78. CHAPTER LXXVIII.
Of the House of the Afternoon something yet remains
to be said.
It was chiefly distinguished by its pavement, where,
according to the strange customs of the isle, were inlaid
the reputed skeletons of Donjalolo's sires; each surrounded
by a mosaic of corals,—red, white, and black, intermixed
with vitreous stones fallen from the skies in a meteoric
shower. These delineated the tattooing of the departed.
Near by, were imbedded their arms: mace, bow, and spear,
in similar marquetry; and over each skull was the likeness
of a scepter.
First and conspicuous lay the half-decayed remains of
Marjora, the father of these Coral Kings; by his side, the
storied, sickle-shaped weapon, wherewith he slew his brother
Teei.
“Line of kings and row of scepters,” said Babbalanja as
he gazed. “Donjalolo, come forth and ponder on thy
sires. Here they lie, from dread Marjora down to him who
fathered thee. Here are their bones, their spears, and their
javelins; their scepters, and the very fashion of their tattooing:
all that can be got together of what they were.
Tell me, oh king, what are thy thoughts? Dotest thou on
these thy sires? Art thou more truly royal, that they
were kings? Or more a man, that they were men? Is
it a fable, or a verity about Marjora and the murdered
Teei? But here is the mighty conqueror,—ask him.
Speak to him: son to sire: king to king. Prick him;
beg; buffet; entreat; spurn; split the globe, he will not
budge. Walk over and over thy whole ancestral line, and
they will not start. They are not here. Ay, the dead
are not to be found, even in their graves. Nor have they
simply departed; for they willed not to go; they died not
by choice; whithersoever they have gone, thither have they
been dragged; and if so be, they are extinct, their nihilities
went not more against their grain, than their forced quitting
of Mardi. Either way, something has become of them
that they sought not. Truly, had stout-hearted Marjora
sworn to live here in Willamilla for ay, and kept the vow,
that would have been royalty indeed; but here he lies.
Marjora! rise! Juam revolteth! Lo, I stamp upon thy
scepter; base menials tread upon thee where thou liest!
Up, king, up! What? no reply? Are not these bones
thine? Oh, how the living triumph over the dead! Marjora!
answer. Art thou? or art thou not? I see thee
not; I hear thee not; I feel thee not; eyes, ears, hands,
are worthless to test thy being; and if thou art, thou art
something beyond all human thought to compass. We must
have other faculties to know thee by. Why, thou art not
even a sightless sound; not the echo of an echo; here are
thy bones. Donjalolo, methinks I see thee fallen upon by
assassins:—which of thy fathers riseth to the rescue? I
see thee dying:—which of them telleth thee what cheer
beyond the grave? But they have gone to the land unknown.
Meet phrase. Where is it? Not one of Oro's
priests telleth a straight story concerning it; 'twill be hard
finding their paradises. Touching the life of Alma, in
Mohi's chronicles, 'tis related, that a man was once raised
from the tomb. But rubbed he not his eyes, and stared he
not most vacantly? Not one revelation did he make.
Ye gods! to have been a bystander there!
“At best, 'tis but a hope. But will a longing bring the thing
desired? Doth dread avert its object? An instinct is no preservative.
The fire I shrink from, may consume me.—But
dead, and yet alive; alive, yet dead;—thus say the sages of
Maramma. But die we then living? Yet if our dead fathers
somewhere and somehow live, why not our unborn sons? For
backward or forward, eternity is the same; already have we
been the nothing we dread to be. Icy thought! But
bring it home,—it will not stay. What ho, hot heart of
mine: to beat thus lustily awhile, to feel in the red rushing
blood, and then be ashes,—can this be so? But peace,
peace, thou liar in me, telling me I am immortal—shall I
not be as these bones? To come to this! But the balsam-dropping
palms, whose boles run milk, whose plumes wave
boastful in the air, they perish in their prime, and bow
their blasted trunks. Nothing abideth; the river of yesterday
floweth not to-day; the sun's rising is a setting; living
is dying; the very mountains melt; and all revolve:—systems
and asteroids; the sun wheels through the zodiac, and
the zodiac is a revolution. Ah gods! in all this universal
stir, am
I to prove one stable thing?
“Grim chiefs in skeletons, avaunt! Ye are but dust;
belike the dust of beggars; for on this bed, paupers may lie
down with kings, and filch their skulls. This, great Marjora's
arm? No, some old paralytic's. Ye, kings? ye,
men? Where are your vouchers? I do reject your brotherhood,
ye libelous remains. But no, no; despise them not,
oh Babbalanja! Thy own skeleton, thou thyself dost carry
with thee, through this mortal life; and aye would view it,
but for kind nature's screen; thou art death alive; and
e'en to what's before thee wilt thou come. Ay, thy children's
children will walk over thee: thou, voiceless as a
calm.”
And over the Coral Kings, Babbalanja paced in profound
meditation.
