air, with two dim shining figures seated on
it—had whizzed over their heads. Some girls who went out one dawn to gather
edible fungi, arrived at a break in the trees and saw suddenly, as if it broke
through the sky with the sun, a high magnificent house of white marble and
flashing gold. But even as they stood astonished, the mansion disappeared, and
all they could make out was a little old ruined cottage on a slope half a mile
away.
Supposedly then
sometimes a cottage, sometimes a mansion, the dwelling place of Oloru and
Sovaz. On cold nights, a fire on a rough hearth with a copper pot suspended
over it, crooked shutters fastened closed, a straw pallet under fleeces—or a
towering hearth with stone pillars, scented braziers and swinging lamps, magic
food conjured to an inlaid table, a bed five yards across and canopied with
silver tissue. And in summer, a herb garden with wild roses, a park with
fountains springing at the skies.
One afternoon, late in
the day, when the sun had entered the western quarter and the air was plum
yellow, a traveler came up through the woods and paused to look at the cottage
on the slope. The trees fell away around the incline, so the old tipsy cottage
roof showed plainly. Still, something in the yellow air deceived, for there
would appear to be a second outline behind the first, several roofs where there
was one, each taller, and all glittering.
Now seldom did travelers
take this track, since it lay in the wrong direction for the nearest towns of
the region. But those who might have ventured here, seeing the mirage, would
have rubbed their eyes, sworn, and hurried off. This traveler, seeing it,
laughed.
Sounds carried in those
parts.
Far up in an arbor of
ivory, on a flat roof girded by golden railings, a young man and a young woman
raised their blond and sable heads.
“What strange bird is
that?”
“Not a bird,” said
Oloru, “an orange beetle, which is crawling up from the trees toward the
house.”
Sovaz gazed from her roof’s pinnacle. She frowned.
Presently she descended three marble stairways in her silks and came to open a
warped wooden door in a home-spun dress.
There on the sunken
doorstep sat a man. He was clad in a beggar’s garment of dull reddish orange,
much stained and rent, a fold of which he had drawn over his bowed head. Beside
him lay a beggar’s bowl, curiously gilded, and in his hand he held a staff of
greatly rotted wood.
Sovaz did not speak, she
waited. After a moment the man murmured, “Alms, kindness, succor.” His voice
was beautiful, yet unknown. Sovaz said nothing, though she stood as still as
the hidden marble. “Be charitable to me,” said the beggar. “Who knows but one
day your lot may be mine and you too must go entreating pity through the world.
Once I was a king. Now regard me. Alms, succor, kindness.” And then, very low,
he laughed again his startling laugh, which was like the cry of some wild bird.
“Who, after all,” said he, “can escape cruel fate?”
Then Sovaz grimaced—had
she been a cat, you would have said she laid flat her ears and hissed at him.
She stood aside and flung open the wooden door, which almost fell off at the
impact, and which altered to a silver door set with golden images.
“Poor destitute,” said
Sovaz mockingly, “enter my modest abode.”
Then the man got up and passed into the house.
It was all grandeur
again, with glassy floors, and pierced by rays of light daggering through it
from the large windows. On a stair of marble sat Oloru, idly striking chords
on a lyre. When he had regarded the traveling beggar, these chords came very
sour. Oloru said, “Can one go nowhere to evade one’s wretched relations?”
At this the visitor
raised his head and the fold of cloth fell back from it. He was altogether a
strange sight. Tanned, as if in a vat, from much journeying in various
weathers, his head was like a bronze icon, for it was shaved of all hair. The
bizarre robe he wore now seemed the rich
it—had whizzed over their heads. Some girls who went out one dawn to gather
edible fungi, arrived at a break in the trees and saw suddenly, as if it broke
through the sky with the sun, a high magnificent house of white marble and
flashing gold. But even as they stood astonished, the mansion disappeared, and
all they could make out was a little old ruined cottage on a slope half a mile
away.
Supposedly then
sometimes a cottage, sometimes a mansion, the dwelling place of Oloru and
Sovaz. On cold nights, a fire on a rough hearth with a copper pot suspended
over it, crooked shutters fastened closed, a straw pallet under fleeces—or a
towering hearth with stone pillars, scented braziers and swinging lamps, magic
food conjured to an inlaid table, a bed five yards across and canopied with
silver tissue. And in summer, a herb garden with wild roses, a park with
fountains springing at the skies.
One afternoon, late in
the day, when the sun had entered the western quarter and the air was plum
yellow, a traveler came up through the woods and paused to look at the cottage
on the slope. The trees fell away around the incline, so the old tipsy cottage
roof showed plainly. Still, something in the yellow air deceived, for there
would appear to be a second outline behind the first, several roofs where there
was one, each taller, and all glittering.
Now seldom did travelers
take this track, since it lay in the wrong direction for the nearest towns of
the region. But those who might have ventured here, seeing the mirage, would
have rubbed their eyes, sworn, and hurried off. This traveler, seeing it,
laughed.
Sounds carried in those
parts.
Far up in an arbor of
ivory, on a flat roof girded by golden railings, a young man and a young woman
raised their blond and sable heads.
“What strange bird is
that?”
“Not a bird,” said
Oloru, “an orange beetle, which is crawling up from the trees toward the
house.”
Sovaz gazed from her roof’s pinnacle. She frowned.
Presently she descended three marble stairways in her silks and came to open a
warped wooden door in a home-spun dress.
There on the sunken
doorstep sat a man. He was clad in a beggar’s garment of dull reddish orange,
much stained and rent, a fold of which he had drawn over his bowed head. Beside
him lay a beggar’s bowl, curiously gilded, and in his hand he held a staff of
greatly rotted wood.
Sovaz did not speak, she
waited. After a moment the man murmured, “Alms, kindness, succor.” His voice
was beautiful, yet unknown. Sovaz said nothing, though she stood as still as
the hidden marble. “Be charitable to me,” said the beggar. “Who knows but one
day your lot may be mine and you too must go entreating pity through the world.
Once I was a king. Now regard me. Alms, succor, kindness.” And then, very low,
he laughed again his startling laugh, which was like the cry of some wild bird.
“Who, after all,” said he, “can escape cruel fate?”
Then Sovaz grimaced—had
she been a cat, you would have said she laid flat her ears and hissed at him.
She stood aside and flung open the wooden door, which almost fell off at the
impact, and which altered to a silver door set with golden images.
“Poor destitute,” said
Sovaz mockingly, “enter my modest abode.”
Then the man got up and passed into the house.
It was all grandeur
again, with glassy floors, and pierced by rays of light daggering through it
from the large windows. On a stair of marble sat Oloru, idly striking chords
on a lyre. When he had regarded the traveling beggar, these chords came very
sour. Oloru said, “Can one go nowhere to evade one’s wretched relations?”
At this the visitor
raised his head and the fold of cloth fell back from it. He was altogether a
strange sight. Tanned, as if in a vat, from much journeying in various
weathers, his head was like a bronze icon, for it was shaved of all hair. The
bizarre robe he wore now seemed the rich
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