The Sword of Welleran and Other StoriesDunsany, Lord
Science
The Sword of Welleran and Other Stories
Dunsany, Lord
Fantasy fiction, English
‘But all these sounds cease at the meridian hour, the jewellers in the
market-place lie down in what shadow they can find, and the princes
go back to the cool places in their palaces, and a great hush in
the gleaming air hangs over Babbulkund. But in the cool of the late
afternoon, one of the King’s musicians will awake from dreaming of his
home and will pass his fingers, perhaps, over the strings of his harp
and, with the music, some memory may arise of the wind in the glens of
the mountains that stand in the Isles of Song. Then the musician will
wrench great cries out of the soul of his harp for the sake of the old
memory, and his fellows will awake and all make a song of home, woven
of sayings told in the harbour when the ships came in, and of tales in
the cottages about the people of old time. One by one the other bands
of musicians will take up the song, and Babbulkund, City of Marvel,
will throb with this marvel anew. Just now Nehemoth awakes, the slaves
leap to their feet and bear the palanquin to the outer side of the
great crescent palace between the south and the west, to behold the sun
again. The palanquin, with its ringing bells, goes round once more;
the voices of the jewellers sing again, in the market-place, the song
of the emerald, the song of the sapphire; men talk on the housetops,
beggars wail in the streets, the musicians bend to their work, all the
sounds blend together into one murmur, the voice of Babbulkund speaking
at evening. Lower and lower sinks the sun, till Nehemoth, following
it, comes with his panting slaves to the great purple garden of which
surely thine own country has its songs, from wherever thou art come.
‘There he alights from his palanquin and goes up to a throne of ivory
set in the garden’s midst, facing full westwards, and sits there alone,
long regarding the sunlight until it is quite gone. At this hour
trouble comes into the face of Nehemoth. Men have heard him muttering
at the time of sunset: “Even I too, even I too.” Thus do King Nehemoth
and the sun make their glorious ambits about Babbulkund.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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