University of Virginia Library

DESOLATE, BUT NOT FORSAKEN.

They sat together over the embers

They sat together over the embers of a decaying fire, in a cavern in the depths of the wild forests of a western land,

An aged and woe-worn woman, and a man who was also old;

But his face was mild and peaceful; its look was the look of one who hath been greatly beloved;

While hers was like a volume shut and clasped; a book that one would fear to open; that hath some dark secret hid between its leaves.

Her eyes were dim and restless, and in them was an endless search, a question that expects no answer.

And when her gaze ceased to wander, it seemed

fixed on some far distant object: she looked through the cave's low opening into the dark forest gulf beyond; she gazed, but saw nothing.

The air of the cavern was thick and stifling, heavy with some slumberous spell;

Through its entrance, as the wild autumn wind swept by, came a whirl and drift of withered leaves;

While among them, from time to time, was a short quick rustling heard.

The cave was bare and desolate; but Want was not its only occupant.

From the walls came a glint and presage, a murderous gleam and flicker, the flash of the hatchet that hung there with the crooked knife of war;

On the floor lay arrows stored in sheaves, mixed with herbs in bundles, with gourds also and calabashes, and bowls strangely charactered, filled with costly gums,

The tears and life-blood shed by many a giant of the forest, but not gathered there for healing or for balm.

He spoke to her in many words, in a low and pleading voice;

But her replies were brief and careless; they were spoken without change of tone.

“These are goodly things whereof thou tellest me; thy saga is a brave one, but I believe it not.

When our young men fast, have they not also dreams? and our old men, do they not see visions? I myself am one who can divine!

And if I were indeed, as thou sayest, the daughter of a chief so mighty, how came I, as an infant, to be abandoned by all?

If I were lost, it were strange that I were so long unsought for; and if I were forsaken by my father, then is it I who have to forgive.”

And as she spake these words her brow darkened, and the red brands fell from the dying fire.

She was silent, and her companion spake not. Who would reply to the words of one who is desperate? to speech that is even as the wind?

And he with whom she talked was a chosen messenger, one who seeing many things observes them not.

As the fire-light sank yet lower, he looked upon her long and fixedly; and in his eye there was no rebuke.

“When I listen,” he said, “to thy voice, I hear not the words thou speakest,

For it minds me, and thy features mind me, of one whom I loved best of all.

And now I know that thou art indeed his sister; her whom he hath sent me forth to seek.”

“Have I, then,” she said scornfully, “also a brother? and doth he, like my father, love me well?

Thou art truly a bringer of tidings; for I knew not that in earth or heaven

There were any found to love me, now, or even in days long past,

When I was indeed the gay Malinchi of the tribe among whom I dwell;

When I wore the white embroidered tilma, the rich manta bordered with costly fur;

When I led for them the war-dance of the arrow, bells swung with the swaying of my robe:

Then would they listen to my songs at evening. The chiefs praised me, the young braves stood silent round.

And now they hold me in derision. Yet, although they know it not, I am still their queen.

For when they cast me off as undelighting, I found I was not spurned by all.

In the forest were many voices, and beckoning hands held forth.

Canst thou number the dark pines around us? Where the trees are thickest, there is ever one other near.

I know not the Father whereof thou speakest; but our Mother is doubtless a mighty one.

I listened to her when none were by to hearken to us; she taught me the secret of her power;

So that he who would win love still comes to me, and he also who hath made a league with hate.

And to those who have made a covenant with death, I can send it on a silent sunbeam.

For many are they that work with me; and even the white innocent flowers

Have yielded up the secret of their souls, not less deadly than that beneath the serpent's fang.”

“These things,” he answered, “may be even as thou sayest, and thou be evil, as thou dost deem thyself to be.

I know not the lore whereof thou speakest, neither of the wrong which thou hast suffered or hast wrought;

For I was not instructed to judge thee; I have only a message to give

From thy brother, who came forth to seek thee; who was stolen, was sold, and was slain.

It was on thee he thought when he was dying; and behold he hath sent thee a ring,

To be unto thee a sure token: it is graven with his name and thine.

Thou speakest of spells and of secrets, but with him is one more mighty.

He bid me tell thee that he hath redeemed thee upon the tree under which ye played of old.”

Then she said, “Now do I well remember the garden, and the fourfold stream,

The vine-bough with its heavy cluster, and the apples' goodly scent.

I have surely heard the voices of my father and my brother in the woods at eve.

But the noises in the forest are many, I knew not what words they spake.

But now that thou hast given me his message plainly, I will go to my brother who has sought for me.

It is he who will lead me back unto my father— the father whom he hath never left.”

Then she rose up and prophesied; the dark cavern was filled with light,

So that her companion marvelled greatly. Was this she who had crouched over the dying fire?

She said, “Who are these with the evening that come flying, even as the doves?

Their wings are swift and open; they cleave the air as with oars of flame.

I hear a quick, joyful rustling. Oh, do ye come all at once,

Sweet friends, by whom I have been so long deserted? love, trust, fair joy, and hope!

Come, then, to my home, and fear not; though this cavern be dark and low,

Though this heart is cold and ruined, unmeet for such gentle guests.

Ye are used to build among ruins; at your song the desert blooms;

When ye spread forth your radiant plumage, the serpent's coil unwinds;

And my soul rushes free to meet you, for it also is winged and plumed.

Long hath it lain unregarded, among things broken, defaced, outworn;

But now shall it shine as doth the silver, and its feathers be even as gold!

And at the close of the darkening evening, at the fall of the dying year,

Its voice shall be heard among the woodlands; its moan shall be more sweet than song.”