ON awakening, the travellers found themselves exceedingly hungry, and while the palms of the Phoenix, under which they had slept, hung their honey-golden aigrettes of fruit within reach of Amphion’s hand, there was no immediate sign of Simo’s breakfast. The boy made swift search, however, and soon met with a plant of fennel just bursting from the sheath. Dew glimmered on its succulent foliage, and it was full of sweet sap — the perfection of a fennel plant.
They ate heartily, for the dates were ripe and luscious. Then, in a glade, they perceived a herd of black swine feeding on acorns and the fruit of cornel-trees. The animals grunted together and jostled for their meal.
“Probably they were seafarers,” said Simo. “Not harmless fishermen like your father,” he added, “but rough adventurers on strange waters, who were storm-foundered here and called to choose between Aea or death.”
“It is no doubt better to be a pig than to be dead,” ventured Amphion.
“You may be right; but the proposition lies open to argument,” replied Simo.
“Let me ask them; they will know,” suggested Amphion.
This, however, his companion refused to permit.
“Light may be thrown on that problem presently,” he replied. “We must remember your manners, and, whatever may happen, you are not a pig yet. On arriving in a strange country, courtesy demands that we seek first the lord of the kingdom and invite his friendship. You must go to Circé at once. I see through yonder trees the glint of water. There we will drink our fill, then bathe and each set about his business. I shall probably come to the palace later in the day, or perhaps not before night: but do not feel lonely; wherever you may be I shall find you out.”
With Simo round his neck, Amphion left the beach, passed through the cincture of date-palms, and presently stood before the loveliest scene that his young eyes had mirrored.
Arches of living boughs made tunnels of light to a little lake which spread and gleamed rosily in the midst of these willowy creatures. Domes and canopies of foliage rose round about the water. Here palms shot upward, to fling great stars of green and falling spray into the bright sky; while beneath them, among the jade and emerald and glaucous sheen of a thousand leaves and verdures, there sprang spire and thyrse of flowers — some massy, some delicate and feathery — leaping upward in all the colours of flame and fire, of the morning and the evening sky, of the sea and the cloud, of sparkling jewel and candid snow. Fern-leaved and arrow-leaved, fan-leaved and sword-leaved, the great foliage sprawled, lighted with a thousand blossoms that dropped starry reflections into the waters of the lake. Little headlands ran into the mere, each offering a new picture, yet chiming in harmony with the whole. Riparian things grew here: flights of great bamboos that lifted their finial traceries into the morning above rush and sedge; the cream of meadowsweets, their plumes nodding in drifts along the brink of the water; the amber mist of plume poppies and the twinkle of yellow monkey-flowers. Here an island salient blazed with orange-coloured ragweeds; and here fell tresses of convolvulus into the crystal, their constellations glimmering azure-blue; while many fair grasses ventured daintily into the water, and gleaming glycera and fragrant acorus tripped among the shallows. Daphne’s laurel was here, and syrinx, loved of Pan. A great flax, its sword inlaid with silver, broke the gentler patterns of the blossoming shrubs and weeping trees above, and the zebra rush and the porcupine rush bristled beside him. Vitality, light, joy and loveliness — of these sang the lordly lake. Plantain lilies lifted lavender spikes below; wistarias tumbled their lavender tresses above; and because Circé’s flora know no seasons, but bud and bloom at her own august will, these were all rejoicing together — tiger lilies and tulips, daffodils and starry asters, eucharis lilies, belladonna lilies, lilies of the day and lilies of the night, lilies of the valley and giant lilies of the mountain, with purple in their deep ivory hearts. Beneath their cups and bells shone red-golden arnica, sea-blue gentian and agapanthus, the tassels of the cactus and the heavenly purples of those difficult customers, the meconopsis poppies from Thibet. They neighboured with globe flowers, and a thousand primroses, with iris, and Circé’s own floral inventions, which are entirely and for ever unknown to science, but magical and wonderful beyond compare.
In the hands of the enchantress all alike prospered, so that around her pool and bathing-place the whole earth was one quickened glory and overpowering fragrance of flowers.
Berries of sunbright scarlet and gold jewelled the dingles round about and hung from many a bending branch. There were also dark trumpets and clarinets and oboes of living blossoms for fairies to play upon if they so willed; while ever and anon, to rest the eyes wearied of such a riot of dazzling things, there stole a ray from shy and moon-coloured blossoms — soothing and cool and pensive — among so many flaming petals and the fiery fruits that burst with their own ripeness.
The giant water lilies floating upon the lake were also of tranquil tones, and gleamed as though a weary rainbow had sunk amongst them. They rode at anchor, like elfin argosies each with her heap of gold amidships. They were shell-pink and blush-rose, snow-white and forget-me-not-blue, amaranth and crimson — all of a pearly texture, as though the light of dawn were kneaded within their curled petals, all a-glitter and a-sway on the breath of the morning; all of a lustre more tender than the blossoms from branch and bough.
“Personally, I much prefer a formal arrangement,” said Simo; “but, in its wild way, the spot has no little charm. If this landscape gardening is Circé’s own, it does her credit. The effect, however, remains something too florid and barbaric for the finest taste. She loves colour — it would seem not wisely, but too well. We may find achievements on a higher plane elsewhere.”
“Oh, the butterflies — the glorious, glorious butterflies!” cried Amphion.
Indeed the butterflies were very wonderful. Their wings extended more than a foot on each side of their downy bodies, and some were purple and some were ebony and scarlet, some pink and lavender, some orange and turquoise-blue. A fair thing, whose aquamarine plumes were veined with old rose, settled upon Amphion’s shoulder; while others fluttered, like a living aureole, about his head.
“Who were these lovely creatures once?” asked Amphion; and Simo suspected that some Oriental potentate, foolishly travelling with all his harem, might here have been cast away.
“Or,” said he, “they may have been — However, we need not pursue it. We do not know, and there’s an end of the matter. That they were once beautiful ladies is fairly evident; and we may also feel sure that Circé would find no place for any other woman than herself on Aea.”
Presently they prepared to part.
“Keep an open mind, Amphion,” advised his friend, “and bring no preconceived opinions to anything you see and hear. Nothing blocks the spread of education like convictions already formed. Empirical wisdom goes farther and deeper than dogmatic knowledge. Every snake at least knows that. Nature is full of surprises, and only disappoints the positive people. Approach her empirically and she will reward you; but if there is one person she likes to bamboozle, it is the gentleman who thinks he knows all about her.”
Simo alighted, slipped among the flowers and vanished, while the boy went forward.
Like all masterpieces, Aea held an evasive element of mystery, and it appeared now for Amphion in the animate life which thronged his path and welcomed him with uncouth, but genuine, friendship. For him, indeed, there was neither mystery nor fear in their approach. He had never been taught that the great cats were dangerous, or the rhinoceros short-tempered. A potential father appeared in every beast that approached him, and he spoke to them and asked them many questions which they were unable to answer. From coppice and woodland, from jungle and brake, emerged excited creatures, and strangest among them was a mighty ape who ambled on all-fours. The thumbs of his fore paws turned in and he walked on his knuckles. His immense head lacked much brow, but ended in a bristle of fur along the top of his skull. Beneath overhung forehead shone great brown eyes set in round cavities. Then came a broad, flat nose and a terrific mouth from which hung the stem of a sugar-cane. Amphion had never seen such arms. They were as great as a man’s thigh and of prodigious strength: but the gorilla did not embrace him; it bent down and kissed his feet and growled with adoration; while the shining tiger, banded in black and orange tawny, who walked on the other side, set its tail stiffly in the air and purred so loudly that the noise sounded like a woodman sawing down a tree. The ounce shut his green eyes for pleasure; the leopard fawned upon him; the black bear offered him his back to ride upon. The bear had once been a demiurge in Sparta, and governed with wisdom and patience.
A hippopotamus and a sad-eyed buffalo also joined Amphion’s procession, and there came, too, the stag and antelope, and many other horned creatures, a company of chattering monkeys, a mighty bison, and squirrels of brilliant colours. Hyenas and wolves trotted with the other animals, and sometimes snapped and snarled at each other; a hideous wart-hog trotted to his side, where he rode upon the bear, and he stroked its head; then, crashing from a thicket, presently, strode an elephant with long white tusks, who lifted his trunk and saluted Amphion in loud and friendly trumpet notes. All were still human in their love for the little boy. Some brought him fruits and nuts and the good things of the trees; others pushed aside the boughs and thorns so that his flesh should not be scratched or bruised. They vied with each other for the sound of his voice or the pat of his hand; while from above, where flew parrots and a thousand other gaudy and beautiful birds, one after another would descend, alight upon his shoulders, and rub its plumage against his cheeks.
And then the forest thinned, and Amphion saw stretches of green grass and mighty trees, a blue distance of mountains, and the portico of Circé’s palace shining with marble columns aglow in the light of the morning.
Even as he looked there emerged from it three figures — one tall, two no bigger than Amphion’s self — and at the sight of them the creatures with one accord departed, uttering sounds of fear and dole.
“It is Circé,” thought Amphion, “and the poor birds and beasts think she is going to be unkind to me.”
But he kept a stout spirit, and walked swiftly onward over the grass. In five minutes he stood elf-shot through the heart to behold a goddess. She was very tall, with eyes like jewels of sapphire. She wore a silken gown the colour of ripe apricots, and upon her glorious, braided hair sat a half coronet of pearls as large as walnuts. Behind her walked two little maidens carrying bath-towels.
Circé, smiling upon Amphion, stooped and kissed him, and he trembled in the mystery of her loveliness, and felt his heart throb as never it had throbbed before. She was more beautiful than her island, lovelier far than anything he had known or dreamed. Then she stroked the boy’s curls and spoke to him with a voice of mingled melodies, and her eyes were very soft and gentle, and a magic smile sat on her wonderful lips.
“From what city come you, little boy? What name is yours, and who are your father and mother?” she asked.
“I come from no city, great Circé, but the island of Zacynthus. My name is Amphion, and my mother’s name is Chloris, and my father’s name is Dolius.”
“What is your father, child?” she inquired; and he replied:
“He was a fisherman, beautiful goddess; what he is now you know better than I.”
“Then you have come to seek him, doubtless? But how? I have heard of no visiting vessel.”
“I came on the back of my friend Simo, the serpent.”
“And where is he?”
“We parted beside a wondrous lake in the forest nigh the sea, great goddess. I know not where he went, but he promised to return.”
“This is unusual,” declared the enchantress. “The lake to which you refer is my bathing-pool, and I am now upon my way thither. Fear nothing. You are welcome, as indeed is every novelty to a lonely goddess like myself. Stay here, and when I return we will go back to my palace together and I shall find a way to amuse you.”
He bowed his head, and Circé and her small attendants passed to the woods beneath. Then he sat upon the grass in the shadow of an oak-tree and thought upon the radiant lady goddess and the kindness of her welcome.
“She seemed not ill pleased with me,” reflected Amphion; “but she will like Simo much better, because of his great wisdom.”