Part 8
Malchus took up the spade and, going into the cell, began to shovel the sand from the oratory. It was hard work for a body weakened by long fasting, and as he labored the sweat ran down his body and fell from his face in drops into the sand. He labored all morning and on, with flagging strength, into the afternoon; but before he had half cleared the chamber he was breathless and exhausted. Meanwhile Serapion had been scooping away the sand outside the cell with his hands and had brought to light some of the stones of the ruined wall and also a wooden door and a great earthenware trough. They rested for a while in the shadow of the cell and ate and drank a little, "for," Serapion said, "when the body labors for the soul it is worthy of its hire. To-morrow," he continued, "you must pile these loose stones into a heap ready to hand for rebuilding, for if you do not the sand will soon bury them again. But, as you see, we have found none of the old roofing. The thatch has long since been scattered by the winds and who knows what has happened to the fallen beams. But two miles westward from here there is a grove. It is the place of which I told you, where there is a spring at which I fill my water skin. There you can cut some new beams for your roof and gather reeds or grass for the thatch. There, too, you will find fallen palm leaves for your weaving. Take up the ax and we will set out now. There I shall leave you, for I must go back to my cell. There is no wind, and will not be to-day or to-night, so you will easily find your way back here by following our footprints. But first let us move the loaves and water skin into the oratory and set up the door to close the entrance."
When this had been done, Malchus and Serapion set out slowly through the burning sand.... Malchus stood alone under tall palm trees whose fans wove a shady roof overhead. There were other trees, too, and parched herbage and spiny thickets. The ground was strewn with fallen palm leaves and here and there a fallen tree or a broken branch. The pool of the water spring was parched dry; withered leaves stuck like scabs to its white stones. Not a breath stirred. A silence more awful than the open silence of the desert held the place under a spell. Malchus felt himself crushed by the weight of its solitude. Serapion had just left him, carrying with him a great bunch of dry palm leaves which he had collected for his weaving, and Malchus, standing there alone, felt that there was no longer any reason for living. For some minutes he stood immovable, lost in a mournful revery; then with a great effort he flung off his oppression as if it had been a physical burden and took up the ax.
He chose a fallen bough of suitable thickness and began to lop off the twigs and then to hack it into equal lengths. The wood was hard and the loud ring of the ax broke profanely on the silence. He cut three roof timbers; it was the most he could carry; and he realized for the first time how many journeys to the grove he would have to make before he had collected enough wood to cover his roof. Now he hoisted the three timbers on to his shoulders, and, straightening his back, began to move away. Burdened as he was, his feet plowed deeply into the loose sand and several times he had to throw down the timbers to ease his bruised shoulders.
By the time he had come within the sight of his cell the light was reddening toward sunset. The scene before him reminded him of that other sunset when Serapion had gone away to fill the water skin. The same process would repeat itself now--the brief glaring holocaust of earth and heaven, and then the ashen death which so quickly followed it, and Malchus remembered the grim wraith which had taken substance before his eyes out of the sand. But Serapion had warned him not to allow his mind to indulge in idle imaginings, and, having thrown down his burden, he began to collect together some of the scattered stones of the ruin into an orderly pile. But before he could do much the light faded and he lifted away the door from the entrance of the oratory, went in, and, having set up the door again behind him, began to pray. It had been a strenuous day, and body and soul thrilled with a sense of accomplishment. He prayed easily and joyfully, asking for strength and blessing in the life that lay before him.
As the rolling tracts of desert stretched every way from the small point of earth which was his cell, so, it seemed to Malchus, his future life stretched forward into the years, clear and smooth from the moment in which he stood. He confronted it calmly, and a sense of greatness--the greatness of time and of space and the great spaces of the spirit before which the other greatnesses are as nothing--filled his soul. He rose refreshed from his prayer, and having eaten a loaf he lay down to sleep, for Serapion had warned him that during the period in which he labored daily at the rebuilding of his cell it would be necessary for him to take more food and sleep than at other times.
Throughout all that time Malchus lived contented, his energy divided between prayer and hard bodily labor. His body was healthy with the daily toil and his mind, sufficiently occupied by the work, kept clean and limpid; the turbid sediment of past miseries, vain regrets, and tormenting desires, had sunk away into unconsciousness. The cell growing daily before his eyes, the difficulties of inexperience confronted and solved, the expeditions to the grove for wood and later for stones--for he used up all the stones he could find near the cell and still needed more--kept his life free from monotony, and it was not until, after many weeks, the work was nearing completion that he remembered that the life he was living was not the hermit's life, but only the preparation for it. Then he began to look forward with something like fear to the day when all would be finished, for then there would again be a great emptiness in his life. Then he would stand face to face with himself once more and it would need all his strength to live worthily in the sight of God. Then would come an end, or almost an end, to his journeys to the grove and his life outside his cell, for Serapion had told him that the hermit must never leave his cell except in case of necessity. Malchus knew that the life he was leading at present was not in itself profitable, for though it protected him from evil, it did not enable him to advance in spiritual excellence. It was a life apart from good or evil, like the life of an animal: and, thinking how calm and even pleasant it had become to him, he remembered how Serapion had said that it was not well, except for a very little while, for the soul to be at rest.
That night he awoke in sudden fear with the sense that evil was close to him, and next morning he saw that the sand round about his cell was pitted by many footprints. They were the footprints of cloven-footed creatures. One of them, larger it seemed than the rest, had entered the doorless outer chamber and had stood at the very door of the oratory, and Malchus, knowing that the powers of evil were drawing closer about him, thenceforward forced himself to work and pray more strenuously and to eat and sleep less.
[Illustration: woodcut]
[Illustration: woodcut]
_Chapter Ten_
And with the end of the labor of building came the end of contentment; for now all the easy purposes had gone out of his life and there remained only the high purpose of the hermit, too remote and difficult, it seemed, except for the rare moments of ecstasy. For some time he lived sunk in a profound depression. His body, deprived of healthy labor, rose up and tormented him. He prayed for long hours both day and night, but no comfort came to him from his prayers and it seemed to him that time had swept onward and left him stagnating, body and soul, in a shallow pool. His cell became hateful to him, and the weaving with which he tried to combat idleness was now a joyless drudgery. He felt nothing of that spiritual zeal which he had hoped would come to him when he had finally laid aside all worldly cares. Far from it. His life grew torpid and inert, lower than the life of the lowest beasts. His soul was an empty husk, his body vile, and his mind, emptied of all living occupation, began more and more to lose itself in the past. Old memories crowded about him and imprisoned him in their ghostly being and it was only by a fierce and exhausting watchfulness that he was able to drive them off. But they took revenge upon him by returning to him in his sleep, and he would wake horror-stricken from long rambling dreams of feasts and, worse, of sudden meetings with Helena or one of his earlier loves. One night Helena stood close beside him and touched him, sending a shudder through his flesh, half rapture and half terror, and he awoke suddenly with the sense of her penetrating every bone in his body. His cell was dark and cold as a tomb; a terrible silence held the desert and he felt the invisible presence of evil waiting breathless to fasten upon him. He sprang up and, beating his breast with his clenched fists, he prayed with a loud voice to shut out the unendurable silence. Could it be that in the sight of God a man was responsible even for his dreams? The violence of his nature was roused once again. By a great effort he threw off the deadly torpor which oppressed him and resolved to submit himself to a still more rigorous rule of life. Thereafter he ate only once in two days and slept for three hours only in forty-eight. He left his cell only once, at dawn, for his need, and when he did so he covered his face with his cloak for fear that the beauty of the world should weaken his spirit; and, that no opening should be left through which idle thoughts and waking dreams could assail him, he set himself an unalterable routine of recitation, prayer, meditation, and manual labor.
So he lived for many weeks; but in vain. For even when he had so schooled his body that his mouth and belly had almost ceased to clamor for water and food, his mind tormented him by urging him continually to go out from his cell, and whenever he ate or drank, the evil spirit of unrest tempted him, whispering, "Sip a little more water and eat another small crust of bread, for when these are finished it will be necessary for you to go out and seek more." But one morning, when only three more loaves remained, he opened the door of his cell and found a sackful of loaves leaning against it; and he took in the loaves, understanding that they had been sent for a sign that he must not leave his cell. But next day, when he was weaving, he finished the last of the palm leaves, and the spirit of unrest said, "Now at least you must go out, for unless you collect more leaves you will be without work for your hands." But Malchus hardened his resolve and, taking the largest mat he had woven, he picked it to pieces and so provided himself with enough material for many days' work. But soon he had finished the last drop of his supply of water and the spirit of unrest within him was glad, because now he would have to go to the grove to draw water, since man cannot live for long without water. But Malchus was strict with himself and determined that he would wait for a whole day without water, so that he might discover beyond doubt if it was God's will that he should go out of his cell. And throughout the next day no water came; his lips and tongue were parched and even the little water in the trough had been sucked up by the heat, so that he could not soak the leaf strips for his weaving. Then joy sprang into his heart and he took down the water skin and went out into the sunlight.
The day was still mild and it was a relief to move his cramped limbs and to gaze once again into the pure, unconfined freedom of the desert. The air was clean and cool against his skin and he recalled that moment in the green hollow when he had lowered himself slowly and rapturously into the pool. His progress was slow because of the deep, powdery sand and the weakness of his body, but it had now become natural to him that the ground on which he walked should always be sand, and he plodded on undistressed till the delightful green of the grove came in sight, and then took him to its shadowy heart. The spring, as he had expected, was flowing again. Where the white, parched stones had been, a crystal basin stood brimful, and the spell of the water had called up a fresh leafy fringe about it with flowers springing up among the green. Sprays of silver bubbles twirled up through the dark, clear, solid water. It was as if the spirit of peace and coolness had taken form in a crystal. Malchus sat down by the spring and wept. He made no attempt to restrain his tears, but allowed them to flow on, finding a relief in them as though all the hard and stubborn things in his heart were melting away. After he had sat there for a long time he rose and filled the water skin and, laying it down by the spring, he began to collect the fallen palm leaves. And as he roved from palm tree to palm tree with his eyes continually on the ground, the pleasure-lover in him kept asking him why he should not always live in this grove and why Serapion should not live there, too. What had they gained by living solitary in the barren desert that they could not have gained by living here? Then the fanatic in him showed him to himself as the great saint depending on no earthly support whether of human love, earthly beauty or pleasant food and drink; and, thinking of the weeks during which he had lived in solitude and of the exiguous diet he had endured, he grew reconciled to his arid life, for was he not already of that company of chosen souls whose lives are beautiful in the sight of God?
He had collected enough palm leaves, and now he raised his eyes from the ground. He had wandered a long way from the spring, and, hoisting the bunch of leaves on his shoulder, he turned and began to make his way back to it, for there he had left the water skin. When he reached the spring he was astonished to see a man sitting beside it. His hair was grizzled; he was almost an old man. Two newly skinned pelts lay on the ground beside him. He had laid them with the inward sides uppermost to dry in the sun. The livid surfaces shone like polished granite and flies buzzed loudly about them.
"Where do you come from?" Malchus asked him, "and how long have you been in the desert?"
"I am a hunter, as you see," the stranger replied, "and I have been in this country for eleven months. During all that time you are the first man I have seen."
The two, unwilling to part in that inhuman solitude, stayed long in talking, their eyes scanning each other as if in wonder at the sight of a human creature. At length, with a sigh Malchus took up his water skin and, full of sadness and discouragement, journeyed toward his cell. When his knees began to fail under him and it became necessary for him to rest a little, he threw down his burden and, lying down beside it, fell into a melancholy meditation. Then he rose to his knees and smiting himself upon the face cried out: "O Malchus, well may you think that you have done nothing, for you have not endured even the solitude of this hunter, who is a man of the world and no hermit." And he went on his way even more slowly than ever, for despair was upon him, and he felt a great reluctance to return to his cell. It was as though during those few hours of liberty he had escaped into another world--a tender world of green leaves, running water, and human sympathy--and at the first sight of his cell across the sandhills he felt like one returning to prison. Yet he knew that it was his true self which was driving him back and which told him now that he had sinned that day in lingering beyond what was necessary in the grove and delaying in talk with the hunter....
With the night, as if it were the instant sign of his relapse, the creatures of darkness gathered about his cell, howling in a dismal, mocking chorus, answered by wilder shrieks from the distance, as though other hordes were hastening up from the heart of the desert. Once there was a beating upon his door, as if the evil spirits, grown bolder, were clamoring for entrance. Then a long silence; and Malchus listened, his forehead wet with fear, for he knew that the demons had not departed, but were lurking silent about him. Suddenly some soft, light thing struck him on the face. He flung out his arms in terror and loathing, and there followed a wild beating of hands against the bars of his window. He dared not raise his voice for fear he should betray the corner in which he cowered; but he prayed silently, fervently, and without remission, often making the holy sign upon the darkness. Then, as if tortured by the sign, the creatures set up their howls again. It seemed that they were all round the cell; he could hear them breathing and buffeting against the door. It was not until the dawn was near that all became silent again, and now it seemed that the silence was empty. The evil spirits had gone. Malchus, exhausted by fear and the urgency of his praying, fell asleep.
Many hours later he awoke to a gentle, continuous noise, as if heavy drops were pattering on the sand or the sands themselves on every side were seething and shuffling with a life of their own. His fears leaped up once more, but when he opened his eyes he saw that the sun was shining. The honest light of day restored his courage and he rose and opened the door of his cell. His heart leaped to his throat, but next moment he was reassured, for when he had realized what he saw it was harmless enough. A large flock of sheep was passing his door. The expanse of broad, woolly backs spread before him, each with its own agitated movement. It was like the Nile in flood, its surface broken into hundreds of muddy waves and eddies. At the edges of the flock he saw the meek shaven heads, and here and there the pink strip of a panting tongue. The rank, oily smell of fleeces filled the air. An old shepherd was leading them--the only upright figure in the humble crowd--and seeing Malchus at his door, he turned aside to speak to him, sitting down by the cell with his back against its wall. He was a Lybian and it was with some difficulty that they conversed. The flock, deprived of its leader, stood still, and as Malchus and the shepherd talked, their talk was accompanied by a chorus of melancholy bleating. Above its long droning rose individual voices of every tone from the deep and guttural to the plaintive wail. It was a sound infinitely hopeless, like the crying of children led into captivity.
"What are you doing here in the desert?" Malchus asked the shepherd. "There is nothing here for your sheep to eat."
"I am taking them down to the marsh of Scete to eat the green herb," the shepherd replied. "My village is twenty miles from here, and once a year, after the flooding of the river, we lead the flocks down to eat of the herb. Now they are hungry and exhausted, as you see, but I hope to bring them to the marsh by midnight."
He wore a little bag slung about his shoulders, and now he pulled it round on to his lap and opened it. Malchus saw that it contained a bunch of some kind of greenery. "What is this?" he asked.
"This is my food," the old man replied.
"And have you nothing else to eat?"
The shepherd shook his head. "For the last thirty years," he answered, "I have eaten nothing else. I eat once a day and drink as much water as I need. By living thus I am more free than if my body needed the food which can be found only in villages and human habitations. I am free, too, of the need of money and I give the wages paid me by the owner of the sheep to those of my people who need it." While speaking the shepherd had risen to his feet, and the wide expanse of woolly backs, as if in response to his movement, was stirred once again by numberless agitations. Then Malchus fell down at the feet of the shepherd: "O my father," he wailed, "I imagined in my pride that I had attained to abstinence, but you are worthy of a greater reward than I, for I have eaten bread which is made for me by others and have drunk water which another has drawn for me."
The old man looked down upon Malchus in bewilderment, and then as if wishing to escape, turned and moved slowly upon his way. And immediately the flock began to advance, jostling together and then expanding; then, closing together again, it settled into its habitual density, following the slow steps of its shepherd.
"When do you return?" Malchus shouted after the old man.
The shepherd slowly turned his head. "You will not see me again," he shouted back. "They will graze along the marsh northward for several days and we shall return another way."
Soon the faintest sound of them had drained away into the silence of the desert, and by noon even the sight of them was no more than a pale irregular stain on a linen cloth....