The Tree of Death by Barry Pain
The Tree of Death is a work of dark fantasy written by Barry Pain. It was first published in 1928 in his anthology Short Stories of To-Day and Yesterday. In 2011, The Tree of Death was reprinted in The Undying Thing and Others, a collection of Pain’s work published by Hippocampus Press. In 2023, Sam Teddy Publishing included The Tree of Death in the mixed-author anthology Roots of Evil.
About Barry Pain
Barry Eric Odell Pain was a British Journalist, poet, humorist, novelist, and short story writer. He was born on September 28, 1864, into a working class family. He was educated at Sedbergh School in Cumbria, and Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. He left Cambridge in 1886, with a B. A, in Classics.
After his graduation, Pain took a position in Surrey as a secondary school master, leaving in 1888, when he became a coach for the army exam at Guildford. During his time at Guildford, Pain began writing for The Granta. Then, in 1889, Cornhill magazine published his short story “The Hundred Gates”.
In 1890, Pain moved to London and joined the staff of the Daily Chronicle and Black & White, also contributing to Punch, The Speaker. and Windsor Magazine.
Although much of Pain’s work was humorous, he also wrote a number of ghost stories and similar tales of terror. It’s now these spine-tinglers, he is mostly remembered for.
Barry Pain died in Bushey, Hertfordshire in May 1928.
The Tree of Death
by Barry Pain
(Online Text)
I
In the cool of the evening I always saw her, she came up from the river with the other women. That was a great moment when she, who all the day had been in my heart, came at last into the sight of my eyes. Sometimes she would be soon lost to me, going into her father’s house. Sometimes she would crouch with the others on the steps by the wall of a brown hut listening to the old storyteller, and it was wonderful to see that story reflected in her eyes as she heard it, like the image of the palm tree in the deep river. Sometimes even she would walk by my side and speak with me, and those were evenings to be long remembered for rapture and for sorrow.
And one day I went to the storyteller. He was black-skinned and not of our race, and he had come from a far country, travelling for many months alongside the river. Some said that he had fled for his life.
“This evening,” I said to him, “I beg that you will come out and tell your stories to us.”
He waved his hand at me in refusal, saying that he would not. But when I showed him the gift I had brought for him, then he consented. And I did this because my eyes ached for the sight of her, and I could not bear that this evening she should pass quickly by me.
And when the black man began to draw with his stick in the sand, and tell stories of that distant country from which he had come, she was among those that gathered round to listen. And I gazed at her as one tortured with thirst who sees far off the water he would drink.
He told us of a tree that is called the tree of death. He said that the seed was like bright silver to look at and of the size of a man’s fist. If you set that seed in the ground, for two years nothing would appear, and then came the miracle, for betwixt sunrise and sunset the tree came to full maturity, growing with incredible rapidity to twice the height of a man, and died again. And in those short hours of life that tree sought to drink the blood of a man, sending out a heavy fragrance that brought sleep and death, and lashing its victim with long, writhing tendrils. And each tendril was covered with sucking mouths like the mouth of a leech.
And thereon he told us a story of a faithless woman and of a man’s deferred vengeance. Secretly, by night, the man planted the seed of the tree of death in the garden of his wife’s lover. But when in two years the tree came to being, it slew the woman for whom the lover had deserted the wife. They found her white body in the morning, buried beneath the dead and decaying ruin of the tree, and they found, moreover, the three silver seeds that the tree had produced.
“And in the whole earth,” said the black man, “there are but those three seeds left, and because the tree is so evil, those seeds have not yet been planted.” Twice he stretched out the fingers of both hands and closed them again. “Yes, twenty times since then the river has risen and fallen. And for five years more the silver seed must be kept and guarded. And then the power of life, which is the power of evil, will have left those seeds and they will be harmless toys, and never any more will man or woman behold the great magic of the tree of death.”
I give his story in a few words. He told it in many words, making it a living picture, so that we seemed to see all as it happened and to hear the very words that were spoken. And all the while my eyes were fixed upon the woman whom I loved in vain. She was as one entranced, breathing deeply, and her fingers tore to pieces the flowers of scarlet hibiscus that she carried, the petals dropping on the sand as drops of blood. The sunset, too, was blood red that evening.
As he finished speaking we heard a jackal far away in the desert. And then a boy, laughing, said that the black man told many lies.
“Son of a dog, I lie not,” said the black man, with sudden fury. “I tell you what I have seen and known. In this hand—this very hand—I have held the silver seed of the tree of death. Yes, yes.” He rose and stood erect, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Was it not I, myself,” he said, “who planted that seed in the garden of my wife’s lover?”
We were all silent, and he turned and left us. And then for the first time that evening the woman looked at me and her hand made a little sign. So I followed her down to the river bank, and there for a while we sat and talked in the light of a great burnished moon.
II
“You praise me and say that I am very beautiful,” she said. “It may be and it may not be, but it is pleasant to hear. You bring many gifts to my father’s house, and again, it is pleasant to receive gifts. I think you paid the old storyteller, for clearly he showed more deference to you than to others. And that is the best of all, for one day is as another, and we go the same round continuously, like the ox with bandaged eyes that draws up the water for the garden ; but in the hearing of stories we live many lives and are ever changing. But then—then—you pour out your love to me, and would have me give you mine. How can one give who has it not? Others also speak of love to me and have the same answer. It may be that I am still too young, for I am very young, and that one day the fire will burn up in me. But now, when you speak of love, it is as though I gazed at the writing of a scribe having no skill to read it. And yet—and yet—there was something I would say.”
“Speak on. Your voice is sweet to hear.”
“It is of the story that we have heard. I think there is truth in it, even if it be not all true. I will tell you why, and I have told no other of this. Two years ago an old woman lay dying in her house, and those that should have tended her had fled in fear. And I brought up water for her from the river. She drank, eagerly of it, for the fever was on her. And then she bade me pour a little of the water in the hollowed palm of my left hand and hold it so that she might gaze into it. She looked long into it, so that my little hand shook. And then she said words that I have never forgotten and never yet told. These are the words: ‘The eyes of the dying have seen beyond, and as I say it shall be. The man of your love shall come to you holding in his hand a ball that is not of silver but of the colour of silver, and in that ball there shall be life and death.’
“Tonight I knew that the ball must be the seed of the tree of death. I know not where the seed is. The old man said it was guarded. It may be that one must go a long and perilous journey, and that blood must be shed, and that a great price must be paid. But this I know—on the day that you come to me holding in your hand a seed of the tree of death, I shall be so filled with love for you that my head will droop and my eyes will faint, and my body and my soul will be yours.”
And in a voice that had become suddenly hoarse I said: ‘‘ And you have told no other of this?”
“Have I not said it? Also, if you swear that you will get for me the silver seed, I shall tell no other until it is clear that you have failed. I chose you for many reasons. You are gentle, and when my beauty is gone and you cease to love me you will not then begin to beat me. You are not so wealthy as some of those that seek me, but neither do you hold your wealth with so hard a grip as they do. Did you not also pay the storyteller for my delight?”
“For your delight and for the delight of my eyes in you.”
“It is as I thought. And without that I might never have heard of the tree of death or understood the secret of my future. And though I do not now love you—not in the very least—yet I come to you first. But if you think it too hard and hazardous for you, then—”
“Ah, wait!” I said. “Believe me that not for a moment has there been a doubt in my mind. If anywhere on earth there be that silver seed, I swear that I will find it, and bring it to you, and nothing save death shall stay me.”
“It is enough,” she said. “And when will you bring it?”
“I do not yet know how long it will be. Will you wait for me for a year if need be?”
“Yes, for a year. But I have seen love run away as water. If, when you hold the seed in your hand, you no longer love me, then bring it not to me, lest you bring sorrow with it.”
I pointed to the river at our feet. “The river runs for ever,” I said, “but the river is ever there. So is my love for you.”
And as we parted I said to her: “Then you wish to have this seed of the tree?”
“To me,” she said, “it is no more than a sign of destiny. If you bring it, then I shall love you. But if you are not destined, then another will bring it, and I shall love him. But for the seed itself, since it is evil, it shall be fuel for the fire. Or haply”—she looked at me with steady eyes—“I may keep it till it has no more power to harm, then it may serve as a toy for the children that I bear.”
That night I slept ill, my thoughts going backward and forward between joy and sorrow like a ball that is struck by the hands of the players. It was joy that she had spoken to me seated close by my side, that she had trusted me with a secret, that of her own will she had given me the chance to gain her love.
It was sorrow that she loved me not yet, and that if I failed in the adventure she would never love me and would love another. Nay, the black man had said that there were three seeds of the tree of death. It might be that if I found one of them, another man also might find one, and he, going more swiftly or by a shorter road, might take from me my beloved.
Moreover, though in this adventure I might risk all, yet if I were not destined I should fail; and if I were destined, then, though I sat quietly in my house and risked nothing, the unseen hand would place in mine the silver seed of the tree. And so I came back to the wisdom that is old and strong and cruel as the granite rock—that which is written, is written, and that which will be, will be.
And yet what pleasure could I have of gold dust and gems, of herds and fertile land, if I had not this woman? Without her, life itself was worthless. So I was determined to risk all. Had I not seen this myself, and had I not heard of it in many stories—that he who of his own will makes a great sacrifice shall in the end have his reward?
III
I found the old black man, as I had expected, stretched upon his bed, though for some hours the sun had been up. He was ever idle, though he still had strength to work. Those that by chance listened to his stories would bring him small gifts. But if one would command a story, as I had done, then the gift was greater; and so he lived.
And at first, as I came in from the bright sunlight, the hut seemed dark. But presently I saw him well, and I knew who had given him the robe that he wore and who had given him the loose slippers that lay on the ground beside him.
And after our words of salutation I said to him: “I have in my mind a great matter of which I would speak with you, desiring your help. If you can help me, then in return I will give many and very rich presents. Come into my garden, where we may talk quietly, and there is pleasant shade, and the fruit of last year still hangs upon my orange tree.”
So he said courteously that I was without doubt of divine descent and that he was my servant. And, rising from the bed, he thrust his feet into his slippers and came shuffling after me.
Seated under the orange tree, he sipped the coffee that was brought out to him, but the oranges that I gave him he wrapped in a fold of his robe for another time.
“Last night,” I said, “you told us of the tree of death.”
“And for that reason,” he said, “a woman brought me this morning bread and coffee, but the coffee was less good than this.”
“She was beautiful?”
“She was a song of love, but unfortunately I am now old. When I had eaten and drunk, I went out and found that son of a dog who said that I lied, and beat him with my slipper until he howled. For I had told of things that have been and still are. True, I have also stories of things that might be, and these are more beautiful. What of it? Shall the young insult the old? But this matter in which you need my help, I beg you to tell me of it.”
“I go to seek one of the three silver seeds of the tree of death. As beside that, my life and such wealth as I have are nothing. I must have that seed. You can tell me whither I must go and what I must do to attain it.”
“If a man travel with the utmost rapidity and sparing nothing, he may make the journey in four months.”
“Then in four months I will accomplish it.”
“There are perils of the road—robbers and dangerous beasts.”
“I fear them not.” And I showed him the dagger that I carried.
“But you will come to a country where the stranger is suspect, and in the place where the silver seed lies guarded no stranger may enter at all; and the guard is threefold—a circle, and within it a second circle, and within that a third circle. You may stain your skin till it is as dark as mine, but you cannot speak in the tongue of that people, neither do you know their ways. And if you would attain your end by violence, you will be one man against a myriad of men. So that if you go, two things are certain. The first is that you will never even see the silver seed, and the second is that you will die very soon.”
“Have you no better help for me than this?”
“There may be another way. You said truly that this is a great matter. It is one that must be weighed well with long thought. I will, if you please, go back now and ponder upon it. And tomorrow at this time I will come again to you.”
So I gave him a present and let him go, his robe curiously swollen with many oranges that he carried.
And next day he came back to me and said: “There is one way, and one only. It may bring you what you seek but it is not sure. If you would take it, two things will be necessary. The first is that you must trust me utterly, more than most men will trust their brothers. Secondly, the cost will be great, so that of all your possessions there will be but little left to you.”
“You are sure that it is the only way?”
“It is the only way.”
“ Then I will take it. Tell me of it.”
“You cannot go, but I can go for you. Also, I am very willing to go. Twenty years have I been a stranger in this little place, and my own country calls me. I know the tongue of the people and all their ways. Moreover, I myself have been of the innermost guard of the temple, and know much which is hidden from most men of my race. If there is any man on earth who can get the seed of the tree of death, then I can get it. But I must be able to buy men, and they are such that a small present will not tempt them.”
“When will you return?”
“In the ninth month from the day that I start you should have the silver seed either at my hand or at the hand of a sure messenger.”
“If I trust you whom at least I know, that may be well. Must I trust also a messenger whom I do not know?”
“You may do so without fear. For he will not receive the last half of his reward until he has delivered the seed into your hands. Moreover, he will know that if he is treacherous, his own life and the life of his dearest that he leaves behind him will be forfeited.”
“It is a great journey, and you are old.”
“I still have strength, not having spent myself with too much labour. Moreover, there are two that travel speedily—the young man that goes to his beloved and the old man that returns at last to his native country.”
“You have no fear that you will be robbed? For you will carry with you much wealth.”
“If I went with a train of laden camels, travelling as a rich merchant, then the danger would be great. But my wealth will be hidden in a belt about my body and I shall seem to be a poor man. There is indeed the chance that death one way or another may overtake me, but both you and I must take that chance.”
“How do you know that you will find the silver seeds? Since it is known that they are evil, may they not have been destroyed?”
“No, for it is known that the evil must die of itself, and they who would destroy it will make yet worse evil that shall fall on their own heads.”
“When you yourself planted that seed in the garden of your wife’s lover, was it then guarded in the temple? And if that be so, how came you to be able to make these great gifts and so get possession of it?”
“The temple was triply guarded, and I myself was of the innermost guard. But the seed was not there then, neither was the nature of it known—save to me only—until two years after I had planted it. In quite another way did I obtain that seed, and I beg that you will not ask of it, for it was shameful to me.”
Many other questions did I ask of him, and to all he had a ready answer. But I showed little judgment, my mind being filled with thoughts of my beloved. And in all things I did as he bade me.
Then for many days I sold my possessions until the black man said: “It is enough,” and afterwards I journeyed with him for three days to a town where there was a great bazaar, but our business was not in the bazaar, but at the house of the principal merchants. For we bought diamonds, emeralds, and pearls. And among the pearls there were two that were twins, being perfectly alike in size and shape, in weight an colour. And when he secured this treasure into the belt that he would wear, he left out one of these twin pearls and placed it in my hand, bidding me to keep it with the utmost care.
“For,” he said, “I am an old man and it is more likely that I shall choose to die in the land of my fathers. The messenger that I send with the silver seed will take the great oath of my people, swearing that he will be guilty of no negligence, and no treachery, and no disobedience. If any man takes this oath and breaks it, then in the whole earth there is no place where he may hide from swift and terrible vengeance. For this reason no man of my people will take this oath unless for a great reward.”
“It is justice,” I said.
“Therefore I give him one of the twin pearls when he sets forth. And when he arrives and places in your hands the silver seed, you will give him the other. Then he will return and show me the two pearls, and that will be the sign that he has performed his oath, and I shall have written for him quittance of it. So he will sell the pearls and get himself a wife and a house, and I myself may die in peace.”
And he found a brown-sailed boat that went up with a favouring wind to the next village carrying sugar cane. And making a small payment to the owner of the boat, he stretched himself upon the sugar cane and so was carried out of my sight. All the day he would sleep in the boat and at night he would leave the boat, and purchase an ass, swift and sure-footed, and ride all night. And so he would go on, by this way and that, taking the best that chance offered or his wit could devise, until he came to his journey’s end.
IV
On the day that the black man went I made my computation. My house and my walled garden were left to me, and there was store enough for another month. All else—herds and fertile land, and the treasure that I had of my fathers— was changed into little stones, and these stones were being carried away from me round the belly of a black man whom I should never see again. In another month it seemed that I who had hired others to work for me must myself work for hire.
To most men these would have been black thoughts, and they would have rent their garments and cursed their own folly that had brought such ruin upon them. But to me all this was a source of joy. “Now truly,” I said, “of mine own will have I made a great sacrifice, and in the end I shall have my reward.”
And that evening, as my custom was, I waited to see my beloved come up from the river. And as she passed me she made a sign that I should wait. And having set the water jar down in her father’s house, she came back to me.
It was the first time she had spoken with me since the night when we heard of the tree of death and afterwards sat by the river together. True, I might have spoken to her, but I feared lest by being too importunate I should lose such favour as I had in her eyes.
“These last days,” she said, “I have heard much foolish talk about you and about the old storyteller. Those that know a few things, yet have not the key of them, must always guess wrongly. But I have the key; would you hear what I know?”
“Your words are to me the sweetest music.”
“Some say that the black man has gone to tell his stories in other villages, that for one story he may receive many gifts. Others say he pays a visit to his own country, and others say that he goes to examine for you some house or land that you are minded to buy in place of that which you have sold. Certainly he is gone, and another will sleep in his hut this night. It is true that he has gone to his own country, but I know that he goes to get for you the silver seed, though you declared to me that you would go yourself, even if it cost you your life, so great was your love for me.”
And then I told her all, as I have set it down, explaining that I had indeed been willing to go, and why that could not be. And she said :
“If a man risk his life for a woman, that is his greatest praise of her. But if he buy another man to risk his life, that is a greater wisdom for him. Yet in other respects you have not acted wisely. For the old man may die, or he may be a thief; and even if he live and be worthy of trust, he may fail to get the silver seed; and even if he gets it, he may fail to render it to you. So that if the measure of your folly be the measure of your love for me, I am still commended, though with a lesser praise. Meanwhile, there will be none to tell me a story, making the cool evening pleasant for me. Moreover, that which you have given to get me you cannot give again to keep me. Also, my father has scolded me, and—”
Here she stayed, and her brow cleared, and she laughed.
“Take no heed of these words. If you are destined for me, I shall certainly love you very much. It is this heavy air that makes me say bitter things to you. Nor is it I alone who am troubled by it. The river itself is troubled— fretting and tossing—and there is anger in the setting sun. Somewhere tonight there will be havoc and great misery.”
And therein she spoke the truth. For that night the earthquake came, awakening me from a deep sleep. Scarce can the fringe of it have touched the village. In my house two jars were shattered and I felt the earth move under me; but three mud huts were brought down in ruins, so that there was much praying and screaming until the dawn came.
I judged that the full force of the earthquake had spent itself in the desert, so when the dawn came I saddled an ass and rode into the desert to see what had befallen. And since the air was now fresh and serene, the tide was pleasant to me. And presently I saw that the outline of a great rock had changed from what it was aforetime. So I rode up to it. And then I saw that the rock had split revealing the entrance to a tomb.
I dismounted and went in a little way, but it was so dark within that I could distinguish nothing. And I went back to my house and said nothing of what I had seen, lest some others should forestall me.
And that night, when the village slept and all was at peace, again I rode out, taking with me a spade and a good lantern. And all the night I spent in that tomb.
I think it was the tomb of one of royal blood. It had many chambers with marvellous paintings on the walls, ranged on each side of the entrance hall, and from thence there were fine wide steps that led downwards, but somewhat encumbered with sand and fallen fragments of the rock. And never had I seen such treasure—cups and platters, rings and figures, all of the purest gold. And there were also ornaments of precious stones.
Much of this treasure I had buried that night in another place, marking the spot in a way that none save he who set the mark could have the skill to see. And on many of the nights that followed I buried further treasure. And I had none to help me, for I could trust none.
So once more it became necessary for me to go to that great town. By night I loaded two camels with treasure, hiding it so that it would appear that they carried forage only. And even so I travelled in great fear, with my dagger ever ready to my hand, and urging the camels to their greatest speed.
But it was appointed that I should arrive safely. And I was well received in the houses of the see merchants with whom I had traded before, and so disposed of my treasure.
Thus by chance all that which I had given up, in order that I might have the silver seed and thereby the heart of my beloved, was restored to me again, and at first I was well content.
But afterwards my eyes were opened, and in great anguish I saw what had befallen me. For of my own free will had I made sacrifice and it had not been accepted, and that which I had given was returned into my hands again. What reward, then, could I hope?
“Without doubt,” I said, “the earthquake overtook the old storyteller as he went through the night, and he is buried beneath fallen rocks. or is drowned in the river. And the desire of my heart is taken from me.”
And that very night I spoke with a man who, as he travelled towards the village on the day after the earthquake, had met the black man. Thus vainly do we fit our keys to the door that is ever locked. That which is written, is written, and that which will be, will be. So that now I no longer dared to forecast either my happiness or the manner of my suffering. I folded my hands and waited.
Once more in the evening my beloved spoke to me.
“They speak of you in the village after this manner,” she said. “They say that you sold much and that now you buy much, and that in the difference of the price you have your advantage. This is the wisdom of fools who speak, not having the key. But I have the key. I know that, when you sold, the black man took it away with him, so that I even marvelled if my father would willingly give me to one who had become poor. Whence, then, have you the means now to buy so much? Either you lied to me, and the black man bore no wealth of precious stones in his belt, or you have worked some great magic. And if it be the first, then the black man will not send you the silver seed, for it was not his habit to do much for little, nor are you destined for me. But if it be the second, then I beg that you will show me how to work the same magic that I may make my father very content and also buy for myself a new robe and a bracelet of gold.”
“Neither have I lied to you, nor have I worked any magic. Since you gave me your secret, and have kept close in your own heart what I have told you so far, I will trust you yet again. It was destined that I should find a great treasure, making up for all that I had bestowed on the black man. Ask me no mote of this now, but tell me why you wish for a new robe and a bracelet of gold.”
“I have a cousin, and she is beautiful, but not so beautiful as you think that I am. Also the time has come that she must be married. Neither she nor I know who her husband will be, but she is obedient and will leave the choice to her father. Undoubtedly he will choose a rich man, and there will be a very great festival of the marriage, lasting all the night through, with music and dancing girls. Surely I shall be bidden to the festival, and I would not be ashamed there. But my father is not rich, neither does he ever find anything.”
“Then it is you who must find.”
“What shall I find ?”
“A purse hidden in a basket of pomegranates. And this basket of pomegranates I will send to your father’s house soon after the hour of sunrise tomorrow.”
“Listen,” she said. “Your love for me is as the desert, and my love for you is not yet even as one grain of sand. Will you still send this gift?”
“I will still send it.”
She said that, if it were known, the tongues of the malicious would speak evil of her, and, therefore, it would be a secret. And she was pleased, just as a child may be pleased with a little gift. She had said truly that she was still very young. She laughed and played with the maidens of her age. And neither for me not for any other man had she one thought of love.
Yet even then love slept deep in her calm eyes, as the fish with golden scales lies sleeping at the bottom of a deep pool. And the time of awakening was near.
V
He that enjoys knows how swift the passage of time may be, and he that awaits an event knows how slow it may be. But at last eight months had passed since the departure of the old storyteller, and he had said that in the next month— the great month of fruition—I should receive the silver seed of the tree of death—if, indeed, I ever received it.
So now in every footstep I seemed to hear the sound of an approaching messenger, and in every sound to hear my name called. My blood grew hot as with a fever and my sleep left me, so that for the greater part of the night I paced in my garden alone.
All night on the ninth night of the month I heard in the distance the sounds of music and revelry. It was the wedding of the cousin of my beloved, and there was a great festival. But towards dawn the sounds died away, and I paced to and fro in my garden. And suddenly, as I passed the door in the wall of the garden, I heard a little sound, and I was called by my name. But it was not the voice of any messenger that called. It was the voice of my beloved.
I opened the door and bade her enter. She came in without a word, wearing the new robe and the golden bracelet. And in the grey and awful light of the dawn her face seemed still wondrous beautiful, and yet changed.
“You are weary?”’ I said.
She made a sign of assent.
“Yes,” I said, “the marriage festival was long. All night I have heard the music. Your eyes tell of your weariness.” And I spread a silken carpet for her under a tree that she might rest, greatly wondering that she should come to me in this way.
She knelt on the carpet, bending her body and covering her face with her hands.
“I have not been at the festival,” she said. “Oh, I have much to say and there is not one word of it that you can ever forgive. Yet promise to hear me to the end, and then—then do with me as you will.”
Then my heart fainted and doom sang in my ears. And there was a long silence before I could say: “I will hear you to the end.”
And now she stretched herself at full length on the rug, her hands clasped behind her head. And she spoke like a tired child that repeats a long lesson.
“Yesterday,” she said, “at sunrise I went down to wash myself in the water of the river. And when I had put on my garment again and risen up, I was aware that a youth came towards me tiding upon a white ass that was bedecked with silver ornaments. And he dismounted and looked long at me. He was darker than we are, yet not so dark as the old storyteller. And I read in his eyes that which I have read in yours and in the eyes of other men. I knew that he desired me. Every day a beautiful woman may read that language. Yet it moved me not, and it was as if there were a mist before my eyes.
“He named you and asked me where he might find you, speaking in our tongue but slowly, as one but newly accustomed to it.
“I said: ‘If you follow me, I will take you to him.’
“ ‘And afterwards?’ he said. ‘For you are more beautiful than any woman on this earth, and it is for you that my love has waited.’
“I laughed, for there was still the mist before my eyes. Besides, such a speech was daring and sudden, since he now saw me for the first time. ‘Afterwards,’ I said, ‘will be as it will be. Meantime what seek you with this man?’
“He turned his eyes from me, as if he feared to look on me. ‘It is forbidden to me,’ he said, ‘so much as to speak of it.’
“Now, whether you believe it or not, it is true that in the next words which I said I had no intent but to vex him a little. Was not the mist still before my eyes, so that I could not judge aright? Was I any more than the thistle-seed caught in the wind of destiny?
“I said, still laughing: ‘You love me, and yet you refuse the first thing that I ask of you?’ And now he looked long at me again, breathing deeply, and suddenly he thrust his hand into his robe and drew forth something that glistened.
“ “Since you ask it,’ he said, ‘behold! I go to render this to him.’
“And so he stood before me, holding in his hand a ball that was not of silver but of the colour of silver, and in the ball there was life and death. Thus was it determined in the beginning, before the stars were set and before the earth was shaped. The mist passed from my eyes, and I saw that there was no beauty like his beauty. And when he spoke his voice was dearer to me than any that I have ever heard. And never had there been such love as now burnt my whole being.
“ ‘See!’ he cried. ‘I have broken the great oath, and for that death will come soon upon me. My hours are numbered, and yet if they be hours of love, the price is small. Do I not love you ? Do I not worship you?’
“My head drooped and my eyes fainted, and I sank down on my knees. ‘Lord of my heart!’ Isaid. ‘Lord of my life!’ ”
And now she turned over on her face, and her whole body was shaken with weeping.
For a few moments I remained silent, and then I said: “Have you ended that which you would say to me?”
“No, no!” she cried. ‘‘No, no!”
“Speak on, then,” I said, “and I would beg you to speak quickly.”
Now she rose to her feet, and thereafter she spoke standing, holding to the trunk of the tree as if for support.
“He had come by the way of the desert, and the night before he had come to the great rock. And finding a great tomb in the rock, he had rested there for the night, and there he had left his gear, setting forth with the white ass to find you, and so to complete his mission.
“Little thought had he now of that mission. And since already people were astir in the village he took me back with him to the tomb in the tock. I rode and he ran by my side, and in less than an hour we were there alone with our love in the cool dusk of the tomb.
“And when it drew near to the evening I was afraid lest my father should send out on all sides to seek me, and haply I should be found with my lover. So I arose and went to my father’s house, and when he demanded why I had been away so long, I said that I had been helping in the preparation for my cousin’s festival. Moreover, I put on my new robe and the gold bracelet on my arm, and said to him that I now went to her wedding. And he was content, and disposed himself to sleep, for he is old and feeble and unsuited to a night of revelry.
“And so in breathless haste I went back to my lover, knowing that our hours were but few, and that eternity could scarce contain our love. Until an hour ago I was with him, and then it was necessary to see you. And I came near the latticed door of your garden, and, hearing your step, I called to you. And so I come to the very heart of the matter.”
Here, pausing, she looked intently at me. And presently she went on speaking.
“There is neither anger nor mercy in your eyes. They have become like the eyes of a stone image in a temple—eyes that change not and see not. Hear me now to the end.
“He has broken the great oath, and the punishment is sure. One will come to him—he knows not when, but it will be very soon—and will say to him: ‘Show me the twin pearls that are in all things alike, for this is the proof that you have fulfilled your oath.’ And if he has them not, then must he be slain instantly. And, further, in that far country from whence he came the life of his mother will be forfeited, for she was the surety for him in the great oath. And shall not his death be also mine?
“He has but one of the twin pearls, and the other is in your keeping. So that now you hold in your hand three lives.
“It may be that you will say to yourself that I was very young, and that when I tempted him to break his oath I knew not what I did. And you may say further that your hatred is against destiny, and not with these thistle seeds that the wind of destiny has swept together. If that were so, and you gave me the twin pearl and let us depart with it to his own country, then in all the words of praise there is none that is worthy of such great nobility.
“But in that I ask, it may be, more than any man can give. So, if you still desire me, I will remain here. And if you would have me as a wife or as a slave, I will be ever faithful and obedient. And I ask no reward but that by some instant messenger you will send the twin pearl to my lover, that he may go in peace. And I myself will see him no more at all. Do with me as you will, but let not his blood be upon my head. The fault was mine. Moreover, he has in part fulfilled his oath, for by me he sends to you the seed of the tree of death. I pray you to answer me.”
It is very truth that until then I knew not what I would answer. But as she spoke she drew from her garment that silver glistening ball, and held it out to me, and I took it. It was still warm with the warmth of her beautiful body.
In a moment I had buried my dagger deep in her body. She fell at my feet, and a shudder went through her, and she was dead.
I became quite calm again, and my mind was as clear water, and my heart beat steadily and quietly. I knew just what I would do.
I dug a deep grave for her in a corner of my garden. Then I drew forth the dagger, wrapped her in the silken carpet, and so buried her and the silver seed with her.
I made the earth smooth over her, and cleaned my dagger. And at last it was all so ordered that the garden looked even as it looked the morning before, and there was no trace of that which had been done. Neither had any eye beheld it.
And then I rode forth to the tomb that I had found in the great rock, and that the woman’s lover had also found. But there, even as I feared, I came too late, and my work had been done for me.
The man lay dead in the entrance to the tomb with a knife in his throat. The bundle of fodder that he had carried for the ass had been spread out like a couch, and beside it were a jar of water and a brass cup. But the white ass bedecked with silver ornaments was no longer there; and I knew that the man who had slain him had taken it, but he had not taken the twin pearl, for that lay on the open hand of the dead man. There I left it. And I left the dead man to the vultures and jackals. And I saw that all the time the messenger journeyed from that far country another had travelled close behind him, watching to see if he fulfilled his oath, and with the power to slay him if he broke it.
And after that I went back to my own house and lay on my bed, preparing for myself that which I believed should be my last sleep, merging itself in the end in death. But the drug that I took failed me. Sleep, indeed, I obtained, but at noon on the following day I waked again. And in my sleep it was revealed to me that not at this time, nor after this manner, should my death be. There were to be yet two years of waiting for me, while the silver seed woke to life where I had set it, even in the very heart of death.
VI
It was said in the village that my beloved had fled with a man of another race—for the two had been seen together—thus bringing shame upon her father’s house. It was also said by others that the river had taken her, for she was accustomed to wash herself in the water of the river. And some said one thing and some another, but none said the truth, nor did any accuse me.
And as the tale of the months grew, I became greatly changed. No longer could the beauty of any woman move me, nor could any enterprise attract me. Had fabulous wealth been within my reach I would not have put out my hand to it. I was almost without wishes, save the wish to be alone. Never was there a guest in my house, nor the sound of music, nor laughter. Long and sweet sleep at night had left me, and I slept fitfully at strange hours, haunted always by dreams that seemed so real, that waking I scarce knew whether I was awake or slept, nor which was the substance and which the shadow.
Waking or sleeping, the thought of her whom I loved was ever present with me. I longed to call her up from death that I might tell her how nearly I had come to forgiveness, and how slight a thing in the end had driven me to madness. It grieved me that she would never know that.
There was no longer any jealousy or rancour in my heart towards her. She had been ever as she had said, as thistledown caught in the wind of destiny.
After the first year of waiting, I sometimes saw her as I walked in my garden in the cool of the evening. She came and vanished again, like smoke scattered by the wind. And as the second year drew on, the vision came more frequently and remained longer with me. Even I heard her speak. She stood beneath my orange-tree, and she opened her robe wide and pointed to the wound in her breast.
“You have hurt me,” she said. ‘‘How could you hurt her whom you loved?”
And at last the day came when the tree of death should rise to twice the height of a man, and should drink my blood, and should die again, and all betwixt a sunrise and a sunset.
The sun was not fully risen when I examined the earth over her grave. None other but myself was permitted to come into that part of the garden, and it was with my own hands that I had kept it free of all chance growth. And I saw now that there were in the earth crevices like the picture of the sun’s rays, and through the centres of these something hard pushed its way. It was rounded at the top, and it was dark green and crimson intermingled, and on the surface of it were little drops of moisture as though it sweated with the struggle to get through.
Then I went back through the empty garden to the empty house, for on the day before I had sent forth those that waited on me. And I bathed myself and put on a white robe, and then I saw to it that the doors were securely locked, and came back to the tree of death. It had risen now to the height of my knee, and it was still a single shaft tapering upwards, and it seemed to me that a light vapour came from it. And sitting down I watched this great miracle.
When it was the height of a man many stems separated themselves from the main stem, save at the base where they were joined to it, and these lolled outwards and grew no more. But from these side stems a shower of tendrils began to descend, writhing in the air as if they had been serpents. And looking closely I saw that each of them was covered with little mouths that opened and shut continuously. But the centre stem grew upwards tapering still, but carrying at the summit a curious mass. This increased in size, and I knew that from it would come the flower of the tree.
It was the hour of noon. I withdrew myself a little and still watched. From the side stems the trail of tendrils descended continuously, and they covered the ground so that over the place where I had laid her there was a moving sea of green and crimson. And shortly after noon the heavy mass at the head of the stem separated into three pods ; the skin of them was like clear, thin silk, and they had veins like the veins of a man. I could see them swelling more and more, and that something white seemed to be struggling within them, and the top of the stem rocked to and fro a little as if in agony.
So far all had gone on in silence. But suddenly the skin of one of those pods was rent from end to end, and in the rending it made a sound like a woman that is hurt. From the burst pod there leapt a white flower of gorgeous beauty, greater than I have ever seen, and from the flower there fell a cloud of gold dust, sparkling in the sunlight, and the perfume of it, even at the distance where I stood, was of almost intolerable richness.
Then I cried aloud the words that came to me:
“O tree of love!” I cried. “ You whose roots have devoured and taken into your being all that I have loved on earth, now take me also, that at the last we may be mingled together, and after the anguish and evil of life there may be peace. O tree of love and death, I come to you!”
And I went forward slowly and knelt beside the tree, looking upwards. And twice I heard that cry as of a woman that is hurt as the second and third flower burst forth. The clouds of gold dust blinded my eyes, and the heavy scent suffocated me. I fell at full length among those ramping tendrils [1] whose little mouths sought my blood. And the last sleep came.
I have written this, I who have been long dead, so that my bones are dust and for countless years my name has been forgotten. And I have written in a strange language and in a strange land, and by the living hand of one whom I know not.
Barry Pain (1864 – 1928)
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1. In the context of the story, “ramping” indicates the tendrils of the tree “creep up.” ↩
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