Haita The Shepherd
In the heart of Haita 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 Haita 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, Haita, 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,
Haita 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 Haita 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 Haita 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 Haita 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 Haita 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.
Haita 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."
Haita 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, Haita 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 Haita'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 Haita 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 Haita. "Oh! never again
leave me until--until I--change and become silent and motionless."
Haita 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
Haita, 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 Haita 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."
Haita 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 Haita'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."
Haita 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 Haita, 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."
-THE END-
Ambrose Bierce's short story: Haita the shepherd
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
