At dusk, Poussa returned, staggering under a weight of boughs. Oman met her at the door, and took half of her load from her, as a woman might, she standing by the while, wondering what manner of man it was that would help her at such a task. When the Agnihotra was burning the two sat down, cross-legged, beside the fire; and she, assuming for a moment, unconsciously, a rôle of Fate, began to try him, tempting:
“O High-born, listen! It has been spread about through the village that thou, a master weaver, art come among us. Soon my brother-in-law will ask you to take up your abode with him, that you may jointly ply the trade. My master, say not again that thou art outcast of men. Come thou and dwell near me, and let me serve thee, who will then have the happiness of thy nearness. As Krishna pities women and protects them, so do thou!”
It was thus that she brought up a new battle in Oman’s soul. Two forces struggled again within him: one, man’s natural need; the other—what? The summoning of the higher law? The half-conscious necessity for the fulfilment of his mission? Something of these. Something that would not yield the battle. Something that had taken possession of Oman’s mind, and would not lessen its hold, but forced from him words that were scarcely his own. Yet even secretly rebelling, he recognized the power that had hitherto held him. He perceived that it was the first choice that had been given him:—his first glimpse of the two roads that stretch before every living thing. And, in gratitude for this new trust, he yielded to the power, and spoke as Prophets speak:
“Nay, Poussa. I may not dwell among you. My way lies upward and on. My destiny cannot be the destiny of men; for I travel the road of those that have sinned. ‘A burning forest shuts my roadside in.’ One more night I shall remain with you, and then I set out again—up—to the heights above, there to finish my soul’s travail. Yet I shall see thee again; for, in my weakness, I must return to thee for help. Do not grieve. For what I do has been already decreed, and is now turning from the wheel of present time. Let us speak of it no more.”
Poussa obeyed him. Nor was he to be moved by the suave arguments of Salivan, who returned, that evening, to examine his work, and to lay the proposition of partnership before him. Yet, in the silent watches of the night, doubts came, and he wondered at himself for his choice. The morning scarcely brought comfort; and how it was that he fulfilled his word, it would be hard to say. But it is true that, while the day was young, he withdrew himself from Poussa’s clasp and set out, alone once more, into the world, up, toward the great mountain that overhung the village to the north, and was called of men the “Silver Peak”. Thither went Oman, driven by destiny, to attain to the heights that held for him, though he knew it not, on the one hand the scourge of suffering and blind wandering for the soul; on the other the crown of victory and life.
CHAPTER IX
THE STRUGGLE ON THE HEIGHT
In all great mountain ranges there are what might be called heights of man and heights of nature. There are always hills that seem to invite the puny human agility: that hold at their summits resting-places whence men may obtain their “view” and begin their descent again, filled with pride at the conquest of inconsequent difficulties. But there are other heights that were not made for such: places which, even should man attain to them, refuse him his vain reward, bind him about with a spell of bewildered awe, and, if he safely reach his earth-kennel once more, leave him with the sense that he has been refused his due.
Heights such as these owe nothing to humanity. They are the retreating-places of defeated nature. To man they are not natural. Their high glory is not for him. Towering into regions above slow-drifting clouds, where sun and stars and moon lean close on high, they are in communion with eternity. Nor is their secret of the ages to be borne away and exploited in the depths below.
Such a height as this rose up beyond the little hamlet of the mountain stream. Its peak, a spirelike pinnacle, not so lofty when compared with Himalayan or even Alpine heights, rose up from a high, rounded plateau which itself lay above the tops of the surrounding hills. On the far side of the mountain the slope ran gradually down to the basin of a tiny mountain lake, that lay five hundred feet above the valley level. But on the south end of this heavenly plateau, rocks jutted down in a vast, tumbling mass, to a depth of three thousand feet. Alone in its far summit, sunlit, glorious, the strange mountain top might have been hailed king of the whole range. And, indeed, it was one of the few mountains of the Vindhyas distinctive enough to possess a name. The valley dwellers called it the “Silver Peak”; and its name fitted it well. The eastern slope was densely wooded. The rocks at the base of the peak on the plateau were filled with caves; yet animals and reptiles shunned these easy abodes. Only sure-flying birds, eagles and falcons and kingfishers and floriken, swept through its forests and over its height, unawed by the inviolable stillness. But this stillness, unbroken since the day the mountain rose from the earth’s seething surface, was something to be feared. Here man had been defeated in the moment of his triumph. His blatant voice, lifted upon this royal height, had shrunk to a faint whisper; and he had fled his sacrilege in shame.
It was midday on the height. Overhead blazed a September sun, infinitely brilliant. The plateau, bathed in gold, lay drowsy in the noontide. Below, a few shreds of silvery cloud clung about the rocks, veiling higher mysteries from the lower world. The loneliness was absolute. Neither eagle nor cormorant dared the sun at this hour; and it seemed as if living things had never existed here. Not one world-murmur sent its vibration through the tranquil atmosphere. Man and the works of man were forgotten or undreamed-of. Here was such peace as the flesh-clothed spirit cannot know: the peace that terrifies, because it was declared primevally of God.