A Dreamer\'s Tales

L >> Lord Dunsany [Edward J. M. D. Plunkett] >> A Dreamer\'s Tales

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Some one was tugging at the hall-door bell. Presently a servant came and
told our host that a policeman in the hall wished to speak to him at once.
He apologised to us, and went outside, and we heard a man in heavy boots,
who spoke in a low voice to him. My friend got up and walked over to the
window, and opened it, and looked outside. "I should think it will be a
fine night," he said. Then he jumped out. When we put our astonished heads
out of the window to look for him, he was already out of sight.

POOR OLD BILL

On an antique haunt of sailors, a tavern of the sea, the light of day was
fading. For several evenings I had frequented this place, in the hope of
hearing something from the sailors, as they sat over strange wines, about
a rumour that had reached my ears of a certain fleet of galleons of old
Spain still said to be afloat in the South Seas in some uncharted region.

In this I was again to be disappointed. Talk was low and seldom, and I was
about to leave, when a sailor, wearing ear-rings of pure gold, lifted up
his head from his wine, and looking straight before him at the wall, told
his tale loudly:

(When later on a storm of rain arose and thundered on the tavern's leaded
panes, he raised his voice without effort and spoke on still. The darker
it got the clearer his wild eyes shone.)

"A ship with sails of the olden time was nearing fantastic isles. We had
never seen such isles.

"We all hated the captain, and he hated us. He hated us all alike, there
was no favouritism about him. And he never would talk a word with any of
us, except sometimes in the evening when it was getting dark he would stop
and look up and talk a bit to the men he had hanged at the yard-arm.

"We were a mutinous crew. But Captain was the only man that had pistols.
He slept with one under his pillow and kept one close beside him. There
was a nasty look about the isles. They were small and flat as though they
had come up only recently from the sea, and they had no sand or rocks like
honest isles, but green grass down to the water. And there were little
cottages there whose looks we did not like. Their thatches came almost
down to the ground, and were strangely turned up at the corners, and under
the low eaves were queer dark windows whose little leaded panes were too
thick to see through. And no one, man or beast, was walking about, so that
you could not know what kind of people lived there. But Captain knew. And
he went ashore and into one of the cottages, and someone lit lights
inside, and the little windows wore an evil look.

"It was quite dark when he came aboard again, and he bade a cheery
good-night to the men that swung from the yard-arm and he eyed us in a way
that frightened poor old Bill.

"Next night we found that he had learned to curse, for he came on a lot of
us asleep in our bunks, and among them poor old Bill, and he pointed at us
with a finger, and made a curse that our souls should stay all night at
the top of the masts. And suddenly there was the soul of poor old Bill
sitting like a monkey at the top of the mast, and looking at the stars,
and freezing through and through.

"We got up a little mutiny after that, but Captain comes up and points
with his finger again, and this time poor old Bill and all the rest are
swimming behind the ship through the cold green water, though their bodies
remain on deck.

"It was the cabin-boy who found out that Captain couldn't curse when he
was drunk, though he could shoot as well at one time as another.

"After that it was only a matter of waiting, and of losing two men when
the time came. Some of us were murderous fellows, and wanted to kill
Captain, but poor old Bill was for finding a bit of an island, out of the
track of ships, and leaving him there with his share of our year's
provisions. And everybody listened to poor old Bill, and we decided to
maroon Captain as soon as we caught him when he couldn't curse.

"It was three whole days before Captain got drunk again, and poor old Bill
and all had a dreadful time, for Captain invented new curses every day,
and wherever he pointed his finger our souls had to go; and the fishes got
to know us, and so did the stars, and none of them pitied us when we froze
on the masts or were hurried through forests of seaweed and lost our
way--both stars and fishes went about their businesses with cold,
unastonished eyes. Once when the sun had set and it was twilight, and the
moon was showing clearer and clearer in the sky, and we stopped our work
for a moment because Captain seemed to be looking away from us at the
colours in the sky, he suddenly turned and sent our souls to the Moon. And
it was colder there than ice at night; and there were horrible mountains
making shadows; and it was all as silent as miles of tombs; and Earth was
shining up in the sky as big as the blade of a scythe, and we all got
homesick for it, but could not speak nor cry. It was quite dark when we
got back, and we were very respectful to Captain all the next day, but he
cursed several of us again very soon. What we all feared most was that he
would curse our souls to Hell, and none of us mentioned Hell above a
whisper for fear that it should remind him. But on the third evening the
cabin-boy came and told us that Captain was drunk. And we all went to his
cabin, and we found him lying there across his bunk, and he shot as he had
never shot before; but he had no more than the two pistols, and he would
only have killed two men if he hadn't caught Joe over the head with the
end of one of his pistols. And then we tied him up. And poor old Bill put
the rum between the Captain's teeth, and kept him drunk for two days, so
that he could not curse, till we found a convenient rock. And before
sunset of the second day we found a nice bare island for Captain, out of
the track of ships, about a hundred yards long and about eighty wide; and
we rowed him along to it in a little boat, and gave him provisions for a
year, the same as we had ourselves, because poor old Bill wanted to be
fair. And we left him sitting comfortable with his back to a rock singing
a sailor's song.

"When we could no longer hear Captain singing we all grew very cheerful
and made a banquet out of our year's provisions, as we all hoped to be
home again in under three weeks. We had three great banquets every day for
a week--every man had more than he could eat, and what was left over we
threw on the floor like gentlemen. And then one day, as we saw San
Huegedos, and wanted to sail in to spend our money, the wind changed round
from behind us and beat us out to sea. There was no tacking against it,
and no getting into the harbour, though other ships sailed by us and
anchored there. Sometimes a dead calm would fall on us, while fishing
boats all around us flew before half a gale, and sometimes the wind would
beat us out to sea when nothing else was moving. All day we tried, and at
night we laid to and tried again the next day. And all the sailors of the
other ships were spending their money in San Huegedos and we could not
come nigh it. Then we spoke horrible things against the wind and against
San Huegedos, and sailed away.

"It was just the same at Norenna.

"We kept close together now and talked in low voices. Suddenly poor old
Bill grew frightened. As we went all along the Siractic coast-line, we
tried again and again, and the wind was waiting for us in every harbour
and sent us out to sea. Even the little islands would not have us. And
then we knew that there was no landing yet for poor old Bill, and every
one upbraided his kind heart that had made them maroon Captain on a rock,
so as not to have his blood upon their heads. There was nothing to do but
to drift about the seas. There were no banquets now, because we feared
that Captain might live his year and keep us out to sea.

"At first we used to hail all passing ships, and used to try to board them
in the boats; but there was no towing against Captain's curse, and we had
to give that up. So we played cards for a year in Captain's cabin, night
and day, storm and fine, and every one promised to pay poor old Bill when
we got ashore.

"It was horrible to us to think what a frugal man Captain really was, he
that used to get drunk every other day whenever he was at sea, and here he
was still alive, and sober too, for his curse still kept us out of every
port, and our provisions were gone.

"Well, it came to drawing lots, and Jim was the unlucky one. Jim only kept
us about three days, and then we drew lots again, and this time it was the
nigger. The nigger didn't keep us any longer, and we drew again, and this
time it was Charlie, and still Captain was alive.

"As we got fewer one of us kept us longer. Longer and longer a mate used
to last us, and we all wondered how ever Captain did it. It was five weeks
over the year when we drew Mike, and he kept us for a week, and Captain
was still alive. We wondered he didn't get tired of the same old curse;
but we supposed things looked different when one is alone on an island.

"When there was only Jakes and poor old Bill and the cabin-boy and Dick,
we didn't draw any longer. We said that the cabin-boy had had all the
luck, and he mustn't expect any more. Then poor old Bill was alone with
Jakes and Dick, and Captain was still alive. When there was no more boy,
and the Captain still alive, Dick, who was a huge strong man like poor old
Bill, said that it was Jakes' turn, and he was very lucky to have lived as
long as he had. But poor old Bill talked it all over with Jakes, and they
thought it better than Dick should take his turn.

"Then there was Jakes and poor old Bill; and Captain would not die.

"And these two used to watch one another night and day, when Dick was gone
and no one else was left to them. And at last poor old Bill fell down in a
faint and lay there for an hour. Then Jakes came up to him slowly with his
knife, and makes a stab at poor old Bill as he lies there on the deck. And
poor old Bill caught hold of him by the wrist, and put his knife into him
twice to make quite sure, although it spoiled the best part of the meat.
Then poor old Bill was all alone at sea.

"And the very next week, before the food gave out, Captain must have died
on his bit of an island; for poor old Bill heard the Captain's soul going
cursing over the sea, and the day after that the ship was cast on a rocky
coast.

"And Captain's been dead now for over a hundred years, and poor old Bill
is safe ashore again. But it looks as if Captain hadn't done with him yet,
for poor old Bill doesn't ever get any older, and somehow or other he
doesn't seem to die. Poor old Bill!"

When this was over the man's fascination suddenly snapped, and we all
jumped up and left him.

It was not only his revolting story, but it was the fearful look in the
eyes of the man who told it, and the terrible ease with which his voice
surpassed the roar of the rain, that decided me never again to enter that
haunt of sailors--the tavern of the sea.

THE BEGGARS

I was walking down Piccadilly not long ago, thinking of nursery rhymes and
regretting old romance.

As I saw the shopkeepers walk by in their black frock-coats and their
black hats, I thought of the old line in nursery annals: "The merchants of
London, they wear scarlet."

The streets were all so unromantic, dreary. Nothing could be done for
them, I thought--nothing. And then my thoughts were interrupted by barking
dogs. Every dog in the street seemed to be barking--every kind of dog, not
only the little ones but the big ones too. They were all facing East
towards the way I was coming by. Then I turned round to look and had this
vision, in Piccadilly, on the opposite side to the houses just after you
pass the cab-rank.

Tall bent men were coming down the street arrayed in marvelous cloaks. All
were sallow of skin and swarthy of hair, and most of them wore strange
beards. They were coming slowly, and they walked with staves, and their
hands were out for alms.

All the beggars had come to town.

I would have given them a gold doubloon engraven with the towers of
Castile, but I had no such coin. They did not seem the people to who it
were fitting to offer the same coin as one tendered for the use of a
taxicab (O marvelous, ill-made word, surely the pass-word somewhere of
some evil order). Some of them wore purple cloaks with wide green borders,
and the border of green was a narrow strip with some, and some wore cloaks
of old and faded red, and some wore violet cloaks, and none wore black.
And they begged gracefully, as gods might beg for souls.

I stood by a lamp-post, and they came up to it, and one addressed it,
calling the lamp-post brother, and said, "O lamp-post, our brother of the
dark, are there many wrecks by thee in the tides of night? Sleep not,
brother, sleep not. There were many wrecks an it were not for thee."

It was strange: I had not thought of the majesty of the street lamp and
his long watching over drifting men. But he was not beneath the notice of
these cloaked strangers.

And then one murmured to the street: "Art thou weary, street? Yet a little
longer they shall go up and down, and keep thee clad with tar and wooden
bricks. Be patient, street. In a while the earthquake cometh."

"Who are you?" people said. "And where do you come from?"

"Who may tell what we are," they answered, "or whence we come?"

And one turned towards the smoke-stained houses, saying, "Blessed be the
houses, because men dream therein."

Then I perceived, what I had never thought, that all these staring houses
were not alike, but different one from another, because they held
different dreams.

And another turned to a tree that stood by the Green Park railings,
saying, "Take comfort, tree, for the fields shall come again."

And all the while the ugly smoke went upwards, the smoke that has stifled
Romance and blackened the birds. This, I thought, they can neither praise
nor bless. And when they saw it they raised their hands towards it,
towards the thousand chimneys, saying, "Behold the smoke. The old
coal-forests that have lain so long in the dark, and so long still, are
dancing now and going back to the sun. Forget not Earth, O our brother,
and we wish thee joy of the sun."

It had rained, and a cheerless stream dropped down a dirty gutter. It had
come from heaps of refuse, foul and forgotten; it had gathered upon its
way things that were derelict, and went to somber drains unknown to man or
the sun. It was this sullen stream as much as all other causes that had
made me say in my heart that the town was vile, that Beauty was dead in
it, and Romance fled.

Even this thing they blessed. And one that wore a purple cloak with broad
green border, said, "Brother, be hopeful yet, for thou shalt surely come
at last to the delectable Sea, and meet the heaving, huge, and travelled
ships, and rejoice by isles that know the golden sun." Even thus they
blessed the gutter, and I felt no whim to mock.

And the people that went by, in their black unseemly coats and their
misshapen, monstrous, shiny hats, the beggars also blessed. And one of
them said to one of these dark citizens: "O twin of Night himself, with
thy specks of white at wrist and neck like to Night's scattered stars. How
fearfully thou dost veil with black thy hid, unguessed desires. They are
deep thoughts in thee that they will not frolic with colour, that they say
'No' to purple, and to lovely green 'Begone.' Thou hast wild fancies that
they must needs be tamed with black, and terrible imaginings that they
must be hidden thus. Has thy soul dreams of the angels, and of the walls
of faery that thou hast guarded it so utterly, lest it dazzle astonished
eyes? Even so God hid the diamond deep down in miles of clay.

"The wonder of thee is not marred by mirth.

"Behold thou art very secret.

"Be wonderful. Be full of mystery."

Silently the man in the black frock-coat passed on. And I came to
understand when the purple beggar had spoken, that the dark citizen had
trafficked perhaps with Ind, that in his heart were strange and dumb
ambitions; that his dumbness was founded by solemn rite on the roots of
ancient tradition; that it might be overcome one day by a cheer in the
street or by some one singing a song, and that when this shopman spoke
there might come clefts in the world and people peering over at the abyss.

Then turning towards Green Park, where as yet Spring was not, the beggars
stretched out their hands, and looking at the frozen grass and the yet
unbudding trees they, chanting all together, prophesied daffodils.

A motor omnibus came down the street, nearly running over some of the dogs
that were barking ferociously still. It was sounding its horn noisily.

And the vision went then.

_In a letter from a friend whom I have never seen, one of those that read
my books, this line was quoted--"But he, he never came to Carcassonne." I
do not know the origin of the line, but I made this tale about it._

CARCASSONNE

When Camorak reigned at Arn, and the world was fairer, he gave a festival
to all the weald to commemorate the splendour of his youth.

They say that his house at Arn was huge and high, and its ceiling painted
blue; and when evening fell men would climb up by ladders and light the
scores of candles hanging from slender chains. And they say, too, that
sometimes a cloud would come, and pour in through the top of one of the
oriel windows, and it would come over the edge of the stonework as the
sea-mist comes over a sheer cliffs shaven lip where an old wind has blown
for ever and ever (he has swept away thousands of leaves and thousands of
centuries, they are all one to him, he owes no allegiance to Time). And
the cloud would re-shape itself in the hall's lofty vault and drift on
through it slowly, and out to the sky again through another window. And
from its shape the knights in Camorak's hall would prophesy the battles
and sieges of the next season of war. They say of the hall of Camorak at
Arn that there hath been none like it in any land, and foretell that there
will be never.

Hither had come in the folk of the Weald from sheepfold and from forest,
revolving slow thoughts of food, and shelter, and love, and they sat down
wondering in that famous hall; and therein also were seated the men of
Arn, the town that clustered round the King's high house, and all was
roofed with red, maternal earth.

If old songs may be trusted, it was a marvelous hall.

Many who sat there could only have seen it distantly before, a clear shape
in the landscape, but smaller than a hill. Now they beheld along the wall
the weapons of Camorak's men, of which already the lute-players made
songs, and tales were told at evening in the byres. There they described
the shield of Camorak that had gone to and fro across so many battles, and
the sharp but dinted edges of his sword; there were the weapons of Gadriol
the Leal, and Norn, and Athoric of the Sleety Sword, Heriel the Wild,
Yarold, and Thanga of Esk, their arms hung evenly all round the hall, low
where a man could reach them; and in the place of honour in the midst,
between the arms of Camorak and of Gadriol the Leal, hung the harp of
Arleon. And of all the weapons hanging on those walls none were more
calamitous to Camorak's foes than was the harp of Arleon. For to a man
that goes up against a strong place on foot, pleasant indeed is the twang
and jolt of some fearful engine of war that his fellow-warriors are
working behind him, from which huge rocks go sighing over his head and
plunge among his foes; and pleasant to a warrior in the wavering light are
the swift commands of his King, and a joy to him are his comrades' instant
cheers exulting suddenly at a turn of the war. All this and more was the
harp to Camorak's men; for not only would it cheer his warriors on, but
many a time would Arleon of the Harp strike wild amazement into opposing
hosts by some rapturous prophecy suddenly shouted out while his hand swept
over the roaring strings. Moreover, no war was ever declared till Camorak
and his men had listened long to the harp, and were elate with the music
and mad against peace. Once Arleon, for the sake of a rhyme, had made war
upon Estabonn; and an evil king was overthrown, and honour and glory won;
from such queer motives does good sometimes accrue.

Above the shields and the harps all round the hall were the painted
figures of heroes of fabulous famous songs. Too trivial, because too
easily surpassed by Camorak's men, seemed all the victories that the earth
had known; neither was any trophy displayed of Camorak's seventy battles,
for these were as nothing to his warriors or him compared with those
things that their youth had dreamed and which they mightily purposed yet
to do.

Above the painted pictures there was darkness, for evening was closing in,
and the candles swinging on their slender chain were not yet lit in the
roof; it was as though a piece of the night had been builded into the
edifice like a huge natural rock that juts into a house. And there sat all
the warriors of Arn and the Weald-folk wondering at them; and none were
more than thirty, and all were skilled in war. And Camorak sat at the head
of all, exulting in his youth.

We must wrestle with Time for some seven decades, and he is a weak and
puny antagonist in the first three bouts.

Now there was present at this feast a diviner, one who knew the schemes of
Fate, and he sat among the people of the Weald and had no place of honour,
for Camorak and his men had no fear of Fate. And when the meat was eaten
and the bones cast aside, the king rose up from his chair, and having
drunken wine, and being in the glory of his youth and with all his knights
about him, called to the diviner, saying, "Prophesy."

And the diviner rose up, stroking his grey beard, and spake
guardedly--"There are certain events," he said, "upon the ways of Fate
that are veiled even from a diviner's eyes, and many more are clear to us
that were better veiled from all; much I know that is better unforetold,
and some things that I may not foretell on pain of centuries of
punishment. But this I know and foretell--that you will never come to
Carcassonne."

Instantly there was a buzz of talk telling of Carcassonne--some had heard
of it in speech or song, some had read of it, and some had dreamed of it.
And the king sent Arleon of the Harp down from his right hand to mingle
with the Weald-folk to hear aught that any told of Carcassonne. But the
warriors told of the places they had won to--many a hard-held fortress,
many a far-off land, and swore that they would come to Carcassonne.

And in a while came Arleon back to the king's right hand, and raised his
harp and chanted and told of Carcassonne. Far away it was, and far and far
away, a city of gleaming ramparts rising one over other, and marble
terraces behind the ramparts, and fountains shimmering on the terraces. To
Carcassonne the elf-kings with their fairies had first retreated from men,
and had built it on an evening late in May by blowing their elfin horns.
Carcassonne! Carcassonne!

Travellers had seen it sometimes like a clear dream, with the sun
glittering on its citadel upon a far-off hilltop, and then the clouds had
come or a sudden mist; no one had seen it long or come quite close to it;
though once there were some men that came very near, and the smoke from
the houses blew into their faces, a sudden gust--no more, and these
declared that some one was burning cedarwood there. Men had dreamed that
there is a witch there, walking alone through the cold courts and
corridors of marmorean palaces, fearfully beautiful and still for all her
fourscore centuries, singing the second oldest song, which was taught her
by the sea, shedding tears for loneliness from eyes that would madden
armies, yet will she not call her dragons home--Carcassonne is terribly
guarded. Sometimes she swims in a marble bath through whose deeps a river
tumbles, or lies all morning on the edge of it to dry slowly in the sun,
and watches the heaving river trouble the deeps of the bath. It flows
through the caverns of earth for further than she knows, and coming to
light in the witch's bath goes down through the earth again to its own
peculiar sea.

In autumn sometimes it comes down black with snow that spring has molten
in unimagined mountains, or withered blooms of mountain shrubs go
beautifully by.

When there is blood in the bath she knows there is war in the mountains;
and yet she knows not where those mountains are.

When she sings the fountains dance up from the dark earth, when she combs
her hair they say there are storms at sea, when she is angry the wolves
grow brave and all come down to the byres, when she is sad the sea is sad,
and both are sad for ever. Carcassonne! Carcassonne!

This city is the fairest of the wonders of Morning; the sun shouts when he
beholdeth it; for Carcassonne Evening weepeth when Evening passeth away.

And Arleon told how many goodly perils were round about the city, and how
the way was unknown, and it was a knightly venture. Then all the warriors
stood up and sang of the splendour of the venture. And Camorak swore by
the gods that had builded Arn, and by the honour of his warriors that,
alive or dead, he would come to Carcassonne.

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