5. CHAPTER V.
THEY VISIT THE GREAT MORAI.
As garrulous guide to the party, Braid-Beard soon brought
us nigh the great Morai of Maramma, the burial-place of
the Pontiffs, and a rural promenade, for certain idols there
inhabiting.
Our way now led through the bed of a shallow water-course;
Mohi observing, as we went, that our feet were
being washed at every step; whereas, to tread the dusty
earth would be to desecrate the holy Morai, by transferring
thereto, the base soil of less sacred ground.
Here and there, thatched arbors were thrown over the
stream, for the accommodation of devotees; who, in these
consecrated waters, issuing from a spring in the Morai, bathed
their garments, that long life might ensue. Yet, as Braid-Beard
assured us, sometimes it happened, that divers feeble
old men zealously donning their raiment immediately after
immersion became afflicted with rheumatics; and instances
were related of their falling down dead, in this their pursuit
of longevity.
Coming to the Morai, we found it inclosed by a wall;
and while the rest were surmounting it, Mohi was busily
engaged in the apparently childish occupation of collecting
pebbles. Of these, however, to our no small surprise, he
presently made use, by irreverently throwing them at all
objects to which he was desirous of directing attention. In
this manner, was pointed out a black boar's head, suspended
from a bough. Full twenty of these sentries were on post
in the neighboring trees.
Proceeding, we came to a hillock of bone-dry sand, resting
upon the otherwise loamy soil. Possessing a secret,
preservative virtue, this sand had, ages ago, been brought
from a distant land, to furnish a sepulcher for the Pontiffs;
who here, side by side, and sire by son, slumbered all peacefully
in the fellowship of the grave. Mohi declared, that
were the sepulcher to be opened, it would be the resurrection
of the whole line of High Priests. “But a resurrection of
bones, after all,” said Babbalanja, ever osseous in his allusions
to the departed.
Passing on, we came to a number of Runic-looking stones,
all over hieroglyphical inscriptions, and placed round an elliptical
aperture; where welled up the sacred spring of the
Morai, clear as crystal, and showing through its waters,
two tiers of sharp, tusk-like stones; the mouth of Oro, so
called; and it was held, that if any secular hand should be
immersed in the spring, straight upon it those stony jaws
would close.
We next came to a large image of a dark-hued stone,
representing a burly man, with an overgrown head, and abdomen
hollowed out, and open for inspection; therein, were
relics of bones. Before this image we paused. And
whether or no it was Mohi's purpose to make us tourists
quake with his recitals, his revelations were far from agreeable.
At certain seasons, human beings were offered to the
idol, which being an epicure in the matter of sacrifices,
would accept of no ordinary fare. To insure his digestion,
all indirect routes to the interior were avoided; the sacrifices
being packed in the ventricle itself.
Near to this image of Doleema, so called, a solitary forest-tree
was pointed out; leafless and dead to the core. But
from its boughs hung numerous baskets, brimming over with
melons, grapes, and guavas. And daily these baskets were
replenished.
As we here stood, there passed a hungry figure, in ragged
raiment: hollow cheeks, and hollow eyes. Wistfully he
eyed the offerings; but retreated; knowing it was sacrilege
to touch them. There, they must decay, in honor of the
god Ananna; for so this dead tree was denominated by
Mohi.
Now, as we were thus strolling about the Morai, the old
chronicler elucidating its mysteries, we suddenly spied Pani
and the pilgrims approaching the image of Doleema; his
child leading the guide.
“This,” began Pani, pointing to the idol of stone, “is the
holy god Ananna who lives in the sap of this green and
flourishing tree.”
“Thou meanest not, surely, this stone image we behold?”
said Divino.
“I mean the tree,” said the guide. “It is no stone
image.”
“Strange,” muttered the chief; “were it not a guide
that spoke, I would deny it. As it is, I hold my peace.”
“Mystery of mysteries!” cried the blind old pilgrim;
“is it, then, a stone image that Pani calls a tree? Oh,
Oro, that I had eyes to see, that I might verily behold it,
and then believe it to be what it is not; that so I might
prove the largeness of my faith; and so merit the blessing
of Alma.”
“Thrice sacred Ananna,” murmured the sad-eyed maiden,
falling upon her knees before Doleema, “receive my adoration.
Of thee, I know nothing, but what the guide has
spoken. I am but a poor, weak-minded maiden, judging
not for myself, but leaning upon others that are wiser.
These things are above me. I am afraid to think. In Alma's
name, receive my homage.”
And she flung flowers before the god.
But Fanna, the hale matron, turning upon Pani, exclaimed,
“Receive more gifts, oh guide.” And again she showered
them upon him.
Upon this, the willful boy who would not have Pani for
his guide, entered the Morai; and perceiving the group before
the image, walked rapidly to where they were. And
beholding the idol, he regarded it attentively, and said:—
“This must be the image of Doleema; but I am not
sure.”
“Nay,” cried the blind pilgrim, “it is the holy tree
Ananna, thou wayward boy.”
“A tree? whatever it may be, it is not that; thou art
blind, old man.”
“But though blind, I have that which thou lackest.”
Then said Pani, turning upon the boy, “Depart from the
holy Morai, and corrupt not the hearts of these pilgrims.
Depart, I say; and, in the sacred name of Alma, perish in
thy endeavors to climb the Peak.”
“I may perish there in truth,” said the boy, with sadness;
“but it shall be in the path revealed to me in my dream. And
think not, oh guide, that I perfectly rely upon gaining that
lofty summit. I will climb high Ofo with hope, not faith;
Oh, mighty Oro, help me!”
“Be not impious,” said Pani; “pronounce not Oro's
sacred name too lightly.”
“Oro is but a sound,” said the boy. “They call the
supreme god, Ati, in my native isle, it is the soundless
thought of him, oh guide, that is in me.”
“Hark to his rhapsodies! Hark, how he prates of mysteries,
that not even Hivohitee can fathom.”
“Nor he, nor thou, nor I, nor any; Oro, to all, is Oro
the unknown.”
“Why claim to know Oro, then, better than others?”
“I am not so vain; and I have little to substitute for
what I can not receive. I but feel Oro in me, yet can not
declare the thought.”
“Proud boy! thy humility is a pretense; at heart, thou
deemest thyself wiser than Mardi.”
“Not near so wise. To believe is a haughtly thing; my
very doubts humiliate me. I weep and doubt; all Mardi
may be right; and I too simple to discern.”
“He is mad,” said the chief Divino; “never before heard
I such words.”
“They are thoughts,” muttered the guide.
“Poor fool!” cried Fanna.
“Lost youth!” sighed the maiden.
“He is but a child,” said the beggar. These whims will
soon depart; once I was like him; but, praise be to Alma,
in the hour of sickness I repented, feeble old man that I am!”
“It is because I am young and in health,” said the boy,
“that I more nourish the thoughts, that are born of my
youth and my health. I am fresh from my Maker, soul and
body unwrinkled. On thy sick couch, old man, they took
thee at advantage.”
“Turn from the blasphemer,” cried Pani. “Hence!
thou evil one, to the perdition in store.”
“I will go my ways,” said the boy, “but Oro will shape
the end.”
And he quitted the Morai.
After conducting the party round the sacred inclosure,
assisting his way with his staff, for his child had left him,
Pani seated himself on a low, mossy stone, grimly surrounded
by idols; and directed the pilgrims to return to his habitation;
where, ere long he would rejoin them.
The pilgrims departed, he remained in profound meditation;
while, backward and forward, an invisible ploughshare
turned up the long furrows on his brow.
Long he was silent; then muttered to himself, “That
boy, that wild, wise boy, has stabbed me to the heart. His
thoughts are my suspicions. But he is honest. Yet I harm
none. Multitudes must have unspoken meditations as well
as I. Do we then mutually deceive? Off masks, mankind,
that I may know what warranty of fellowship with
others, my own thoughts possess. Why, upon this one
theme, oh Oro! must all dissemble? Our thoughts are not
our own. Whate'er it be, an honest thought must have
some germ of truth. But we must set, as flows the general
stream; I blindly follow, where I seem to lead; the crowd
of pilgrims is so great, they see not there is none to guide.—
It hinges upon this: Have we angelic spirits? But in
vain, in vain, oh Oro! I essay to live out of this poor, blind
body, fit dwelling for my sightless soul. Death, death:—
blind, am I dead? for blindness seems a consciousness of
death. Will my grave be more dark, than all is now?—
From dark to dark!—What is this subtle something that is
in me, and eludes me? Will it have no end? When,
then, did it begin? All, all is chaos! What is this shining
light in heaven, this sun they tell me of? Or, do they lie?
Methinks, it might blaze convictions; but I brood and grope
in blackness; I am dumb with doubt; yet, 'tis not doubt,
but worse: I doubt my doubt. Oh, ye all-wise spirits in
the air, how can ye witness all this woe, and give no sign?
Would, would that mine were a settled doubt, like that wild
boy's, who without faith, seems full of it. The undoubting
doubter believes the most. Oh! that I were he. Methinks
that daring boy hath Alma in him, struggling to be free.
But those pilgrims: that trusting girl.—What, if they saw
me as I am? Peace, peace, my soul; on, mask, again.”
And he staggered from the Morai.
