The Quest

In the distance the light was shining – a grey twilight, pale as the misty morning. The day shone in, making the wet stones glimmer with a feeble sheen. A tumultuous noise now penetrated the rocky passage, and the screaming and bellowing of the wind-storm greeted the ear.

Soon they were standing outside, in sombre daylight. There was nothing to be seen save a desolate heap of mighty rocks, grizzly and water-stained. No plant – not a blade of grass – was growing in its midst.

Just before them an angry sea was roaring and raving, casting great breakers upon the strand. Once in a while Johannes saw the white foam tossing high. Great, quivering flakes were torn away by the storm, and driven from rock to rock.

Iron-grey clouds, in ragged patches, were chasing along the heavens, transforming themselves as they sped. They scudded close to the boiling sea, and the white foam torn from the mighty breakers seemed almost to touch them. The earth trembled as the waves broke on the rocks, and the wind howled and shrieked and whistled amid the uproar, like the baying of a dog at the moon, or the yell of a man in desperation.

Wherever the dark clouds were torn apart an alarmingly livid night sky was exposed.

Oppressed by the high wind, blinded by the spray, Johannes sought shelter with Wistik in the lee of a rock, and looked away, over the open country.

It appeared to be evening. Over the sea, but at the extreme left, where Johannes had never seen it, the sunlight was visible. For one instant the face of the sun itself could be seen – sad, and red as blood – not far from the horizon. Beneath it, like pillars of glowing brass, the rays of light streamed down to rest upon the sea.

And now and then, on the other side, high up in the ashen sky, appeared the pale face of the moon – deathly pale, hopelessly sad, motionless and resigned – in the midst of the furious troop of clouds.

Johannes looked at his friend in indescribable anguish.

"Wistik, what is this? Where are we? What is happening? —Wistik!"

But Wistik shook his head, lifted up his swollen eyes toward the sky, and, in mute anguish, clenched his fists.

Above the roar of wind and sea could still be heard the deep-toned sound, like the report of cannon or the booming of bells. Johannes looked around. Behind him rose the mountains – black and menacing – their proud, heaven-high heads confronting the rushing swirl of clouds that were piled up, miles high, into a rounded black mass. At times it lightened vividly and then followed a frightful peal of thunder. And when one of the highest peaks was freed from its mantle of mists, Johannes saw that it was afire with a steady, orange-colored glow which grew ever fiercer and whiter.

The tolling of bells came from every direction, as if thousands on thousands of cathedral bells were ringing in unison.

Then Wistik and Johannes took their way inland, clambering over the jagged rocks, clinging to each other in the wild wind. The sea thundered still louder, and the wind whistled as if in utter frenzy – like an imprisoned maniac tugging at his bars.

"It is no use," wailed Wistik. "It is no use. He is dead, dead, dead!"

Then Johannes heard the winds speaking as he had formerly heard the flowers and animals talk.

"He shall live!" shrieked the Wind; "I will not let him die!"

And the Sea spoke: "Them that menace him shall I destroy – his enemies devour. The hills shall I grind to powder, and all animals o'erwhelm."

Then spoke the Mountain: "It is too late. The time is fulfilled. He is dead."

Now Johannes knew what it was the bells were sounding. They cried through all the earth, and the darkened heavens:

"Pan is dead! Pan is dead!"

And the pale Moon spoke softly and plaintively:

"Alas! poor earth! Where now is thy beauty? Now shall we weep – weep – weep!"

Finally, the Sun also spoke: "The Eternal changes not. A new day has come. Be resigned."

And all at once it grew still – perfectly still. The wind went suddenly down. The air was so motionless that the iridescent foam-bubbles floated hither and thither as if uncertain where to alight.

A silence, full of dread, oppressed the whole dreary land.

The waste of waters only, could not so suddenly subside, and still pounded in heavy rollers upon the shore.

But it also grew still and calm – so calm that the sun and the moon were reflected in it, as perfectly as in a mirror.

The thunder was silenced about the volcano, and everything was waiting. But the bells pealed on, loud and clear:

"Pan is dead! Pan is dead!"

And now the clouds formed a dark, fleecy layer above the mountains – soft and black, like mourning crepe. From it there fell perpendicularly a fine rain, as if the heavens were shedding silent tears.

The air was clearer above the sea, and moon and evening star stood bright against a pale, greenish sky. Glowing in a cloudless space, the red sun was nearing the horizon. When Johannes turned away and looked toward the mountains, now veiled in leaden mists, a marvelous double rainbow, with its brilliant colors, was spanning the ashen land.

Out of a deep valley that cleft the mountains like the gash of a sword, and upon whose sides Johannes thought to have seen dark forests, approached a long, slow-moving procession.

Strange, shadowy figures like large night-moths hovered and floated before it, and flew silently like phantoms beside it.

Then came gigantic animals with heavy, cautious tread – elephants with swaying trunks and shuffling hide, their bony heads rolling up and down; rhinoceri, with heads held low, and glittering, ill-natured eyes; snuffling, snorting hippopotami, with their watery, cruel glances; indolent, sullen monsters with flabby-fleshed bodies supported by slim little legs; serpents, large and small, gliding and zig-zagging over the ground like an oncoming flood; herds of deer and antelopes and gazelles – all of them distressed and frightened, and jostling one another; troops of buffaloes and cattle, pushing and thrusting; lions and tigers, now creeping stealthily, then bounding lightly up over the turbulent throng, as fishes, chased from below, spring out of the undulating water; and round about the procession, thousands of birds – some of them with slow, heavy wing-strokes – alighting at times upon the rocks by the wayside; others, incessantly on the wing, circling and swaying, back and forth and up and down; finally, myriads of insects – bees and beetles, flies and moths – like great clouds, grey and white and varicolored, all in ceaseless motion.

And every creature in the throng which could make a sound made lamentation after its own fashion. The loudest was the worried, smothered lowing of the cattle, the howling and barking of the wolves and hyenas, and the shrill, quivering "oolooloo" of the owls.

The whole was one volume of voiced sorrow – an overwhelming cry of woe and lamentation, rising above a continual, sombre humming; and buzzing.

"This is only the vanguard," said Wistik, whose despair had calmed a little at the sight of this lively spectacle. "These are only the animals yet. Now the animal-spirits are coming."

Then, in a great open space respectfully avoided by all the animals, came a group of wonderful figures. All had the shapes of animals, only they were larger and more perfectly formed. They seemed also to be much more proud and sagacious, and they moved not by means of feet and wings, but floated like shadows, while their eyes and heads seemed to emit rays of light, like the sea on a dark night.

"Come up nearer," said Wistik. "They know us."

And it really seemed to Johannes as if the ghosts of the animals greeted them, sadly and solemnly; but only those of the animals known to him in his native land. And what most impressed him was that the largest and most beautiful were not those esteemed most highly by human beings.

"Oh, look! Wistik, are those the butterfly-spirits? How big and handsome they are!"

They were splendid creatures – large as a house – with radiant eyes, and their bodies and wings were clearly marked in brilliant colors. But the wings of all of them were drooping as though with weariness, and they looked at Johannes seriously, silently.

"Are there plant-spirits, too, Wistik?"

"Oh, yes, Johannes, but they are very large and vague and elusive. Look! There they come – floating along."

And Wistik pointed out to him the hurrying, hazy figures that Johannes had first seen in front of the procession.

"Now he is coming! Now he is coming! Oh! Oh! Oh!" wailed Wistik, taking off his cap and beginning to cry again.

Surrounded by throngs of weeping nymphs who were singing a soft and sorrowful dirge – their arms intertwined about one anothers' shoulders – their faded wreaths and long hair dripping with the rain – came the great bier of rude boughs whereon lay Father Pan, hidden beneath ivy and poppies and violets. He was borne by young, brawny-muscled fauns, whose ruddy faces, bowed at their task, were distorted with suppressed sobs. In the rear was a throng of grave centaurs, shuffling mutely along, their heads upon their chests, now and then striking their trunks and flanks with their rough fists, making them sound like drums.

Curled up, as if he intended to stay there, a little squirrel was lying on the hairy breast of Pan. A robin redbreast sat beside his ear, mournfully and patiently coaxing, coaxing incessantly, in the vague hope that he might still hear. But the broad, good-natured face with its kindly smile never stirred.

When Johannes saw that, and recognized his good Father Pan, he burst into tears which he made no effort to restrain.