another’s moods and feelings; and Maskull felt that something important was about to be uttered, which would explain all that had gone before. But it was invariably postponed, he never understood—and yet somehow he did understand.
Late in the afternoon they came to a clearing, and there Panawe ceased his recitative. He slowed his pace and stopped, in the fashion of a man who wishes to convey that he intends to go no farther.
“What is the name of this country?” asked Maskull.
“It is the Lusion Plain.”
“Was that music in the nature of a temptation—do you wish me not to go on?”
“Your work lies before you, and not behind you.”
“What was it, then? What work do you allude to?”
“It must have seemed like something to you, Maskull.”
“It seemed like Shaping music to me.”
The instant he had absently uttered these words, Maskull wondered why he had done so, as they now appeared meaningless to him.
Panawe, however, showed no surprise. “Shaping you will find everywhere.”
“Am I dreaming, or awake?”
“You are awake.”
Maskull fell into deep thought. “So be it,” he said, rousing himself. “Now I will go on. But where must I sleep tonight?”
“You will reach a broad river. On that you can travel to the foot of the Marest tomorrow; but tonight you had better sleep where the forest and river meet.”
“Adieu, then, Panawe! But do you wish to say anything more to me?”
“Only this, Maskull—wherever you go, help to make the world beautiful, and not ugly.”
“That’s more than any of us can undertake. I am a simple man, and have no ambitions in the way of beautifying life—But tell Joiwind I will try to keep myself pure.”
They parted rather coldly. Maskull stood erect where they had stopped, and watched Panawe out of sight. He sighed more than once.
He became aware that something was about to happen. The air was breathless. The late-afternoon sunshine, unobstructed, wrapped his frame in voluptuous heat. A solitary cloud, immensely high, raced through the sky overhead.
A single trumpet note sounded in the far distance from somewhere behind him. It gave him an impression of being several miles away at first; but then it slowly swelled, and came nearer and nearer at the same time that it increased in volume. Still the same note sounded, but now it was as if blown by a giant trumpeter immediately over his head. Then it gradually diminished in force, and travelled away in front of him. It ended very faintly and distantly.
He felt himself alone with Nature. A sacred stillness came over his heart. Past and future were forgotten. The forest, the sun, the day did not exist for him. He was unconscious of himself—he had no thoughts and no feelings. Yet never had Life had such an altitude for him.
A man stood, with crossed arms, right in his path. He was so clothed that his limbs were exposed, while his body was covered. He was young rather than old. Maskull observed that
