Can Such Things Be? By Ambrose Bierce
HAÏTA THE SHEPHERD
In the heart of Haïta the illusions of youth had not been
supplanted by those of age and experience. His thoughts were
pure and pleasant, for his life was simple and his soul devoid of
ambition. He rose with the sun and went forth to pray at the
shrine of Hastur, the god of shepherds, who heard and was
pleased. After performance of this pious rite Haïta
unbarred the gate of the fold and with a cheerful mind drove his
flock afield, eating his morning meal of curds and oat cake as he
went, occasionally pausing to add a few berries, cold with dew,
or to drink of the waters that came away from the hills to join
the stream in the middle of the valley and be borne along with
it, he knew not whither.
During the long summer day, as his sheep cropped the good grass
which the gods had made to grow for them, or lay with their
forelegs doubled under their breasts and chewed the cud,
Haïta, reclining in the shadow of a tree, or sitting upon a
rock, played so sweet music upon his reed pipe that sometimes
from the corner of his eye he got accidental glimpses of the
minor sylvan deities, leaning forward out of the copse to hear;
but if he looked at them directly they vanished. From this - for
he must be thinking if he would not turn into one of his own
sheep - he drew the solemn inference that happiness may come if
not sought, but if looked for will never be seen; for next to the
favor of Hastur, who never disclosed himself, Haïta most
valued the friendly interest of his neighbors, the shy immortals
of the wood and stream. At nightfall he drove his flock back to
the fold, saw that the gate was secure and retired to his cave
for refreshment and for dreams.
So passed his life, one day like another, save when the storms
uttered the wrath of an offended god. Then Haïta cowered in
his cave, his face hidden in his hands, and prayed that he alone
might be punished for his sins and the world saved from
destruction. Sometimes when there was a great rain, and the
stream came out of its banks, compelling him to urge his
terrified flock to the uplands, he interceded for the people in
the cities which he had been told lay in the plain beyond the two
blue hills forming the gateway of his valley.
“It is kind of thee, O Hastur,” so he prayed,
“to give me mountains so near to my dwelling and my fold
that I and my sheep can escape the angry torrents; but the rest
of the world thou must thyself deliver in some way that I know
not of, or I will no longer worship thee.”
And Hastur, knowing that Haïta was a youth who kept his
word, spared the cities and turned the waters into the sea.
So he had lived since he could remember. He could not rightly
conceive any other mode of existence. The holy hermit who dwelt
at the head of the valley, a full hour’s journey away, from
whom he had heard the tale of the great cities where dwelt people
- poor souls! - who had no sheep, gave him no knowledge of that
early time, when, so he reasoned, he must have been small and
helpless like a lamb.
It was through thinking on these mysteries and marvels, and on
that horrible change to silence and decay which he felt sure must
some time come to him, as he had seen it come to so many of his
flock - as it came to all living things except the birds - that
Haïta first became conscious how miserable and hopeless was
his lot.
“It is necessary,” he said, “that I know whence
and how I came; for how can one perform his duties unless able to
judge what they are by the way in which he was intrusted with
them? And what contentment can I have when I know not how long
it is going to last? Perhaps before another sun I may be
changed, and then what will become of the sheep? What, indeed,
will have become of me?”
Pondering these things Haïta became melancholy and morose.
He no longer spoke cheerfully to his flock, nor ran with alacrity
to the shrine of Hastur. In every breeze he heard whispers of
malign deities whose existence he now first observed. Every
cloud was a portent signifying disaster, and the darkness was
full of terrors. His reed pipe when applied to his lips gave out
no melody, but a dismal wail; the sylvan and riparian
intelligences no longer thronged the thicket-side to listen, but
fled from the sound, as he knew by the stirred leaves and bent
flowers. He relaxed his vigilance and many of his sheep strayed
away into the hills and were lost. Those that remained became
lean and ill for lack of good pasturage, for he would not seek it
for them, but conducted them day after day to the same spot,
through mere abstraction, while puzzling about life and death -
of immortality he knew not.
One day while indulging in the gloomiest reflections he suddenly
sprang from the rock upon which he sat, and with a determined
gesture of the right hand exclaimed: “I will no longer be a
suppliant for knowledge which the gods withhold. Let them look
to it that they do me no wrong. I will do my duty as best I can
and if I err upon their own heads be it!”
Suddenly, as he spoke, a great brightness fell about him, causing
him to look upward, thinking the sun had burst through a rift in
the clouds; but there were no clouds. No more than an
arm’s length away stood a beautiful maiden. So beautiful
she was that the flowers about her feet folded their petals in
despair and bent their heads in token of submission; so sweet her
look that the humming birds thronged her eyes, thrusting their
thirsty bills almost into them, and the wild bees were about her
lips. And such was her brightness that the shadows of all
objects lay divergent from her feet, turning as she moved.
Haïta was entranced. Rising, he knelt before her in
adoration, and she laid her hand upon his head.
“Come,” she said in a voice that had the music of all
the bells of his flock - “come, thou art not to worship me,
who am no goddess, but if thou art truthful and dutiful I will
abide with thee.”
Haïta seized her hand, and stammering his joy and gratitude
arose, and hand in hand they stood and smiled into each
other’s eyes. He gazed on her with reverence and rapture.
He said: “I pray thee, lovely maid, tell me thy name and
whence and why thou comest.”
At this she laid a warning finger on her lip and began to
withdraw. Her beauty underwent a visible alteration that made
him shudder, he knew not why, for still she was beautiful. The
landscape was darkened by a giant shadow sweeping across the
valley with the speed of a vulture. In the obscurity the
maiden’s figure grew dim and indistinct and her voice
seemed to come from a distance, as she said, in a tone of
sorrowful reproach: “Presumptuous and ungrateful youth!
must I then so soon leave thee? Would nothing do but thou must
at once break the eternal compact?”
Inexpressibly grieved, Haïta fell upon his knees and
implored her to remain - rose and sought her in the deepening
darkness - ran in circles, calling to her aloud, but all in
vain. She was no longer visible, but out of the gloom he heard
her voice saying: “Nay, thou shalt not have me by seeking.
Go to thy duty, faithless shepherd, or we shall never meet
again.”
Night had fallen; the wolves were howling in the hills and the
terrified sheep crowding about Haïta’s feet. In the
demands of the hour he forgot his disappointment, drove his sheep
to the fold and repairing to the place of worship poured out his
heart in gratitude to Hastur for permitting him to save his
flock, then retired to his cave and slept.
When Haïta awoke the sun was high and shone in at the cave,
illuminating it with a great glory. And there, beside him, sat
the maiden. She smiled upon him with a smile that seemed the
visible music of his pipe of reeds. He dared not speak, fearing
to offend her as before, for he knew not what he could venture to
say.
“Because,” she said, “thou didst thy duty by
the flock, and didst not forget to thank Hastur for staying the
wolves of the night, I am come to thee again. Wilt thou have me
for a companion?”
“Who would not have thee forever?” replied
Haïta. “Oh! never again leave me until - until I -
change and become silent and motionless.”
Haïta had no word for death.
“I wish, indeed,” he continued, “that thou wert
of my own sex, that we might wrestle and run races and so never
tire of being together.”
At these words the maiden arose and passed out of the cave, and
Haïta, springing from his couch of fragrant boughs to
overtake and detain her, observed to his astonishment that the
rain was falling and the stream in the middle of the valley had
come out of its banks. The sheep were bleating in terror, for
the rising waters had invaded their fold. And there was danger
for the unknown cities of the distant plain.
It was many days before Haïta saw the maiden again. One day
he was returning from the head of the valley, where he had gone
with ewe’s milk and oat cake and berries for the holy
hermit, who was too old and feeble to provide himself with
food.
“Poor old man!” he said aloud, as he trudged along
homeward. “I will return to-morrow and bear him on my back
to my own dwelling, where I can care for him. Doubtless it is
for this that Hastur has reared me all these many years, and
gives me health and strength.”
As he spoke, the maiden, clad in glittering garments, met him in
the path with a smile that took away his breath.
“I am come again,” she said, “to dwell with
thee if thou wilt now have me, for none else will. Thou mayest
have learned wisdom, and art willing to take me as I am, nor care
to know.”
Haïta threw himself at her feet. “Beautiful
being,” he cried, “if thou wilt but deign to accept
all the devotion of my heart and soul - after Hastur be served -
it is thine forever. But, alas! thou art capricious and
wayward. Before to-morrow’s sun I may lose thee again.
Promise, I beseech thee, that however in my ignorance I may
offend, thou wilt forgive and remain always with me.”
Scarcely had he finished speaking when a troop of bears came out
of the hills, racing toward him with crimson mouths and fiery
eyes. The maiden again vanished, and he turned and fled for his
life. Nor did he stop until he was in the cot of the holy
hermit, whence he had set out. Hastily barring the door against
the bears he cast himself upon the ground and wept.
“My son,” said the hermit from his couch of straw,
freshly gathered that morning by Haïta’s hands,
“it is not like thee to weep for bears - tell me what
sorrow hath befallen thee, that age may minister to the hurts of
youth with such balms as it hath of its wisdom.”
Haïta told him all: how thrice he had met the radiant maid,
and thrice she had left him forlorn. He related minutely all
that had passed between them, omitting no word of what had been
said.
When he had ended, the holy hermit was a moment silent, then
said: “My son, I have attended to thy story, and I know the
maiden. I have myself seen her, as have many. Know, then, that
her name, which she would not even permit thee to inquire, is
Happiness. Thou saidst the truth to her, that she is capricious
for she imposeth conditions that man cannot fulfill, and
delinquency is punished by desertion. She cometh only when
unsought, and will not be questioned. One manifestation of
curiosity, one sign of doubt, one expression of misgiving, and
she is away! How long didst thou have her at any time before she
fled?”
“Only a single instant,” answered Haïta,
blushing with shame at the confession. “Each time I drove
her away in one moment.”
“Unfortunate youth!” said the holy hermit, “but
for thine indiscretion thou mightst have had her for
two.”
Index | Next: An inhabitant of Carcosa