The Uncrowned King Part 1

The Uncrowned King.

by Harold Bell Wright.

THE PILGRIM AND HIS PILGRIMAGE

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Pilgrim and His Pilgrimage (see king002.png)]

For many, many, weary months the Pilgrim journeyed in the wide and pathless Desert of Facts. So many indeed were the months that the wayworn Pilgrim, himself, came at last to forget their number.

And always, for the Pilgrim, the sky by day was a sky of bra.s.s, softened not by so much as a wreath of cloud mist. Always, for him, the hot air was stirred not by so much as the lift of a wild bird's wing. Never, for him, was the awful stillness of the night broken by voice of his kind, by foot-fall of beast, or by rustle of creeping thing. For the toiling Pilgrim in the vast and pathless Desert of Facts there was no kindly face, no friendly fire. Only the stars were many--many and very near.

Day after day, as the Pilgrim labored onward, through the torturing heat, under the sky of bra.s.s, he saw on either hand lakes of living waters and groves of many palms. And the waters called him to their healing coolness: the palms beckoned him to their restful shade and shelter. Night after night, in the dreadful solitude, frightful Shapes came on silent feet out of the silent darkness to stare at him with doubtful, questioning, threatening eyes; drawing back at last, if he stood still, as silently as they had come, or, if he advanced, vanis.h.i.+ng quickly, only to reappear as silently in another place.

But the Pilgrim knew that the enchanting scenes that lured him by day were but pictures in the heated air. He knew that the fearful Shapes that haunted him by night were but creatures of his own overwrought fancy. And so he journeyed on and ever on, in the staggering heat, under the sky of bra.s.s, in the awful stillness of the night: on and ever on, through the wide and pathless waste, until he came at last to the Outer-Edge-Of-Things--came to the place that is between the Desert of Facts and the Beautiful Sea, even as it is written in the Law of the Pilgrimage.

The tired feet of the Traveler left now the rough, hot floor of the desert for a soft, cool carpet of velvet gra.s.s all inwrought with blossoms that filled the air with fragrance. Over his head, tall trees gently shook their glistening, shadowy leaves, while sweet voiced birds of rare and wondrous plumage flitted from bough to bough. Across a sky of deepest blue, fleets of fairy cloud s.h.i.+ps, light as feathery down, floated--floated--drifting lazily, as though, piloted only by the wind, their pilot slept. All about him, as he walked, mult.i.tudes of sunlight and shadow fairies danced gaily hand in hand. And over the s.h.i.+mmering surface of the Sea a thousand thousand fairy waves ran joyously, one after the other, from the sky line to the pebbly beach, making liquid music clearer and softer than the softest of clear toned bells.

And there it was, in that wondrously beautiful place, the Outer-Edge-Of-Things, that the Pilgrim found, fas.h.i.+oned of sheerest white, with lofty dome, towering spires, and piercing minarets lifting out of the living green, the Temple of Truth.

[Ill.u.s.tration: (see king003.png)]

In reverent awe the Pilgrim stood before the sacred object of his Pilgrimage.

At last, with earnest step, the wors.h.i.+per approached the holy edifice.

But when he would have pa.s.sed through the high arched door, his way was barred by one whose garments were white even as the whiteness of the Temple, whose eyes were clear even as the skies, and whose face shone even as the s.h.i.+ning Beautiful Sea.

The Pilgrim, hesitating, spoke: "You are?"

The other answered in a voice that was even as the soft wind that stirred the leaves of the forest: "I am Thyself."

Then the Pilgrim--"And your office?"

"I am the appointed Keeper of the Temple of Truth; save by my permission none may enter here."

Cried the Pilgrim eagerly: "But I? I may enter? Surely I have fulfilled The Law! Surely I have paid The Price!"

"What law have you fulfilled? What price have you paid?" gently asked he in the garments of white.

Proudly now the other answered: "I have accomplished alone the long journey through the Desert of Facts. Alone I have endured the days under the sky of bra.s.s; alone I have borne the awful solitude of the nights. I was not drawn aside by the lovely scenes that tempted me. I was not turned back by the dreadful Shapes that threatened me. And so I have attained the Outer-Edge-Of-Things."

"You have indeed fulfilled The Law," said he of the s.h.i.+ning face. "And The Price?"

The Pilgrim answered sadly: "I left behind all things dearest to the heart of man--Wealth of Traditions inherited from the Long Ago, Holy Prejudices painfully gathered through the ages of the past, Sacred Opinions, Customs, Favors and Honors of the World that is, in the times that are."

"You have indeed paid The Price," said the soft voice of the other, "but still, still there is one thing more."

"And the one thing more?" asked the Pilgrim, "I knew not that there could be one thing more."

The Keeper of the Temple was silent for a little, then said very gently: "Is there nothing, O Hadji, that you would ask Thyself?"

Then all at once the Pilgrim understood. Said he slowly: "There is still one thing more. Tell me, tell me--Why? Why The Law of the Pilgrimage?

Why the journey so long? Why the way so hard? Why is the Temple of Truth here on the Outer-Edge-Of-Things?"

And Thyself answered clearly: "He who lives always within Things can never wors.h.i.+p in Truth. Eyes blinded by the fog of Things cannot see Truth. Ears deafened by the din of Things cannot hear Truth. Brains bewildered by the whirl of Things cannot think Truth. Hearts deadened by the weight of Things cannot feel Truth. Throats choked by the dust of Things cannot speak Truth. Therefore, O Hadji, is the Temple of Truth here on the Outer-Edge-Of-Things; therefore is The Law of the Pilgrimage."

"And The Price?" asked the Pilgrim; "It was so great a price. Why?"

Thyself answered: "Found you no bones in the Desert? Found you no graves by the way?"

The other replied: "I saw the Desert white with bones--I found the way set among many graves."

"And the hands of the dead?"--asked Thyself, in that voice so like the wind that stirred the leaves of the forest--"And the hands of the dead?"

And the Pilgrim answered now with understanding: "The hands of the dead held fast to their treasures--held fast to their Wealth of Traditions, to their Holy Prejudices, to the Sacred Opinions, Customs, Favors and Honors of Men."

Then Thyself, the appointed Keeper of the Temple of Truth, went quietly aside from the path. With slow and reverent step, with bowed uncovered head, the Pilgrim crossed the threshold and through the high arched doorway entered the sacred corridors.

But within the Temple, before approaching the altar with his offering, the Pilgrim was constrained to retire to The Quiet Room, there to spend the hours until a new day in prayerful meditation. It was there that this Tale of The Uncrowned King came to him--came to him at the end of his long pilgrimage across the Desert of Facts--came to him after he had paid The Price, after he had fulfilled The Law, after he had asked of Thyself, the Keeper of the Temple, "Why?"

There, in The Quiet Room in the Temple of Truth on the Outer-Edge-Of-Things, the Voices to the Pilgrim told this Tale of The Uncrowned King.

AND THE FIRST VOICE WAS THE VOICE OF THE WAVES

[Ill.u.s.tration: And the First Voice was the Voice of the Waves (see king004.png)]

It was nearing the fall of day when first the Pilgrim laid himself to meditate upon his couch in The Quiet Room.

Without the Temple, the tall trees rustled softly their glossy leaves and over the flower-figured carpet of green the sunlight and shadow fairies danced along the lanes of gold. High in the blue above, the fairy cloud-fleets were drifting--drifting--idly floating. Over the Beautiful Sea, the glad wave fairies ran one after the other from beyond the far horizon to the sandy sh.o.r.e.

In The Quiet Room where the Pilgrim lay, it was very, very, still. Only the liquid music of the waves came through the open window--came to the Pilgrim clearer and sweeter than the sweetest notes from clear toned bells.

And after a little there was in the music of the waves a Voice.

Said the Voice: "To thee, O Hadji, I come from the Beautiful Sea; the interminable, unfathomable sea, that begins at the Outer-Edge-Of-Things and stretches away into Neverness. I speak from out the Deeps Beneath. I tell of the Great That Is. I am a Voice of Life, O Hadji, and mine it is to begin for you The Tale of The Uncrowned King."

And this is the beginning of the Tale that the Voice of the Waves began.

Very great and very wonderful, O Hadji, is the Land of Allthetime. Very great and very wonderful is the Royal City Daybyday. Beautiful in Allthetime are the lakes and rivers, the mountains, plains and streams.

Beautiful in Daybyday are the groves and gardens, the drives and parks, the harbors and ca.n.a.ls. Countless, in this Royal City, are the palaces.

Without number are the people--without number and of many races, languages, and names.

But amid the countless palaces in this marvelous city Daybyday, there is one Temple only--only one. For the numberless people of the many races, languages, and names, there is but one G.o.d--only one. About this Royal City there is no Wall. For the King of Allthetime, who dwells in Daybyday, there is no Crown.