The North Star/Chapter 49
XLIX
DEATH IN THE DESERT
As Thorgills and Eogan sat at supper in the house of the latter’s Arabian friend, a horseman of the desert drove up. Their host invited him into the house and to a seat at the table. The stranger, who was an Arab and a physician, said that he must leave in the morning to return to the desert. “I have left a hermit in his cave, ill and alone. He hath dwelt there solitary for many months, but will dwell there not many more days. I would only leave to bring him some medicine, for he is ill unto death. I marvel that such a man should lead such a humble, solitary life. He is wonderfully handsome, tall and blond, and when he walks he seems as a king or as a mighty warrior coming home from victory.”
Thorgills’ heart stood almost still. He could scarcely find voice to say, as he rose and bowed to the Arab doctor: “Friend, when thou dost return on the morrow to the desert and to thy—thy hermit, I would crave as a precious boon to go with thee.”
And reading Thorgills’ thought, Eogan rose and said: “I, too, would ask the same boon, honored sir.”
The Arab, though greatly astonished at the request, acceded to their wish.
Five times had the sun of Palestine risen and set on the Arab and his two companions. The heat, the intolerable glow of the burning sand, had well-nigh exhausted their strength, and both Eogan and Thorgills feared they would not be able to reach their journey’s end.
One morning they came within sight of a low, barren, rocky hill. The Arab said, “In the side of yonder hill is the cave where dwells the hermit I did leave so ill.”
“Didst thou ever learn his name?” asked Thorgills.
“He would give no name, even to his brother hermits. ‘I am but a poor pilgrim to the Holy Land,’ he would say, and no more would he tell. When I came to see him first, I knew he was of the far North, and that the heat of the Syrian desert had withered his strength, as the ice doth dwindle in the sun. Then, too, I could discern that some mighty sorrow had crushed out the spirit of life; so that it drags along too wounded to lift up the ailing body.”
Thorgills bowed his head, and it seemed as if he could not breathe for the sudden pain at his heart. His king! his dauntless viking! so crushed with sorrow and all the strong spirit conquered!
None of the little party spoke for a few moments. They had reached the foot of the hill, and the Arab, guiding them, had gone before up the steep, rocky path. In single file, the horsemen began the ascent to the cave. The narrow path led up to a shelving ledge, that spread before the entrance of the cave, overhanging a sheer, unguarded precipice. Near the door of the cave, there had been hollowed out of the hillside rough stalls for horses. Here the travellers left their steeds, and with the Arab still leading, they crouched down and entered the dark cavern.
The lamp suspended from the ceiling of the cell gave just sufficient light to discern the few objects in the rocky room. One brilliant, star-like point seemed to concentrate all the feeble rays of lamplight; and Thorgills recognized, with a pang of memory, the jewelled crucifix he knew so well. The sound of heavy breathing brought them to the couch spread upon a corner of the floor. Thorgills stooped down to see the sleeper, tossing in the cruel unrest of fever. Tall, gaunt, wasted, there was scarcely anything of the valiant viking of the past, except the keen eyes now vividly gray in their fevered light. Thorgills bent over and whispered, in soothing tone: “I have found thee—I, thy own true scald, thy scald who would have walked to the ends of the earth to find thee.”
The sick man smiled as a tired child, and held Thorgills’ hand for a space. Then he seemed to sleep; and when he awoke, Eogan O’Niall spoke a few words recalling their former friendship. Not many words would the Arab allow them; and for days they had to be content to watch the hermit as he slept. Leaving them some quieting draughts of medicines, and telling them the end would be soon, the Arab parted from them to return to his home.
One evening the hermit seemed to be better. He called Thorgills and Eogan to his side. His voice was clear and his eyes were full of intelligence. The scald was overjoyed. “Thou wilt live!” he cried, “and we will go home to our own land together, even as we went from Ireland, in the days when we first knew Sir Eogan here. Thou, my King, shalt come into thy kingdom again. Norraway shall be thine.”
The hermit smiled sadly, looking at the scald and at the Irish chief affectionately. Taking Thorgills’ hand, he said with gentle emphasis: “Nay! my faithful scald, we will journey no more together. Thou wilt return to Norway to thy young wife, and thou wilt live to aid the cause of Christ. When I spoke to the Father of Christendom at Rome, my heart was lifted up; and I did promise him to take up my sword and join the Christian princes to save the Holy Tomb of Christ. But now my sword is sheathed forever; for death holds the scabbard. Nay! nay! Thorgills, thou dost seem as tearful as any maiden; and Sir Eogan here, who hath so gallant a renown on the field with warriors, his eyes do seem as April heavens, so blue and so full of falling drops. Nay, friends! Do ye love the rough viking so strongly? Now I go on the last voyage, and the ship sinks out of sight. Two charges do I leave ye, my friends. Of thee, Sir Eogan, would I ask to tell the Christians of thy land to remember my poor half-heathen Norraway, and help her to come closer to the Christ. I did hope to live until all the old gods had passed away; but it hath been denied me. And thou, Thorgills!—O my faithful, true-hearted scald!”—the pilgrim’s voice broke, and for a few moments he could not speak. Thorgills had hidden his face in the drapery of the couch,—“thou wilt keep my memory in thy love, and thou wilt keep the work that lay so near my own heart close to thine—thou and thy gentle Christian wife. Thou wilt often remember how I lifted my sword and gave the challenge to Thor, and swore to be the champion of Christ; and let Norraway ever remember I gave my land to the Cross.”
Then the hermit seemed to sleep, and his two friends moved softly away from his side. Thorgills went to the door of the cave. Day was declining, and the sky over the gray desert waste was vivid red and burning gold. The scald looked down from the height of the hillside cavern upon the arid plain that seemed as a shifting sea of sand. As twilight deepened, one fair star shone out in the crimson heavens. It brought to Thorgills’ memory that last night upon the “Alruna,” when, within sight of the shores of Norway, they had hailed the “North Star” and King Olaf had come into his kingdom.
“O my King!” whispered the scald, with a catching sob in his voice, “there shines thy North Star, and now thou goest to claim thy kingdom, the deathless kingdom of the Christ thou didst serve so lovingly. Thou goest to the crown none shall ever snatch from thee.”
The sound of a voice raised in eager tones startled Thorgills and he turned back into the cavern. The dying pilgrim had raised himself upon one arm, while the other was waving swiftly to and fro. Eogan O’Niall had come to the couch again.
“Einar! Einar!” called the pilgrim, “what didst thou say did break in the crashing of thy bow? Only thy bow was broken; and thou didst say that Norway broke from my hands. Einar! Einar! say it again! What was it broke? ‘Norway from thy hands, my King!’ Nay! nay! Einar! There was another break, for the heart of Olaf Tryggevesson was broken in the crashing of thy bow. Einar! Einar! There was yet another break, for my poor Queen Thyra, she that wept away all my scant patience, her heart too was broken in the bending of thy bow. What was it broke, Einar? ‘Norway from thy hands, my King!’”
The hermit’s voice died down. His arm ceased to wave, and Thorgills laid him gently back on his couch. He was whispering softly: “Nay! nay! Gudrun! Lift not thy dagger! It were a poor thing to still the heart that beat so true to love of thee.”
He grew very silent for a space. Then, as his lips moved again, Thorgills stooped down to catch the faint words. The hermit’s right hand was feebly grasping at something. “I accept thy challenge, Thor! I am the champion of the Christ!”
A gray shadow drifted over the wasted face. The tall, gaunt form grew rigid as stone.
The North Star of Norway had set. The great viking had made his last voyage. The ship of life sank out of sight, and the dauntless Christian sea-king had come into an everlasting kingdom and crown.
Thorgills fled from the silent couch and stood at the door, in that agony of the spirit that sweeps over human hope when death has rent in twain the bonded hearts that life cannot divide.
Across the silence and the darkness of the desert Thorgills sent out his cry of sorrow, so strong, so startling, it seemed as if a giant heart was breaking in the tone: “My King! My King! My King!”