MORTAL SUMMER

MORTAL
SUMMER

by
Mark Van Doren

The Prairie Press
IOWA CITY

Copyright 1953 by Mark Van Doren
Printed in the United States of America

MORTAL SUMMER

I

The cave they slept in, halfway down Olympus

On the eastern slope, toward Asia, whence the archangels

Even then were coming—even then

Bright Michael, and tall Gabriel, and the dark-faced

Raphael, healer of men’s wounds, were flying,

Flying toward the ship all ten would take—

The cave they slept in sparkled as their eyelids

Opened; burned as they rose and stood; hummed

And trembled as the seven, the beautiful gods

Gazed at each other, wonderful again.

The sweet sleep of centuries was over,

If only as in dream; if only a mortal

Summer woke them out of endless death.

The grey eyes of Athene, flashing slowly,

Demanded of Hermes more than he could tell.

“It was not I that roused you.” Hermes pondered,

Tightening his sandals. “All at once,

And equally, we woke. Apollo there—”

The musical man-slayer listened and frowned—

“And Ares, and foam-loving Aphrodite

Yawned at the very instant Artemis did,

With me, and swart Hephaestus.” The lame smith,

Stroking his leather apron, blinked at the others,

Worshipful of brilliance. Even in Ares,

Scowling, and more quietly in her

The huntress, whose green robe the animals knew,

He found it; and of course in Aphrodite,

Wife to him once, he found it, a relentless

Laughter filling her eyes and her gold limbs.

“It was not I,” said Hermes.

Thunder sounded,

Weakly and far away. And yet no distance

Wrapped it. It was here in the lit cavern:

Here, or nowhere. And the trembling seven

Turned to the rock that sealed a deeper room.

There Zeus, there Hera sat, the feasted prisoners

Of a still greater person, one who changed

The world while there they mourned, remembering Ida.

Some day they too would sleep, but now weak thunder

Witnessed their remnant glory; which appalled

As ever the proud seven, until Hermes

Listened and leaned, then spoke.

“It was the king

Our father. He has willed that we should wander,

Even as in a dream, and be the gods

Of strangers. Somewhere west of the ocean stream

He sends us, to a circle of small hills—

Come, for I see the place!”

That suffered thunder

Sounded again, agreeing; and they went.

Out of the cave they poured, into spring sun

Whose warmth they yet increased, for the falling light

Was less than theirs was, moving as they moved.

No soldier and no shepherd, climbing here,

Would have discovered deity. The brambles

Hid as they ever had this stony hole

Whence seven had been wakened, and where still,

Enormous in dark chains, their parents wept.

Invisible to suns, the seven gathered

Round a white rock and gazed. The sea was there,

The Aegean, and a ship without a sail

Plied southward, trailing smoke; at which Hephaestus

Squinted. Then he slapped his thigh and smiled,

And waved for six to follow as down world

He leapt.

They landed, all of them, as lightly

As a fair flock of gulls upon the prow

Of the tramp Jonathan B. Travis, bound

Tomorrow for Gibraltar, then northwest,

Northwest, both night and day, till the ocean stream

Was conquered. Not a god had ever gone there,

Not one of these high seven, in the old

Dark sail time. Now, invisible to waves,

To men and birds, they watched twelve grimy sailors

Washing their clothes on deck; and wondered still

At the two wakes behind them, foam and funnel.

But who were these arriving, these gaunt three

On giant wings that folded as they fell

And staggered, then stood upright? Even now

Michael had dropped among them, with his archangel

Brethren, bony Gabriel and lank Raphael.

From nearer Asia, lonely a long while,

They had come flying, sick of the desert silence,

Sick of the centuries through which no lord,

No king of the host, had blessed them with command.

As orphaned eagles, missing their ancient’s cry,

They had come hither, hopeful of these seven,

Hopeful of noble company, of new act.

Now on the prow they gathered, and no sailor

Saw them; but Apollo did, and Artemis—

Fingering their bows—as Hermes reared

On tiptoe, smiling welcome. Aphrodite,

Slipping to lee of Ares, feigned a fear

More beautiful than truth was; while Hephaestus,

Curious, near-sighted, fingered those wing-joints

Athene only studied where she stood.

“Whoever you are,” said Hermes, “and whatever—

Pardon this—you were, sail now as we do,

And be the gods of strangers far to west.

If only as in dream the vessel draws us,

Zeus our sire consenting. Your own sire—”

But the three stared so sadly over the waves

That Hermes paused, and beckoning to Gabriel

Whispered with him alone while dolphins played

As lambs do on dry land, and fishes scattered.

Alone to Hermes, while the dolphins heaved

Grey backs above green water, Gabriel murmured:

“Your sire. We had one too. And have Him still,

Though silent. It is listening for his thunder

That leans us. He is busy with new folk,

New, humble folk he speaks to in a low voice.

We have not learned that language—humble words,

With never death or danger in the message.

A star stood still above a stable once,

And a weak infant wept. And there He left us.”

“Our sire,” said Hermes, “—he too sleeps away

Our centuries. We have the selfsame fortune.

Sail westward with us then.” And Gabriel nodded.

The steel that sliced the water swung at length,

And in three days they nosed between the Pillars;

Past which—and the ten all shuddered—monsters once

Made chaos of the world’s end. But no fangs

Closed over the black prow, and mile on mile

Slid under them, familiar as a meadow

To the small men they watched amid the smoke.

Mile on mile, by hundreds and by thousands,

The Atlantic sloped away. Then lands and harbors,

And a deep whistle groaning.

“Now!” said Hermes,

“Now!” So nine to one they lifted wing,

Or no-wing like their leader, and went on,

High over chimneys and chill rivers, north

By west till it was there—the rounded valley,

Green with new spring, where cattle bawled in barns

And people, patient, waited for hot June.

II

Daniel was mending fence, for it was May,

And early rains had painted the drear pastures.

He walked, testing the wire, and wished again

For his old pipe. He missed it, and grew moody.

Berrien would never notice it on the shelf;

Berrien would never bring it. A good wife,

But scornful of the comforts. A good woman,

Who never guessed the outrage he had done her.

New Year’s Eve, and Dora. He remembered—

And set his jaw, missing the pipe stem there.

He pulled at a slack strand of the barbed wire,

And snagged himself—here, in the palm of his hand.

A little blood came which he wiped away.

He did miss that tobacco. And he did,

He did loathe simple Dora—warm and simple,

Who with her dark head nodding close to his,

On New Year’s Eve, had done with him this outrage.

He would forget her if he could; and old

Darius, her profane, her grizzled father.

So proud of her he was, and kept so neat

The mountain shack they lived in, he and his one

Sweet chick he swore was safe as in State’s prison.

Daniel counted the months. Was the child showing?

Darius—did he guess? And Doctor Smith—

Would she have gone to him? Daniel looked off,

Unmindful of the beautiful May morning.

Bruce Hanna, that poor boy. Was he suspicious?

He had been born for Dora, she for him;

And then last New Year’s Eve, when the sleigh bells rang

So slyly, writing ruin in cold air!

Daniel, wiping his hand again, looked back

At the wild barb that bit him.

Who was that?

For a quizzical, small stranger stood by the fence,

Feeling its rust, its toughness. He was swarthy

And lame, and had bright eyes. And in his hand

A pipe—for all the township Daniel’s own!

“Here, have you need of this? I’m on my way

Northeast awhile, repairing peoples’ ranges.

It gave itself to me, but you can have it.”

Then he was gone, unless he walked and waved—

For someone did—Daniel could not distinguish—

From the far border of the field. The small

Stranger was gone, and all that Daniel held

Was a filled pipe bowl, comforting his palm.

He must ask Berrien, he said at noon,

If a lame dwarf had come to mend the cook stove.

He must ask Berrien, who wouldn’t listen,

How a man’s pipe could vanish from its shelf.

For so it had, into his very pocket.

“Berrien!” he called. But she was busy

With her own bother.

“Daniel, a woman’s here—

Wants to stay and board all summer—wants

To rest. A theater woman. I’ve said no,

But maybe—”

Who was the gold one, listening there

And smiling? Looking over Berrien’s shoulder

And lighting the front room with little smiles?

A faded gold one, well beyond her prime,

But the true substance, glistening. Berrien frowned

And her head shook. But Daniel, fascinated,

Said he would think, would figure.

In the end

She stayed, the theater woman; and that night

Daniel had dreams of her. She came to his bed

In beauty; stood beside him and said “Dora.”

How could she know of Dora? It was a dream,

Yet how could she know so much? And how had she fathomed,

All in one day, the longing he denied?

There was no loathing. Anywhere in his heart—

That sweetened as he said it—there was no hate

For Dora, whom he thought he saw there too,

Standing beside the theater woman and weeping,

And holding her simple hands out so he could say:

“Tomorrow, little sweetheart half my years,

Tomorrow I will tell the world about us.

You must be mine to keep. I have been cruel;

I have been absent, darling, from your pain.

Tomorrow I will put my two arms round you,

And bear if I can the—pleasure.”

Then he woke,

And none but Berrien watched him in the room—

Berrien, who ever after watched him,

Night and day detesting this pale witch

Who came and went and charmed him.

So she thought,

Said Daniel, never answering her eyes.

For him there were no hours now save those dark ones

When the pair came. At midnight they would be there,

Faithful as moths; and every sunny morning,

Starting from his pillow, he would mutter:

“Tomorrow is today. Then I must go

To Dora, I must tell her.” Yet he waited

Always upon another secret midnight;

And witnessed every noon how the gold woman,

Smiling her light smile, seemed not to know

Of Dora; was no witch at all; was no one.

III

Meanwhile a little mountain house was murmurous

With his own name—evil, could he but hear it.

Darius had discovered his sweet daughter’s

Swelling, and had pressed her for the cause;

And yesterday, in terror, Dora yielded.

Now Bruce was there, with the old badger watching

How sick one word could make him. So it was spoken—

“Daniel.” And the kill was on.

A soldier,

Footing it home from Canada, stood by

With a gourd dipper, dripping as he drank.

He listened, lounging, and his bushy eyes

Burned at the accusation. When Bruce faltered—

And he did falter, for his hate of Daniel,

Less than the sore so sudden in his breast,

So hopeless, so beyond all thought of cure,

Was a weak thing at first—this brawny witness

Shone like a savior in the old one’s eyes,

The little old one, dancing in his fury

As he repeated “Daniel”; and made doubly

Sure that Dora’s corner room was bolted.

Afterwards, remembering how the knuckled

Soldier had spat curses on that name,

“Daniel,” and had spun a scheme for them—

Perfection, he declared it, of revenge—

Darius called him blessed. “You’d have failed me,

Bruce, you would have wobbled like a calf

And licked this devil’s hand, but for that sergeant.

Who sent him here, I wonder?”

“I don’t know,”

Said Bruce, his mind on Dora’s room. “Is she—”

“Yes, she’s in there. And stays there till we’ve finished.

When do we go and do it? Think of that—

Think only of that thing, my boy, that needful

Thing.” Darius nudged him, and they dropped

Their voices.

Dora, listening, heard little,

Crouched by her door. Bruce—he mustn’t do it.

Bruce—he was the only thing she wanted

In the poor world. A poor one too for Daniel;

But she shut out the thought. Bruce mustn’t do it,

Whatever it was. She beat on the thick wood

And cried to him; but only heard Darius

Coaxing him outdoors; then only silence.

“When shall it be, my boy? What dark of the moon

Does best for our good purpose—damn his bones!

Two shotguns—that’s enough—then home, then here—

That’s it, and neither knows of it next day.

We’ll even shed a hot tear, being told!

When do we do it, boy?”

But Bruce was slow:

Angry and sick, but slow. And once when Dora

Found him, deep in the woods between their cabins,

He almost lost his purpose as she held him,

Wetting his face with tears.