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Hephaestus shifted crabwise on his ankles, Refusing every glance until the rite Was finished, and the people in the room Departed. Then he ducked and disappeared, Eluding even Hermes, even the sea-grey Eyes of sage Athene. He was bound For Daniel, whom he haunted every day In the same likeness he had first assumed When Daniel, missing the comfort of his pipe bowl, Got it again, and wondered. Bruce and Dora, Heeled by their elders, one of whom still wept, Went home another way; and the inaudible Deities went home--to the green hilltop, The high glade where Ares, though he heard, Sent down no shout of welcome. Aphrodite, Following to where the mountains forked, Deserted there; dipping away and flying, Like one of her own doves, to Daniel's house.

He flushed, remembering how much she knew If dreams had body, and if at the dance It was her own live lips that so rebuked him. But no, that couldn't be. He said it again, And turned to the lame tinker. "We'll not stop, For her or anybody. Tell me now--" Whereat Hephaestus grinned, and Aphrodite, Stamping her white foot, that all but showed Immortal through the slipper, let them be.

Hour after hour, that night and every night, Berrien strove to riddle his strange words, His mumbled words, that stubbornly kept on Refusing what was whispered. What was that? Or was it anything? Was someone by them, Whispering to him? She lay and wondered, Doubtful of his mind, that so could mumble, Endlessly, at nothing, maybe nothing.

But it was never nothing. Aphrodite, Going between Hephaestus' bed and his, Was a changed goddess, bearing every charm Of beauty she possessed, that he once more Might madden. Dora came there too, he thought, And wept in her first figure, the demure one, The thin and still one, that was his again-- "It is, it is!" the whisper at his side Said tirelessly, "whenever you will reach And take it. Be the lover you were then, And take it, take it, take it. Go and be Her lover; speak the truth as winter once, As warmness, spoke it for you. Is it late? Is there a foolish thing that now deforms her? And for that thing a father? Is it published That he is the thing's foolish, foolish father? Have none of it. Forget these moments since, And take her. She is yours--see how she weeps And wishes she had Daniel's hands forever-- Forever it could be, if you were bold And shouted without shame the burning truth-- Forever, Daniel, ever down her small Smooth sides; or where her breasts, that breathed for you, Might breathe again." He moaned and turned away, Tormented. And sometimes the whisper died, So that he looked again. It was an artful Death, increasing torment, for the two Shone there as always. They were never gone, Those two, while August lasted; and while summer Saddened on the stalk. For rust had bent The hayheads while he dreamed, and far to north The feet of fall were coming. Daniel rose Each day a wearier man, yet not apostate Ever to his black anvil, where with the smith He lost himself in lessons hot and cold. And still the woman came to call him in. And still he could refuse her. So September, With speckles on its back, slid like a serpent Over the cool slopes; and lucky houses, Filled with a winter's wood, sat where they were, Complacent; while upon the homeless highways Wanderers appeared. So Dora's time Came slowly, slowly on, with few to know Or care when it should come; except Darius, Who prowled each afternoon to Bruce's house, Consoling himself there for being lonely; Except the little roundhead and his anxious Wife; except those strangers up the mountain; And Bruce himself, awaiting it with Dora.

It came, the time of Dora, when no man, No man of all her three, was home for messenger. Darius snored in his own house--a ball Of skin beneath the bedclothes--and the night Was early yet for Bruce, who with his father Tramped the low road from Brownlee's where they worked, And working, thought of Dora--all day long Of Dora's time, next week or the week after.

But it was now, and none of all the three men Home to be her messenger! The doctor-- How could he be told the time had come For pain, for crying out? Then Bruce's mother, Moaning, was so helpless at the door, Calling, calling, calling: "Bruce, where are you? Go and get the doctor! Hurry, boy!" But Bruce was on the low road, and the only Ears that heard were scattered up the sky. Artemis, on top of Silver Mountain, Heard; and woke Athene; and the others, Knowing it was time, went with them both Like falling stars--all of them, like stars, To drop and stand in darkness by the door While Bruce's mother, moaning, called and called: "Where are you, boy? Hurry! Get the doctor!"

And still another heard. But Aphrodite, Listening while Daniel sat, could smile And wait; could think and wait. It was the time For punishing this man who in his dreams Refused her. She could wait and let it work-- The punishment she planned. For she had looked Last night along the valley, and seen coming, Hapless on the highway, two small wanderers, And said: They shall be mine. She heard the moaning Cease, and knew that Artemis was there. The nurse was there, and Dora would be crying Softly: "Save me, save me! Send for him!"

So Aphrodite, gathering her sly strength, Waited no longer. Where were those poor wanderers-- That pair? But she had seen them, and she knew. She saw them even now at the abandoned Chapel down the old road, trying doors And windows, and forlornly turning in Where nothing was but darkness; and in darkness, Nothing but cobwebs. Smiling a last smile, Vindictive, at the sitter, she uprose And scented the whole night, the outer night Of fields and barns and houses, as she flew And flew, tinting earth with a false dawn As in her brilliant singleness she flew And flew to be the first where Hermes came.

For even now the tall nurse--goddess again In the dooryard where they clustered--told her peers: "The time! It is the time! Go, two of you-- Hermes, shall it be? With Gabriel?-- And bring him here, the man of herbs she cries for. I could do all alone, for I am skilful, I am the green deliveress. Yet go-- Gabriel, with Hermes--while I soothe And ready her. The horses that he drives-- You hear them now, drawing the tired one home. But have no pity. Hurry and intercept him. Say it is the nurse--say anything-- But bring him here, the mortal man of herbs, Between you lest she die." The feet of Hermes Glistened as the staff in his right hand Touched Gabriel on the nearer wing; then lightly Touched him again. And so the pair departed. Before the goddess turned they were a rustle In the far woods; and Artemis went in Where Dora lay. "The doctor--he is sent for. Child! What are you staring at?" For Dora Shuddered, and alternately her eyes Opened and closed in terror, as at brightness Impossible, brought near. But then she smiled. "It was my own mistake--the way I am. You were so different. You shone in the door Like candles, you were like a statue lady-- Different from us. I didn't know you. Now I do, though." She permitted hands To smooth, to cool her as she lay in fever, And as the pain returned; while Artemis Looked gravely, out of eyes she kept in shadow, At the small face whereon the truth had fallen; Looked, and wondered fearfully. Had Hermes, Had Gabriel heard the horses? Found the man?

But Aphrodite was there first--an ancient Gypsy, rising out of the dim road And shrilling between wheels: "Doctor, Doctor! Come to the dead church--the one they don't Sing songs in any more. A poverty fellow And his sick queen--not my people, but I pity, Pity them--they lie in the carriage shed. Or she does, the queen. In all the world No friend, and both afraid. They have walked miles From nowhere, and no house would take them in. She whimpers with the young thing in her belly, The babe she has to bear. Come with me, Doctor, And help her. Be the one man in the world To help her." "Who are you?" His glasses peered Through the poor light the buggy lamp cast down.

"Romany." "And what's this? You mean the church--"

"The old one." "Even mice won't go near that. Mischief--you mean mischief. Out of the way, Granny!" But she seized the reins and said: "Good doctor! Be the one man in the world--"

And why it was he knew not, but he went Where she did, down the sod road toward that moldy Building where no hymnsong had been heard Since war days, and where beggars--did she lie?-- Might be or not be. So when Hermes came, And Gabriel, there was silence on the highway-- Soft as they listened, never the good sound Of hooves, of whirring felloes. Long they looked And listened; then were back in Bruce's dooryard, Signalling their presence; so that Artemis, Stooping at the window, saw them desolate, And knew herself defeated. "Aphrodite!" She only thought the word, but Dora stared And begged of her: "Has someone--has he come? The doctor? Bruce? Where's Bruce?" "Be patient, dear. In time, in time. The doctor was not found. But there is time, and I myself have medicines-- You trust me?" Dora nodded. "Then I'll go, child, For certain things--for such help as I need. Be patient a few minutes. She is here." For Bruce's mother, torturing her hands As if they were another's on the rack, Stood by them, bent and weeping. All were there When Artemis, the doorlight shut behind her, Shouted. Even Aphrodite smiled And innocently listened, fair as ever In the fine light that clothed her--no more gypsy, And no more theater woman. Even Ares-- All of them were there, with lame Hephaestus Filling his low place among the pear trees, When the green goddess called. "Her breath is going. Enemy of all"--to Aphrodite-- "I shall waste none on you. I only say, The girl inside is going. Which of you Can help me, and help her? The middle angel-- Second of you three--immense of wing-- Raphael--have you knowledge?" There was mournful Music in the answer. "I have mended, Green one, all the wounds made here on earth-- Or there--by deed of angels. In the old days They fell--not such as we are--and their fall, As of dark stars that burned, corrupted the sons, The daughters of frail man. If this is such--"

And Bruce's father, panting on the low road, Wondered why his son would never rest.

The risen sun, sparkling upon their bridles, Hastened the roan horses; and brought Bruce-- Brought even the stiff doctor--beams of hope, Of something like belief; though Bruce remembered, And groaned as he remembered, how the nurse, Weeping, had looked afraid when he came home; How she and the dark man she had for helper, Bending above the sufferer, grew sad, Grew guilty as he came, hearing with him His little mother's whimpers, and the cry-- Sudden, as if death were in the room-- Of Dora when she saw him. And his father's Feebleness--now he remembered that, And groaned. "But couldn't the nurse--for she was there-- Wouldn't the nurse have known?" "I tell you, boy, I have no nurse. Something is stranger here-- Giddup!--than God is ever going to tell me. Nurse? There was no such." And the horses galloped, Jingling their bright bridles, till the dooryard Darkened them, and Bruce's mother stumbled, Her apron at her face, among the plum trees.

"I am alone," she cried, "except for him--" She pointed where her husband, on a stone As grey as he was, sat and held his forehead-- "We are alone now, my boy. Too late, Doctor. Even the nurse is gone. The child, The dear child, is dead. They both are dead-- Dora, and the other one that never, Never, never breathed." She clutched at Bruce, Feeling the doctor brush them as he passed, Then feeling not at all. She only nodded, Nodded, as her son repeated: "Dead-- Dora, she is dead." And bore her in, A limp superfluous bundle. "Oh, my boy!"-- Perceptibly her white lips lived again-- "Beautiful! One thing about her going, Oh, my boy, was beautiful. She saw-- Or thought she saw--ten angels in the room. She counted them. But only three had wings. She counted the big wings. And said the nurse Was queen above all others." "Nurse? What nurse?" The doctor in the doorway shook his head, Frowning, as if to free it from the cobweb Sound of that false word. "There was no such--"

But the small mother never would believe-- He knew it--and Bruce never would believe. Who had this tall impostor woman been? And why? And who the other one? Bruce had said: "A teacher, too--her friend." There was no such--

"You were. And I was Dora's. What I did--"

"You did. But never tell it. As my friend In sorrow, never say it. There are ears--"

"Regret!" The speed of Artemis redoubled As fury filled her. "Lying, laughing word! You poison the whole dawn with it, as then You poisoned--for I know you did--the thorns, The rare leaves I used." But Hermes cried: "Peace, peace between you, daughters! What is done Is done. There the ship rides that we take-- As one we take it, homing to those lands Where sleep is our best portion. Only sleep."

He sighed, and the archangels echoed him: Those three whose sire, unknown to them last night, Had dreamed again--a star above a stable. "Not even sleep," said Michael. "No, not even Sleep," droned weary Gabriel. But Raphael's Sadness was for Artemis to see, And seeing, to have pity on, that no word Henceforth could express. For now the ship Whistled, and the spires above the harbor Glistened, and the hawsers, letting go, Dangled in salt. So easterly they sailed, And sailed; then south a little. And the crew Thought only of the Pillars, of the inland Sea where waves were smaller. But these ten, Prone on the prow, disdained the autumn danger Of storm, of the dark swell. Their daily vision-- Common to them all, since reconciled-- Was the long night ahead; or over Asia, Centuries upon centuries of flying, Flying where no desert, green with the Word, Blossomed and blessed them. Now as in a dream Never to be redreamed the hills behind them, Huddling that valley, muffled its fine cries Of people trapped in sorrow. Even its glad souls, Silenced, were obscure as drops of dew Hung in the wild Antipodes. No mortal Summer would be given these again: These deities, these angels, who as the dark sea Heaved went on themselves as waves do, Wearily, yet smiling as in a dream.

This book has been designed and printed by Carroll Coleman at The Prairie Press in Iowa City, Iowa. The types are Caslon and Frye's Ornamented and the paper is Linweave Early American.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

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