CHAPTER XIV
THE QUEST
FOR the space of twelve months Peregrine abode at the Castle Syrtes. During the first six the life within it pleased him exceeding well. There was no lack of hospitality; his presence was very assuredly desired. On all sides he found himself a favourite, from the least of the guests to the divine Thaïs herself. This was enough to please a man who had found himself hitherto, save for a few weeks of delusion, of very small importance.
He became Head of the Council of Arts as they termed it, wherein his opinion was most widely deferred to. The Cult of the Jester was on all tongues. What precisely this Cult was I know not, save that it had for its motto Dum vivimus, vivamus; and that said it is perchance unnecessary to seek further light on the matter. I know they talked very blandly of Sorrow as the highest exponent of Art, whereas no one of them had ever glimpsed even the fringe of her garment, though Peregrine assuredly believed he had. Joy, they contended, followed close in her path. They spoke intimately of both. But it is very certain that none who have not met Sorrow face to face can hope to meet Joy. Of them all Peregrine was the only one whom we may believe laughed now and again at himself. A very small grace truly, but we may trust a saving one.
For six months, then, he enjoyed himself mightily, held his Council of Arts wherein his speeches were most largely adorned with flowery rhetoric; sang to the ladies in the garden, and heard their praises of his songs very complacently; ate delicate food; drank rare wines; watched dances wherein harmony, rhythm, and colour lent every lure to please the senses. At the end of six months he began to weary, and for the succeeding three stifled mental yawns to the best of his ability. Now and again pleasure would rekindle only to die away to dull ashes. For the last three of the twelve months he was heartily sick of his life as it was, but custom by now having wedded him to the Castle he was somewhat loth to leave. Also, having in mind the memory of his travels before he reached the Castle, he saw not to what end he should depart. Therefore he dallied. He disguised his weariness and dislike of the over-soft life well. None suspected what he thought. It was at this time he had a dream, which brought his dilatory spirit to action.
One noontide, lying in the garden with the autumn sun striking full upon him, he drowsed to slumber. At first, through the slumber, he was conscious of where he lay, felt the warmth of the sun upon his cheek; was aware, though with closed eyes, of the forest which hemmed in the Castle on all sides. Gradually consciousness lost its hold upon him, he slid into a deep silence whence all externals left him. Then it was that the dream came to him. With no beginning he found himself in the midst of it. This is what he dreamed.
He dreamed that he was walking on the far white road climbing the hillside, the same that he had seen a year agone. The sun beat hotly upon it, burning his face, causing the blood in his temples to drum madly. In front of him he saw a figure, a cloaked woman moving swiftly over the road before him. He strained every nerve in pursuit of her, but for all his straining she kept ever ahead. The road became steeper, the sun beat more fiercely upon him. Yet his desire to reach the figure before him was so intense that he would not have halted if he could. But he could not. He knew that till he reached her he must keep ever onward. Then beyond her he saw the tree, its withered branches flung cross-like from the dead trunk. And on a sudden he knew that unless he gained her before she had passed it by he would never reach her. He tried to run and could not, his feet were leaden. He could only keep on at the same dull pace. He saw her now within a yard of the tree. She had gained it. Some cry burst from his throat, half prayer, wholly imploring. At the very foot of the tree she stopped and turned. With laboured steps he came abreast her. He saw her face....
He woke trembling. The dream had been very vivid. Yet more vivid than heat or fatigue was the face of the woman he had seen. Of one thing he was very certain. It was no dream face only. Somewhere the woman was in existence, and from that moment till life should be ended for him he must seek her. If in sleep the desire to reach her had been intense, the desire in waking was threefold. Here one might say was madness and illusion. Maybe. Nevertheless it stung him quick to action.
He got to his feet, picking up his cloak from the ground where it had lain beside him. He looked around. There was no man in sight. So much the better, since he was in no mood either for argument or farewell.
Leaving the smooth green of the grass sward he plunged straight into the forest. Here he was to experience some of that so-called evil magic which brought the forest its ill name. Verily an’ he were so minded he might have believed the trees and shrubs possessed of demons so venomously did they seek to bar his passage among them. Knowing, however, the thought sheer foolishness he but mocked at it, and put it from him. The path by which he had made his way to the Castle had become overgrown during his twelve months’ sojourn there. The difficulty of his return route fretted him while it roused him to do combat with it. Now and again he paused to break off some branch tough as leather, requiring the full strength of both his hands to twist. He became hot and weary, and very assuredly angry with the difficulties that beset him. A dogged obstinacy took hold on him. For the moment he lost sight of the memory of his dream and the quest on which it had brought him. Sheer determination to win through the forest at any hazard sent him struggling onward. An’ he had to break his way piecemeal through the forest he would win his way out. You see him now a very stubborn man, one not to be kept prisoner against his own will and pleasure.
Yard by yard he made his way forward. His hands began to drop blood, his clothes were sadly torn. Two thirds of the forest lay behind him. An’ he could hold out for the remainder all were well. He shook the blood from his fingers which smarted very painfully, cried courage to his heart, and beat onward. Here it was that the memory of his dream returned to him, and further, here was the pity of it, returned merely as dream. That was discouraging. It made him appear a fool for his pains, his trouble to no purpose. For a moment his heart cried to him to give up the remainder of his journey, to return on his path.