Istar of Babylon.

by Margaret Horton Potter.

PREFACE

"The higher ideas, my dear friend, can hardly be set forth except through the medium of examples; every man seems to know all things in a kind of dream, and then again to know nothing when he wakes.... But people seem to forget that some things have sensible images, which may be easily shown when any one desires to exhibit any of them or explain them to an inquirer, without any trouble or argument; while the greatest and n.o.blest truths have no outward image of themselves visible to man which he who wishes to satisfy the longing soul of the inquirer can adapt to the eye of sense, and therefore we ought to practise ourselves in the idea of them; for immaterial things, which are the highest and greatest, are shown only in thought and idea, and in no other way, _and all that we are saying is said for the sake of them._"[1]

"Then reflect ... that the soul is in the very likeness of the divine, and immortal and intelligible and uniform and unchangeable; and the body is in the very likeness of the human, and mortal and unintelligible and multiform and dissoluble and changeable.

"And were we not saying long ago that the soul, when using the body as an instrument of perception, ... is then dragged by the body into the region of the changeable, and wanders and is confused; the world spins round her, and she is like a drunkard when under their influence.

"But when, returning unto herself, she reflects, then she pa.s.ses into the realm of purity and eternity and immortality and unchangeableness, which are her kindred; ... then she ceases from erring ways, and, being in communion with the unchanging, is unchanging."[2]

PROLOGUE

THE INCARNATION

Thronged in Uranian mists, all the archtype spirits of heaven, Gathered in slow-firing wrath against one of their natural number, Watched her who, first of them all since Jehovah created their order, Daring the Almighty ire, did forget her transcendence for man.

Wonder divine o'er the sorrow and sin of the earth-condemned races Dwelt in the heart of the moon-daughter, now beyond ken of her kindred.

They who, betwixt the one G.o.dhead, His logos, creation, and man, Infinite, soulless, essential, divine, were highest ideas, Perfect observance forever had kept of their order, till now, Seemingly fearless in great disobedience, Istar, the moon-child, Caught and had struck to her heart a great earth-flown vibration: so learned All that her high-worshipped fellows knew not of mankind and of woe.

Fleeing the loud-rolling world with her new apperception, she sped Far to the heart of the moon, where her father, the moon-G.o.d, received her.

Then, on her silence of wisdom and grief, rose a fast-winging plaint Carried across vasty deeps by the loud-surging breath of the wind.

Host upon host, then, the infinite tide, the reflectors of being Swept towards the refuge of Istar. Their voices, in anger uplifted, Crashed in a thunderous whirlwind through s.p.a.ce; and their far-flowing light Gleaming and streaming in chaos of bright iridescence, in flames Violet, yellow and green, silver, crimson, and shimmering gold, Glorified s.p.a.ce and struck down the world-dwellers to terrified prayer.

Sin, the great moon-G.o.d, the father of her who sought refuge alone, Mourned in his mystical home; cried aloud through the uprising clamor, Asking indulgence for Istar the woman. Him answered but one: Allaraine, son of the stars, the bard of aeolian songs, Lord of white clouds, who, begot of a sunset, went winging his way Far through the star-vault at midnight, full-sprung, with his heavenly path Marked by mellifluous song--'twas he who to Sin made reply.

He, who alone, from the earth's evening glow had beheld earthly pa.s.sion, Tranced by the high, fearless wrong of incarnate humanity's power, Fearlessly now, before all the tumultuous host, voiced his pity.

Vain were his words, though they fell into s.p.a.ce like the pearls of the sea, Melting round G.o.d's very throne, with melodious ecstasy fraught.

Silent the archtypes heard, and in silence of trembling delight Istar, the lover of souls, concealed in the moon's dim retreat, Heard him. And silent the earth-world revolved and Time's pulses were stilled.

Finally, out of the deep, where s.p.a.ce is not and time cannot be, G.o.d, the Almighty Jehovah, made answer to Allaraine's plea: "Istar, who knowledge of incarnate souls was forbidden to hold, Thou, who unknowing, daredst pity men's sorrows and sins manifold.

Go to the earth-world as one among men, and there shalt thou behold Life, and its correlate, Death. Sentient there thou shalt live, but shalt be Heaven-born still, and thus worshipped on earth, though thou mayst not be free Till, 'neath the sorrows of flesh, _thou shalt find man's relation to me_."

Out of the mists of the moon floated Istar the daughter of Sin.

Out of the mists and the fog came she forth, and aeolian choirs, Winds of the evening, sang low of her going. Upborne by her tresses Floating above and about her, she sank; and the dawn was not yet.

Istar, the daughter of Sin, in her vestment of tissue of silver, Under which glowed the deep purple proclaiming her G.o.dhead, and there, Full on her breast, the bright flush of the crimson that told of her pa.s.sion, Laughed to herself and the winds, as she came forth from out of her refuge.

Down, far adown the dark, mystical depths of the chasm of chaos Floated the mystical maiden; a voice like a clarion echo Calling from out of the mist she had left: "O Istar, beloved, Hear and return unto me, father, archtype, soul of the sphere!"

Istar, the daughter of Sin, obeying the word of the Lord, Heard but not heeded the voice. Only pausing a thought in her course, Flinging her head to the stars, laughed aloud with her lips that were scarlet.

Then, with a shake and a shrug of her bare, cloud-born shoulders, she sent Clashing and ringing below into s.p.a.ce a bright silvery shower Flashing and pringling with light; which earth-men called shower of stars.

Istar continued her flight and went swaying her tortuous way Down and adown past all planets and suns in their horror of heat, Till, in the end, the great fall was accomplished, and Istar was born, Soulless and pure in the city called "Gateway of G.o.d."

Book I

THE JOURNEY

I

THE SEA

A hot April sun shone full over the waters to the pencilled line of the southern horizon, where a long circle divided the misty, shimmering dove-color of the Mediterranean from the richer blue of the swelling sky. A path of sun-strewn ripples, broadening as the afternoon advanced, ended at that distant line, and found its starting-point at the rocky base of the Selinuntian acropolis, on the southwestern coast of Sicily.

The day was warm, and the air rich with the perfume of sweet alyssum, beneath which delicate flower the whole island lay buried. A light breeze feathered the sea, occasionally sweeping away enough powdered sunshine to disclose the rich sapphire depths of the under-waters.

Nevertheless more perfect skies had been, and generally were, at this season of the year; for to-day half the west was hidden by a curtain of short, thick clouds that threatened to hide the usual evening glory of wine-tinted waters and crimson-flooded skies.

Upon the height of the cliff that terminates the broad Selinuntian plain, Selinous, white, Doric city, with her groups of many-columned temples and her well-built walls, sent forth the usual droning murmur of life. White-robed men and women were wont to move in unhurried dignity in their citadels in those days when aeneas was not yet a myth, before Syracuse knew Gelon, when the first Aahmes ruled in Egypt, when Crsus of Lydia and Astyages of Media were paying bitter tribute to the great Elamite just retired from Babylonian plains to his far Rhagae in the Eastern hills; and here, on the Sicilian coast, the Greek city lay in placid beauty upon her two hills, divided by the philosophically drained valley, bounded upon the right hand by her shining river, while far to the left, in the direction of Acragas, a line of rugged hills rose into the blue. The four bright temples of the acropolis were mirrored in the sea below. On the east hill, at some distance from where the gigantic new sanctuary to Apollo was building, and directly in front of the old temple of Hera, on the very edge of the cliff, drowsing in the sunlight, lay Charmides, a shepherd, surrounded by his flock.

The life of a shepherd in the flood-time of a Sicilian spring was not an arduous one. If it had been, Theron's son would not, in all probability, have followed that calling through the few years that he was required to spend at ordinary labor. For, as his family realized and his appearance too markedly proclaimed, this child of the Spartans did not partake of the spirit of his race. Rarely, singularly beautiful he was, and fair as an Athenian. Apollo himself might have turned envious at sight of this disciple of his as he slept on a drift of wild daisies, his short, white tunic stained with green, the thong that served him for a girdle loosely tied, much-worn sandals bound upon his feet, and a wreath of gray olive-leaves woven into the rumpled hair that fell upon his neck in rings of living gold. Charmides' eyes had the color of the sea. His brows were fine and straight; his mouth not altogether lacking in strength, yet perfect as a woman's. As he slept, one of the youth's sunburned hands grasped a tuft of herbs that grew upon the edge of the slope, while the other, even in his unconsciousness, drew a fleeting harmony from the lyre that lay beside him.

This dalliance with the honored instrument, taken with his unathletic physique, was evidence enough of the chosen profession of the temporary shepherd. Four years ago, at the age of eighteen, Charmides had elected to enter the ranks of that band of rhapsodists known to us now only as the predecessors of fire-winged Pindar and his glorious brethren. Never was the shepherd seen following his flock over the fields without lyre or flute in his hands; and no holiday or festival was quite complete without some lyric chanted in his clear tenor to the accompaniment of those sweet, primitive chords that so fittingly clothed the syllables of the most melodious of all tongues. Charmides' poems, however, were always of one type. Natural beauty, the evening wind, the perfume of a flower, the red of dawn, the silver of moonlight, he would reproduce so perfectly in words that he was left unrivalled in his peculiar field.

But greater themes, battle-hymns of Mars and Nike, or idyls of Cythera and the dove-drawn chariot, had not apparently occurred to him as desirable subjects for his art. Either Charmides was what his athlete brother declared him--a woman dressed in too short a tunic--or his true nature was sleeping far beyond its natural period.

The sun hung just above the clouds as the youth sat up and looked about him. His flock, a drove of white, long-haired sheep, whose wool was woven into many a tunic of their herdsman, had wandered out of sight behind the temple of Hera. Charmides unbound his flageolet from the side of his left leg, and, without stirring from his place, lifted the instrument to his lips, playing upon it a quaint, primitive strain full of minor cadences, mournful, but peculiarly pleasing. For two or three minutes this tune was the only sound to be heard. Then, of a sudden, came a distant "Ba-a!" from the direction of the temple, and round its eastern columns appeared a white head, another, and another, till the whole flock was visible. For a moment or two they halted, regarding their keeper with silly, affectionate eyes. Charmides smiled as he watched them, and presently gave a little nod. At sight of it the leader of the company started forward again, and the entire number followed, at a gentle trot. When he was entirely surrounded by his animals, Charmides put his pipe back in its place, caressed with rough tenderness the nearest lamb, and finally, having had enough of afternoon with the sea, sprang to his feet thinking to proceed farther afield. As his eyes met the western horizon, from which his face had for the last few moments been turned, he broke his yawn short off in the middle, and his intent was forgotten. The cloud, which now covered the sun, was no longer gray, but a deep purple, palpitating with inward fire; while far to the west a galley, a little, black patch upon the waters, rose upon the horizon, coming from Mazzara. Charmides saw possibilities of hexameters in the race, and, though its outcome did not affect him in the least, he had a desire to know whether he must have Zeus with his bolts bring vengeance on some disobedient mortal, or whether Father Neptune and his dolphins were to lead the men of the galley safely into the little Selinuntian harbor.

It was not many minutes before the little vessel had become a Phnician bireme with a huge, brown mainsail hanging loosely on the mast, and barely visible oars churning the water on each side with hasty vigor. By this time the last radiance had been swept from the sky. The distant waters darkened, and their restless, uneasy ma.s.ses began to show flecks of foam. Presently, for a bare second, through a single rift in the cloud, a thin gleam of sunlight shot out and down to the misty sea, lighting the dark surface to opalescent brightness, and then disappearing in a single breath. As the sky darkened again the air grew cold. Three or four petrels, birds of the storm, rising from the distant sands, veered joyously out over the flattening waters. A faint murmur of angry winds came from the west, and with its first sound Charmides was recalled from the scene in which he was blithely living to his flock, who were upon the verge of a stampede. They had ceased to eat and were standing quiveringly still, heads up, nostrils distended, fore-legs stiffening for the leap and race which would follow the first thunder-clap. Their shepherd was just in time. Putting all thought of the storm behind him, he lifted his lyre and started forward, singing as he went. The sheep followed him, with implicit faith, across the broad pasture and down the long, gentle slope in the direction of their fold and his father's house, till the sea and the galley and the storm were left to the petrels and those on the acropolis to watch.

There, indeed, in front of the basilica, quite a band of citizens had a.s.sembled, watching with interest and anxiety the progress of the storm-beset vessel. The little ship had apparently a daring captain. No precautions whatever had been made for the first gust of wind; neither did the ship's course suggest that there would be an effort to gain the inner harbor of the city as speedily as possible. Instead, those that watched realized that she would be a hundred feet off the base of the acropolis cliff when the storm broke. At present the wind had so nearly died away that the main-sail flapped at the mast. The double banks of oars were working rapidly and unevenly, and the main deck of the vessel was, to all appearances, entirely deserted. Evidently an unusual state of affairs prevailed on board of the Phnician galley.

The pause that preceded the breaking of the storm was unnaturally long.

Save for the gleam of an occasional, faintly hissing wave-crest, the waters had grown black. The heart of the storm-cloud seethed in purple, while all the rest of the sky was hung with gray. There came one long moment when the atmosphere sank under a weight of sudden heat. Then the far-distant murmur, which till now had been scarcely audible, rushed upon the silence in a mighty roar, as, up from the south, driven before the gale, came a long line of white waves that rose as they advanced till the very Tritons bent their heads and the nymphs scurried down to greener depths. Now a sudden, zigzag streak of fire shot through the cloud, followed by a crash as of all the bolts of Zeus let off at once.

The galley seemed to be scarcely moving. Her sail hung loose upon its mast. Not a soul was to be seen upon the upper deck. Only the oars still creaked in their holes, and the water churned unevenly along the vessel's sides. The wind was nearly upon her. There was a second glare of lightning, a second crash more fearful than the first; and then it was as if the fragile craft, seized by some cyclopean hand, had been lifted entirely from the water to be plunged downward again into the midst of chaos.

The number of spectators of this unusual scene had by this time been greatly augmented. Upon the acropolis, at the point where the street of Victory came to an end upon the edge of the precipitous cliff, stood a crowd of men and women, to whom others were continually coming from the shelter of their houses. Presently Charmides, together with his brother, Phalaris, both breathless from their run across the valley of the Hypsas, arrived on the cliff. The galley was now struggling in the centre of the storm, writhing and shuddering over the waves directly in front of the acropolis. As the only possible salvation, her bow had been pointed directly to the south into the wind, a move which made it necessary for the rowers, backing water with all their strength, to keep her from driving backward upon the great rock, fragments of which were strewn far out through the water from the base of the cliff behind.

Through the incessant lightning flashes the violent and uneven use of the oars was clearly visible, and, after watching them in silence for a few moments, Phalaris shook his head.

"The rowers will not endure long under such labor. The boat must be driven ash.o.r.e."

"As yet they have lost no distance, though."

And this, indeed, was true. Full fifty yards now lay between the first rock and the stern of the galley. It seemed, too, as if the storm had lulled a little. Charmides shouted the idea into his brother's ear, but Phalaris again shook his head, and both looked once more to the vessel, just in time to see her struck by a fresh gust of wind that tore the overstrained sail into ribbons and shreds. At the same instant the oars ceased their work. The boat spun completely round, twice, like a wheel, and a second later was driven, by one great wave, straight towards the huge rocks off the cliff.

"Apollo! What has happened to the rowers?" cried one of the elders.

"And where is the captain of this vessel? Is he a madman?"

"In three minutes more she will be a wreck. Come, Charmides!" shouted Phalaris, starting over the cliff.