All these made a lament, with small sweet voices that followed the course of a thin and tinkling melody: they sang of how much better were the old times than the new and none could know more thoroughly than did Anavalt the reason of their grieving, but since they did not molest him he had no need to meddle with these women’s secrets any more. So he went on: and nothing as yet opposed bold Anavalt of Fomor; at most, a grasshopper started from the path, sometimes a tiny frog made way for him.
He came to a blue bull that lay in the road, blocking it.
§3
The tale tells that a blue bull lay in the road, blocking it. The tale narrates that this beast appeared more lusty and more terrible than other bulls, telling of how all his appurtenances were larger and seemed more prodigally ready to give life and death.
Courteous Anavalt cried out, “O Nandi, now be gracious, and permit me to pass unhindered toward the striped windmill.”
“To think,” replied the bull, “that you should mistake me for Nandi! No, tired man, the Bull of the Gods is white, and nothing of that serene color may ever come into these woods.”
And the bull nodded very gravely, shaking the blue curls that were between his cruel horns.
“Ah, then, sir,” Anavalt returned, with a little bow, “I must entreat your forgiveness for the not unnatural error into which I was betrayed by the majesty of your appearance.”
While Anavalt was speaking, he wondered why he should be at pains to humor an illusion so trivial as he knew this bull to be. For this of course was just the ruler of the Kittle cattle which everywhere feed upon the dewpools. The Queen of Elfhame, in that low estate to which the world’s redemption had brought her, could employ only the most inexpensive of retainers, for the Gods served her no longer.
“So you consider my appearance majestic! To think of that now!” observed the flattered bull; and he luxuriously exhaled blue flames. “Well, certainly you have a mighty civil way with you, to be coming from that overbearing world of souls. Still, my duty is, as they say, my duty; fine words are less filling than moonbeams: and, in short, I do not know of any sound reason why I should let you pass toward Queen Vae.”
Anavalt answered:
“I must go to your thin mistress because among the women yonder whose bodies were not denied to me there is one woman whom I cannot forget. We loved each other once; we had, as I recall that radiant time, a quaint and callow faith in our shared insanity. Then somehow I stopped caring for these things. I turned to matters of more sensible worth. She took no second lover. She lives alone. Her beauty and her quick laughter are put away, she is old, and the home of no man is glad because of her who should have been the tenderest of wives and the most fond of mothers. When I see her there is no hatred in the brown eyes which once were bright and roguish, but only forgiveness and a puzzled grieving. Now there is in my mind no reason why I should think about this woman differently from some dozens of other women who were maids when I first knew them, but there is in my mind an unreason that will not put away the memory of this woman’s notions about me.”
“Well,” said the bull, yawning, “for my part, I find one heifer as good as another; and I find, too, that in seeking Queen Vae one pretext is as good as another pretext, especially from the mouth of such a civil gentleman. So do you climb over my back, and go your way, to where there are no longer two sides to everything.”
Thus Anavalt passed the King of the Kittle cattle.
§4
Anavalt thus passed the King of the Kittle cattle, and the tale tells how Anavalt journeyed deeper and ever deeper into the Wood of Elfhame. No trumpets sounded before him as they sounded when the Anavalt who was a great lord went about the world where people have souls: and the wonders which Anavalt saw to this side and to that side did not disturb him, nor he them.
He came to a house of rough-hewn timber, where a black man, clothed in a goat-skin, barked like a dog and made old gestures. This, as Anavalt knew, was the Rago: within the house sat cross-legged, at that very moment, the Forest-Mother, whose living is innocent of every normal vice, and whose food is the red she-goat and men. Kuri and Uwardowa and Kogi also were there. Yet upon the farther side of the home of perversity was to be seen a rusty nail in the pathway, and five bits of broken glass, prosaic relics which seemed to show that men had passed this place.
So Anavalt made no reply to the obscene enticements of the Rago. Anavalt went sturdily on, to a tree which in the stead of leaves was overgrown with human hands: these hands had no longer any warmth in them as they caught at and tentatively figured Anavalt, and by and by released him.
Now the path descended, among undergrowth that bore small purple flowers with five petals. Anavalt came here upon wolves which went along with him a little way. Running they could not be seen, but as each wolf leaped in his running his gray body would show momentarily among the green bushes that instantly swallowed it: and these wolves cried hoarsely,—
“Janicot is dead!”
But for none of these things did Anavalt care any longer, and none of the peculiarities of Elfhame stayed him, until his path had led farther downward, and the roadway had become dark and moist. Here were sentinels with draggled yellow plumes, a pair of sentinels at whom Anavalt looked only once: then with averted head he passed them, in what could not seem a merry place to Anavalt, for in the world where people have souls he was used to mirth and to soft ease and to all such delights as men clutch desperately in the shadow of death’s clutching hand.
In this place Anavalt found also a naked boy.
§5
In this place Anavalt found, as the tale tells, a naked boy whose body was horrible with leprosy: this malady had eaten away his fingers, so that they could retain nothing, but his face was not much changed.
The leper stood knee-deep in a pile of ashes: and he demanded what Anavalt was called nowadays.
When courteous Anavalt had answered, the leper said then:
“You are not rightly called Anavalt. But my name is still Owner-of-the-World.”
Says Anavalt, very sadly, “Even though you bar my way, ruined boy, I must go forward to the windmill of the Elle Maid.”
Then the leper asked:
“And for what reason must you be creeping to this last woman? For she will be the last,—as I forewarn you, tired man, who still pretend to be Anavalt,—she will be the last of all of them and of how many!”
Anavalt answered:
“I must go to this last love because of my first love. Once I lay under her girdle, I was a part of the young body of my first love. She bore me to her anguish, even then to her anguish. I cannot forget the love that was between us. But I outgrew my childhood and all childishness: I became, they say, the chief of Manuel’s barons: and my living has got me fine food and garments and tall servants and two castles and a known name, and all which any reasonable mother could hope for her son. Yet I cannot forget the love that was between us, nor our shared faith in what was to be! To-day I visit this ancient woman now and then, and we make friendly talk together about everything except my wife, and our lips touch, and I go away. That is all. And it seems strange that I was once a part of this woman,—I who have never won to nor desired real intimacy with anyone,—and it seems strange to hear people applauding my wisdom and high deeds of statecraft, and in all matters acclaiming the success of Anavalt. I think that this old woman also finds it strange. I do not know, for we can understand each other no longer. I only know that, viewing me, there is in this old woman’s filmed eyes a sort of fondness, even now, and a puzzled grieving. I only know that her eyes also I wish never to see any more.”