LVII

Here began the last and most wondrous leg of my fantastic journey, filled with marvels no tongue can tell.  Here, as I threaded my way among the radiant portents of the silent shining trees, I felt as if a great hand were gathering up the all the varied strands of my serpentine wanderings and weaving them together into one magnificent pattern, a pattern wild, free, tangled, and yet as beautiful, significant, and permanent as the borders in an illuminated medieval manuscript.  This, I know, must seem a strange way to speak about my feelings as I traveled through that wood at the world’s end, but I know no other words to describe the impression it left upon my soul.

On and on we went, further and higher into the forest, the path growing steeper and the trees more numerous with every step of the way.  My friend and I spoke little, yet I knew somehow that we were at one in our thoughts and feelings.  To our amazement, the lushness and beauty of the undergrowth on the forest floor increased dramatically as the trees drew closer together and the shadows deepened.  At first the plush green carpet of grass between the trunks was starred with an abundance of tiny white flowers; but as we pressed forward the floral growth became more exotic, astonishingly vivid and variegated.  Huge sunflowers bent their yellow heads in blessing above us.  Poinsettias glowed red in the dim light.  Mauve and lavender orchids strung themselves from pine bough to pine bough.  Here and there the garish Bird of Paradise showed its red, yellow, and purple plumes among the branches.  Everywhere nodded the kind lilies.  The poppies, daisies, and primroses turned their smiling faces up to us as we passed.  As the canopy grew thicker and the gloom deepened, tiny lights began to twinkle in the trees.

But these were only the first and least of wonders.  For soon, as we walked on, brightly colored birds of every imaginable hue – scarlet, blue, violet, green, and gold – began to flash across the open spaces athwart our line of advance, singing to us sweetly as we gazed up at them in amazement.  Nor was their singing like the music of the birds on the other side of the sunset; for they sang with human voices and in words of human languages.  Some of those words were familiar and homey.  Others were as beautiful as they were strange and unintelligible.  At moments I caught snatches of verse that I clearly understood, some of which seemed to come down out of long-forgotten corners of my memory.  At other times, though the words were utterly foreign – even otherworldly – they stirred in me nameless thoughts and longings that seemed for that fleeting instant to be but briefly glimpsed outcroppings of the bedrock of my being.  By turns I found myself weeping with nostalgia and sadness and pure joy.

At length I came to the realization that these birds not only sang with human voices, but also had human faces – not cruel and vengeful faces like the Harpies of old, but kind, gentle faces, with soft wrinkles overspreading their features like the ripples on the surface of a clear, deep pool.  As we approached, some of them hopped down to perch on the lower branches of the pines and firs and spoke to us words of greeting, comfort, and encouragement.  Some wore pearled and gem-encrusted crowns upon their heads, others tall mitres embroidered with scarlet cording and thread of gold.

As I looked, I saw that the boughs of the trees were themselves decked with golden crowns and crystal orbs and silver trumpets and other bright ornaments and treasures of every kind.  Nor was that all – for on closer examination I found that the pines and firs were also heavy with ripening fruits of every variety and color:  apples, oranges, pears, peaches, pomegranates, persimmons, and even rich, dark clusters of dusky grapes.

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LVI

The bird soared skyward and hovered there a moment, splashing the shifting screen of passing clouds with a spray of burnished gold.  The morning star flashed out and twinkled briefly above the tip of his right wing.  Then he turned and flew off toward the wooded rise, the boy and I following at a brisk pace up the sloping shore, listening all the while to the song of the children as it rose from the distant reaches of the forest.  The grade was steep but unobstructed, grassy rather than rocky.  Everywhere around us were the freshness of the morning dew and the intermittent glitter of the sunlight dancing on the tips of the green grass.

Up and up we climbed toward the belt of pines, their Christmas scent floating down to us on the back of the rippling breeze.  Halfway to our goal I stopped and turned to look out over the swelling breast of the sighing sea.  Gone from that spot at the edge of the lapping waters were the three ladies.  In their place I saw three birds spring into the sky and go winging their way toward the fragrant land.  In the next moment the canopied cradle, wherein lay the wondrous child, rose slowly into the air, bathed in its own soft light.  Then it, too, soared up over the strand, disappearing at last among the green and bristling trees.

At the sight of these wonders my friend and I quickened our gait.  A minute more and we had broken into a run.  Not long after, shouting and laughing, we crashed through a fringe of columbine and sweet meadow grass, splashed through the cold trickle of a tiny brook, and ducked beneath the shadows of the first overhanging boughs.  From somewhere beyond the dark trunks and boles of the trees we heard the voices of the children fading away into the heart of the forest:

                               Come, all who are able!

                                Come, come to the cradle!                          

We pushed on.

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LV

“Now loose the dipper from its golden chain!” cried the small gray bird.  “It is no longer needed here, for the last draught has been drunk.  A place awaits it in the sky.”

As if fully understanding what was to be done, the boy unhooked the cup from its leash and raised it over his head.  For a moment he held it there, flashing and sparkling in the shift and play of the mottled light.  Then without a word he reached back and hurled the dipper into the sky.  I watched it go like a streak of lightning through the morning air, surprised to see its speed apparently increasing the further and higher it flew.  Straight through a gap in the ranks of marching clouds it passed, out to a place where the sky was of a particularly clear and deep blue color.  There it stopped and affixed itself to the ceiling of the world.  From where we stood we could see it twinkling down on us serenely from its seat in that pure and lofty dome, glowing with an ever greater intensity, a bright new morning star.

As this star passed momentarily behind an advancing line of fleecy clouds the small gray bird leapt suddenly upward from his perch at the margin of the well.  In the air above our heads he burst into flame and became the terrible Firebird once more.  I heard his voice as I had heard it long ago, like the roar of many waters, calling me to follow his leading.  Turning, I saw the red and flickering light of his blazing wings reflected in the smooth, calm, expectant face of my young companion.  I slipped my hand into his and together we began to walk up the slope, toward the dark eaves of the outermost trees, never taking our eyes off the fiery figure in the sky.

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LIV

In response to her call my friend sloshed away through the shallow ripples and went running up the beach toward the well.  When he had gone, the golden-haired girl, who still held me in her arms, turned and laid me down in the water at the foot of the cradle.  Feeling impotent, abandoned, and helpless, I burst into a tearful wail.  But in the same moment I realized that I could not remain in that condition long.  At another time – before reaching this place beyond the sunset – I would certainly have surrendered myself wholly to it.  But everything was different now.

So strong was the draw of the well and the wood, so sweet the children’s song, so great the promise of things to come, that I was compelled, quite apart from conscious thought or will, to reach the shore somehow.  With a great cry, I heaved myself up on hands and knees and began to crawl forward, discovering in the process that it cost me surprisingly little effort to do so.  I went slowly at first, splashing and gurgling in the salt water; then faster and faster and with greater assurance until, upon reaching the point where the wavelets lapped the shimmering strand, I found myself rising to my feet and taking off at a run toward the stone well.

The small gray bird blinked at my approach, greeting me with a solemn nod of his head.  Hands outstretched, I ran to the well’s edge and fell laughing against its cool stones just as the boy lowered the silver dipper down into the mossy darkness.  Astounded at my own strength, I pulled myself up over the ledge and peered down into the shaft.  As if in reply, the well breathed its airs of dewy freshness up into my flushed and heated face.  At the smell of the pure spring water a burning thirst awoke within me.  Keen with the desire to taste its cold sweetness, I threw back my head and shouted with joy as my friend, smiling down at me, drew the dipper up by its golden chain and held it to my lips.

What a draught that was!  Transcending all identifiable flavors, yet containing within itself the savor of flower and fruit, of sand and stone, of sharp little blades of grass; pure, clear, and radiant as distilled white light; the essence of heaven in liquid form.  Even before it touched my lips or tongue, its fresh and heady odor, redolent of both the pines on the beach and the tang of the sea, struck itself into my nostrils with such force that it seemed to pierce my brain.  Scales fell from my eyes.  My whole body filled with light.  I felt as if I had begun to see for the first time.

The boy dipped again and drank from the cup himself.  As I watched, a change passed over him such as I had never witnessed before and cannot rightly describe.  His physical form assumed an appearance reminiscent of the vibrant, shimmering bodies of the Watchers in the valley of blue glass at the edge of the sea.  While remaining solid to the touch – this I tested by reaching out and laying a hand on his arm – he grew gradually luminous and transparent.  His face began to shine so that I was tempted to fall down before him in adoration.  But before I could carry out my intention I saw his eyes grow round and suddenly knew that he was beholding the very same changes in me!

I stepped away from the well, holding one pulsing and shimmering hand up before my face as the effects of that draught of well-water swept over me.  Inside and out, from head to toe, I felt myself growing lighter and stronger.  Trembling, I turned and looked off toward the wood above the beach.  I shook myself, scattering splinters of light across the ground and over the gray stones of the well.

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LIII

She fell silent again, but not for long.  I saw her studying me intently and knew that she could see the question in my face.  I needed – or wanted – to know more.  So did my companion, the boy who had been the man on the raft so many long ages ago.  It was he who put my thoughts into words.

“Please,” he said, his face turned up to hers.  “Why the scar over the place of his heart?  What does it mean?”

“More than I can say,” she answered.  “And far more than you are prepared to hear or understand.  But among other things, it means what all scars mean – that he was wounded.  More:  that the wounding, though past and healed, has left its mark.  It means, as I have already told you, that he has become like you.  And in so doing he has opened up the way for you to become what you are now – in other words, like him.  This wound, this drink from the well, this loss of one eye to enhance the power of the other – all of it has made him a tiny child, here beyond the sun, here at the meeting place of sky and sea and land.  Here and everywhere it is Christmas morning.  See!  He is in the cradle!”

With that she smiled, touched one hand to my cheek, and laid the other on the boy’s shoulder.  “Now up the beach!” she said.  “To the well and the wood!  There’s no time to lose!  The others are already far ahead of you!”

Indeed they were.  As if from a great distance I could hear their voices drifting to us from the forested bank:

Hush!  Hush!  See how the child is sleeping!

                      Hush!  Hush!  See how he smiles in dreams!

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LII

Within the canopy, under a coverlet of purest white wool edged with red satin, upon a downy pillow embroidered with thread of gold, lay a child of unearthly beauty.  I saw his single eye, as it were a lucent cerulean orb, no bigger than a marble yet deeper than the sky, a little world within itself, cunningly and marvelously made.  Where the other eye should have been was no empty socket or sunken lid, but rather something I cannot quite express – something like a star, a point of light of such intensity that I could not look directly into it, a flower of pure luminescence blossoming and unfolding gently outward.  It was as if I saw again, compressed, miniaturized, and refined within the apple of that eye, the circle of the sun-gate at the edge of the western sea.  The skin of the child’s face was like ivory or marble divinely infused with the suppleness of living flesh, solid and real yet somehow bordering on the immaterial, pellucid and radiant and warm in every pore and cell.

This child lay gazing up at me, his lips parted in the hint of a laughing smile, his little arms stretched out upon the coverlet, his tiny hands open as if in a welcoming gesture.  His gown of white linen was unlaced at the throat, and where the garment stood open I saw the scar of deep wound just above the place of his heart.

Seeing that scar, I turned to the three ladies, my eyes filling with tears.  The dark one knew my thoughts.

“He is much changed since you last saw him,” she said in reply.  “And yet he is the same.  His promise, too, remains and has been kept, and your calling fulfilled.  For look!  Here are the two of you, met together against all hope in this place beyond the setting and the rising of the sun!  You have seen him with your own eyes!  Christmas morning has come in at last!”

At this I smiled, yet still I pointed persistently at the scar.  The lady nodded.

“Yes.  He has been wounded to the heart.  He has also suffered the loss of his eye.  Such is the price he paid for a drink from the well at the edge of the wood.  But mark this!  His loss has not become the cause of darkness, but rather a perpetual spring of near insufferable light.  And if you will accept it, this light is the same light that you and so many others have sought after and followed your whole lives long, whether knowingly or unknowingly.  It is the light by which you have made your way to this place.  That eye – or lack of an eye – is the star before the dawn.  It is the sun-gate at the edge of the sea through which you passed so recently and yet so many ages ago.”

She bent to caress the child’s forehead, then looked up at me and continued.

“That drink from the well, the cost of which was so great, has made him what you see him now to be.  He gave his eye and drank the draught that you and all these others might drink it too.  He drank it long before coming to your window and enticing you to come out.  Indeed, he took that cup before the foundations of this or any other world were laid.

“And now that you have seen and heard these things, there is one thing more you must know:  what you have lived, suffered, seen, and felt in following him to this place has been none of your own doing.  It is only the outbranching and effoliation of the root that was planted when he gave his eye and chose to take that drink.”

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LI

Holding me in his arms, the boy splashed forward a few steps, the cloak of heaven-blue trailing behind him through the rippling wavelets.  After handing me to the girl with the circlet of spring flowers in her golden hair, he knelt in the water and bowed his head before the three ladies.  In answer, the dark one stooped to kiss him.  But she of the auburn hair – the dove – raised his face to her own and spoke:

“What gift do you bring?”

Without hesitating, the boy stretched forth his hands.  In one he held the red clay lamp.  In the other was the basket of golden apples.  These the lady received from him with a gracious nod.  Then he got to his feet and, unfastening the shining brooch at his throat, took off the cloak of heaven-blue and held it out to her.  She smiled.

“Rich and precious gifts,” said she, laying the lamp and basket inside the cradle and draping the cloak over the canopy.  “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.  And all good gifts to the Giver at last.”

Then she turned and looked at me where I lay waiting in the girl’s arms.

“And you, my child,” she said.  “What gift do you bring?”

Though my peace had been so deep and my repose so complete, I was shaken to the core at the sound of her voice.  My thoughts and feelings fell into disarray, and I was stricken with the unbearable realization that, of all that unnumbered multitude, I alone had been left, the last and the least, with nothing to give.

I opened my mouth to give expression to my distress, but nothing came out.  This was no great wonder, of course, for I was well aware by now that I had been reduced at last to the condition of a true infant; that is to say, a non-speaker.  I had come to that place where one is left with only the truest means of communication – the eye and the cry – and I understood that words could no longer avail me.  Looking straight into the lady’s face, I let out a desperate wail, straining with all my might to tell her that I had nothing to offer, but that I wished to be given myself.

She silenced my cry with an upraised hand.  Beaming pleasure and approval at me out of her opal eyes, she nodded to the golden-haired girl, who immediately carried me to the cradle.  With a single sweeping motion she drew the curtain aside as the girl, still holding me close, knelt in the water beside the little bed.  Then she crooked a finger and beckoned me closer.

“Your wish is granted,” she said.  “Come and see.”

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