INTO the mountain coombs did Typhon now ascend, climbing ever higher and higher, and seeking not seldom, when night surprised him far from human rooftree, the comfort of some woodland giant — now a beech, now a chestnut, now a sycamore. But best he loved those who did not shed their leaves, for the ilex offered him warmth as well as shelter, and the cone-bearing people furnished resting-places where the frost could not find him, nor snow fall upon his sleeping body. At luckier times he would reach the homes of the charcoal-burners, or woodmen, who lived out their hard lives on high, and, in exchange for food and lodging, abide with them when storms swept the hill-sides, and help them with their labours. But never did he set axe to tree, or aid the killing of one, since he had vowed not to do so.
Still he sought Soter, without success; nor among the thousand lesser shrubs and herbs did he win news of the treasure. The lavender and mastic and bilberry, the heath and furze knew her not; the broom and the fern, the small starry creatures that lived beside the mountain brooks, had never heard of her. “She may,” they said, “be one whose life above the earth belongs to spring; for there are many such, who twinkle out when the snow melts, to light grey mornings with their loveliness and vanish again before the sun has mounted to his throne.”
And he grew wiser every day, for he began to read into outward images of things their inner meaning, and much astonished himself to learn that the inner meaning was generally beautiful. He began to understand by degrees, dim and halting, the significance of beauty, although he did not use that word at first; for to him “beauty” appeared a silly and poetic notion outside of the real. He spoke to himself rather of the fitness, rightness, seemliness of the secrets hidden within the trunk of the tree, the bosom of the bird, the pelt of the lynx; it was some time before he found that beauty comprehended these things; and when he did come to perceive the truth, another voice — from the lips of a young girl — put the word into his mouth.
Thus happened his supreme adventure, beside which all the rest sank to shadows; for now Typhon was at a great crisis in his affairs, yet knew it not.
Towards evening of an early winter day, while still wandering high upon the shoulders of the mountains, he began to bethink him and prepare to seek the lower lands awhile until the sun had recovered his warmth.
He stood at the fringe of a grove and lifted his voice through the gathering dusk, that he might address a glorious arbutus which lifted its ruddy column above him and displayed its annual splendour of fruit and flowers together. For from the dark green and polished foliage that made a noble crown for the great straggling tree, there sparkled its tresses of snow-white bells, bright as pearls against the gloom; and beside them hung the berries set a year before and now at last scarlet and luscious to the eye.
A joyful sight is the arbutus at the edge of winter; and yet this noble tree, for all its wealth of flower and fruits, despite health of body and beauty of figure, proved a melancholy thing in the twilight, and spoke words out of keeping with its good fortune and comfortable prospects. The arbutus was indeed a pessimist, and his opinions were as dry and arid as the berries, of which bird and bear may make a meal, but no cultivated tongue.
Typhon did not propose to claim any part of the fair tree’s harvest; but he asked a question and begged to know if from the high top of the arbutus any human habitation might be seen.
“What want you with man?” asked the tree in a voice astringent. “Rather regret that you are one and seek not your fellow-creatures to remind you of the hateful fact.”
“Man, or woman, it is all one to me, a wanderer.” replied Typhon. “The night is near and I need shelter until day returns.”
“To judge of woman,” answered the arbutus, “you must needs take a bird’s-eye view, such as we forest trees are enabled to do. We know more of her than does man, and continue to marvel that through æons of time your fatuous breed has never learned the truth of her.”
“This interests me not,” said Typhon, who was very tired; but the arbutus persisted.
“Hearken, nevertheless,” he said, “that you may tell a little of the facts to your purblind elders. Women are not the complement and counterpart of men, as you foolishly conceit — no more than is the mistletoe upon yonder bough a complement of me. They are a parasitic genus and complete in one horrid species alone. Has the goblet any part in the wine it holds? Women at best should be regarded as receptacles, incubators, a necessary part of the human machine, to be preserved in health and vigour of being for their ultimate purpose, but no more to be trusted and exalted than a shelf of melting snow or a stone in the hand of an idiot. You pretend and believe that they are domestic animals; yet in truth they are only as your mouse-catchers — cunning creatures simulating domesticity for their own ends. Even as the greater cats — leopard, tiger, ounce — they are at heart raptorial, predatory, huntresses ever on the prowl. Woman is, however, far wiser and steeped in bitterer craft than all the other felidæ put together. If she wants blood she does not fly at the male throat; she licks with a humble purr, so that you are proud of your conquest and brag about it — until, suddenly your heart grows white and her tongue turns red; whereupon you understand what is happening to you.”
Typhon, in his forthright way, condensed these atrocious remarks of the arbutus.
“In fact,” said he, “you don’t much like women.”
“I neither like nor dislike them, any more than I care a fig for their dupes,” replied the beautiful tree. “I am merely opening to you an interesting chapter of natural history.”
“For my part,” replied the young man, “I used to hate them too, but in my wanderings I have found many old women of a kind and gentle heart, who ministered to me with deeds and good words. Others were, however, harsh, and doubted my honesty.”
“The old of the species, having sucked man dry, cringe to him,” replied the arbutus. “They usually lie in his power, and having done what ill they may, seek his charity and patience when nothing else remains to hope for.”
“You seem a melancholy person. And yet I mark nothing but the prosperity proper to a tree about you,” replied the wanderer.
“What is life? What is the good of existence at all?” inquired the arbutus. “Temperament determines all things. There are even gods who grumble for ever that the nectar is corked and the ambrosia not fit to eat. My disposition is such that prosperity or tribulation would be alike to me. I care for nothing. I endure a life that I did not seek and shall presently sink into a death I did not deserve. My fruits are stolen from me, and no doubt, not content with persecution in life, I shall be burned to make heat for such as you when I die. There is no escape. It is with me even as with the ass of the priests of Cybele. They worked the poor wretch to a skeleton by putting burdens and blows upon him; and even death brought him no peace, for when he perished they turned his patient hide into tympana and beat him still.”
At this moment there broke through the gathering darkness a great flame, and amid the forest boughs, now shorn of foliage, Typhon observed a glare of red light that waxed steadily and cast a fulvous and sinister illumination into the sky.
“What is happening there?” he asked.
“A tragedy,” replied the arbutus, without the least emotion. “That is the home of a man and a woman and their child, and it has caught fire.”
“Charcoal-burners?”
“Yes; they will soon be charcoal themselves, no doubt.”
Inspired by a sudden human instinct to aid the unfortunate, Typhon heard no more. Instead he leapt down over open ground and made haste to reach the hovel burning furiously in the thickets beneath him. But the spot proved much more distant than he imagined, and many precious moments had passed before he arrived breathless at the theatre of the event.
As he reached the flames they already began to sink, for the roof was fallen in and the little dwelling become no more than a dying fire. One human being appeared — a slip of a girl — and such was her distracted spirit that, even as Typhon came upon her, she was running to fling herself into the heart of the conflagration, as though her many tears would suffice to extinguish it.
He stayed her and would not suffer her to burn until the position was made clear to him. Between her sobs, therefore, the girl explained all that had happened.
“My parents, Tydeus, the charcoal-burner, and Canace his wife, journeyed to a far village this morning for provisions and they left me at home,” she began. “Then, when twilight returned and I knew my father and mother would soon be back again, I made fire and set off for the waterfall upon the hill-side that I might fill my jugs. After I departed some spark, led by the hand of a cruel spirit, set our home on fire, and I returned just in time to see Canace rush into the burning house — no doubt to rescue me. Tydeus followed, perceiving my mother’s awful danger: the flames roared so loud that they did not hear me cry behind them; and then, before they could come back again, the roof fell and now both are with the Shades. It is all too terrible for me to understand, and I wish only to go back to them swiftly before they miss me, so that we may enter Hades together. Life is no longer to be endured now that I have lost my dearly loved parents.”
She strove to destroy herself and be numbered with the dead, but Typhon would not immediately allow this immolation until she had listened to him.
“You may be right to perish,” said he, “yet there is something to be said against it and the will of the gods may be otherwise. What is your name?”
“I am called Ægle, after a Hesperid, one of the daughters of Night. I pray you seek not to detain me, for I would mingle my ashes with their precious dust and make death less terrible to them by sharing it.”
“That would be to make death more terrible and add a grief to their ghosts,” declared Typhon. “You are young and it is not well that you should die by your own hand. The gods have willed to take your parents out of the world; but they do not want you yet. Here you may still live to be useful, but in Hades the power of usefulness has departed.”
“Is it not the voice of a god telling my heart to die and end my sorrow?” she sobbed.
“I think not,” he answered. “This desire for death may fade, Ægle. At any rate you must let the more natural inclination have an opportunity to return. Many who fell upon their own swords, for grief, or honour, or despair, have regretted it when the breath of Styx blew cold upon them. It is a terrible thing to go down out of the comfortable earth into eternal darkness before the command is spoken.”
“Who are you to bid me live?” she asked.
“A wanderer in search of something he cannot find. And I shall not leave you until you grant my petition and agree to exist for the present.”
Ægle considered. Her little bosom still heaved with misery and her eyes were dim. She was sixteen years old and beautiful to see — a brown-skinned, slim maiden, with delicate limbs, heavy, dark hair that glinted in the fading firelight, and a face that, despite the distortion of her sorrow, promised much loveliness in time to come.
“Why should I live?” she asked. “I am friendless, homeless. There is none in the world to succour me. My life began and ended with my parents. Indeed I cannot live: I lack the power to do so. Therefore I must die; and if I do not mingle my dust with theirs, it is only a question of days before I die of starvation, or in the teeth of some wild beast.”
“Still I bid you live. I am assured that live you must,” he answered; whereupon, being of a practical spirit, Ægle made the obvious reply:
“See you to it then,” she said. “For I cannot believe that anything is gained for anybody by my continued existence. If it is your desire that I shall abide on earth, you must arrange the details. Life may be worth your while: it is no longer worth mine; and since I am to remain alive at your command, then it is for you to determine how it can be done.”
Typhon regarded her thoughtfully.
“I do not care for girls,” he said; “but no doubt life is precious even to them and they have their value. All things have a value, if they take care of themselves so that they may grasp the opportunity when it comes. For the present, until we can plan the future and find friends for you, I myself will take care of you. You may be able to teach me things that I do not know; you may even be able to help me in my great search for Soter. But what you say is just, though I did not expect you to look at it in that light. If you remain alive at my wish, then I am under the obligation to assist you to remain alive in comfort and security. For me comfort and security are vain words, and I have long learned that there are better things in life than either; but for you, now an unhappy girl and full of tears for your dear parents, it is right that you should at least be secure to mourn as comfortably as possible.”
“I am glad you see that,” said Ægle.
“Yes; I will take care of you. At this moment, though it may seem a mean thought before your great affliction, I am terribly hungry and food must be found. Can you help me in that matter? Is there any other house of charcoal-burners within our reach?”
“There is not,” she answered. “A half-day’s journey lies between us and any home of man. Food, however, is at our feet. My father dropped his parcels before rushing to his death. He had descended into the valley for provisions. Here is food; and here is fire. You can eat and I will return to the spring and fill my jugs again, for they have fallen from my hand and are empty.”
“It is well,” replied Typhon. “But to the waterfall you do not go alone. Until the dark hours have passed and I have looked into your face by the light of the sun and learned whether your word is the word of truth and you will keep your promise I cannot run any risk.”
“I have given my word,” she said, “and you need fear nothing. I shall live; but it will only be for you. And if anon you weary of me alive, then I shall be well content to follow my own desire and make an end.”
He carried two jugs of red clay and she walked before him by a rough track, where the waterfall murmured at some distance.
“Your terrible sorrow wakens great pathos in me,” said Typhon, as he returned with the girl by his side. “This is a harsh and cruel trial to happen to a maiden who loved her parents so well. I have never been sorry for anybody in my life, except myself, until this fatal evening. Now, strange to say, I endure sad emotions, entirely on your account.”
“Surely you cannot fail of sorrow for the unfortunate when their misery is under your nose,” said Ægle; “but whether your sorrow for me was not selfish sorrow remains to be seen.”
“It may prove so,” admitted Typhon. “I felt strong objection that a hapless child should burn herself to death; and as you say, my selfishness may be the reason that you still live. But I recognise the grave care of keeping a person in the flesh against their personal desire to relinquish the burden. We shall doubtless see ere long whether you or I thought wiselier.”
“It is a mistake which can be remedied in any case,” sighed she, and then her tears fell again, because they had now opened the parcel of provisions that her father had brought to his home, and Ægle found a box full of sweetmeats the dead Canace had intended for her little daughter.
Typhon was astonished before the ideas that thronged his spirit at the spectacle of disconsolate Ægle. He not only said comfortable words, but felt kindly thoughts and used his intelligence almost entirely on her behalf.
“Your good father and mother would be happier in Hades if you took some supper,” he declared. “You have promised to live for the present and, in order to live, one must eat.”
He placed food before her and ate mightily himself. Then he sought for a resting-place where she might sleep, and presently found a hut that had escaped the fire and was used to store the implements of the charcoal-burner. These tools he took out of the hut; then gathered dead fern and made a bed for Ægle. And presently, when she had retired into it, he made fast the door, for fear she should change her mind while he slept; then sat beside the warmth of her vanished home and considered with himself what must be done when the morrow came. Soon he fell asleep, and the night wind blew dead grey ashes over his slumbering body.
At the dawn hour he was wakened by Ægle hammering upon the door of the little hutch wherein he had placed her, and he rose swiftly, opened it and suffered her to come forth.
“Let us go, I beg you,” she said. “I can stay here no more.” Then she knelt and prayed to the gods for her parents, and Typhon knelt beside her. After that they took food and walked to the waterfall and made their breakfast beside it.
Ægle was resigned, and the young man, looking upon her in the sunshine, found that she had large and gentle eyes, the colour of wood hyacinths, and a face that was very beautiful despite stains of sorrow.
“I am thin, because I am still growing,” explained Ægle; “but I am strong and never tire. I can cook, and when I am happier again, if ever that happens, I shall sing also. A nymph who lives beside this waterfall taught me to dance, and since she spoke in poetry, I know poetry when I hear it. But that is all the cleverness I have.”
“As for me,” answered Typhon, “I serve Epicurus, the sage, and seek for him a lonely herb. But I have not yet found it.”
“I, too, will seek if you tell me what to look for.”
“I cannot,” he answered. “Its name is Soter, and that is all I know about it.”
They were silent and each thought concerning the future. Typhon said to himself:
“I must take her to some vil, or hamlet, where there are kind people who will cherish her. They shall be promised payment, and perchance, if she wishes it when I go home, she may come with me and be a handmaid to my mother.”
And Ægle said to herself:
“He is good outside and may be good all through, for my father was good all through, and it belongs to men sometimes so to be. And since he wills that I live, I must live for him and do his bidding and cleave only to him henceforth. He walks nobly and thinks justly. To seek a plant that he knows not argues that he is not quite right in his head; but I will cherish him and endure him, be patient with him and mend his ragged clothes.”
Anon they set forth, and their way took them beside the arbutus, who thought ill of women. The tree spoke with acerb words; but Ægle knew not that it was addressing Typhon, and as he took no notice whatever, the bitterness of the arbutus was all wasted and returned upon his own handsome head.