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CHAPTER X
Wherever they went now was sand, and a dull haze that made the sun
look like a copper coin. And a great silence fell on the caravan,
and nothing was heard but the crunch of the camels' pads and the
tinkle of the camels' bells. And no green thing was seen.
And a great terror fell on the caravan, so that one night a third
of the caravan deserted. The rest went on in silence under the dull
sun. And now they came across a village of white skeletons grinning
in the silent sand. And at night there was nothing heard, not even
the barking of a dog. And others of the caravan deserted, and others
were lost.
And now they had come so far into the desert that they could not
return, but must keep on their way, and on the fifth day they came
to the Hill of the Drum. And all through the night they could not
sleep for the booming of the Drum. And some of the caravan went
mad there, and fled screaming into the waste.
And now there was only a great haze about them, and they looked at
one another with terror, saying: "Were we ever any place where green
was, where birds sang, or there was sweet water? Or maybe we are dead.
Or maybe this was all our life, and the pleasant towns, and the
lamplight in the villages, and the apricots in the garden, and our
wives and children, maybe they were all a dream that we woke in the
middle of. Let us lie down and sleep that we may dream again."
But Marco Polo would not let them lie down, for to lie down was death.
But he drove them onward. And again they complained: "Surely God
never saw this place that He left it so terrible. Surely He was
never here. He was never here."
And now that their minds were pitched to the height of madness,
the warlocks of the desert took shape and jeered at them, and the
white-sheeted ghosts flitted alongside of them, and the goblins of
the Gobi harried them from behind. And the sun was like dull copper
through the haze, and the moon like a guttering candle, and stars
there were none.
And when the moon was at its full, they came to the Hill of the Bell.
And through the night the Bell went GONGH, GONGH, GONGH, until they
could feel it in every fiber of their bodies, and their skin itched
with it. They would stop their ears. But they would hear it in the
palms of their hands and the soles of their feet. GONGH, GONGH, GONGH.
And when they left the Hill of the Bell there were only six of the
caravan left, and a multitude of white-sheeted ghosts. And the
caravan plodded onward dully. And now the warlocks of the desert
played another cruelty. Afar off they would put a seeming of a lake,
and the travelers would press on gladly, crying, "There is water!
Water! God lives! God lives!" But there was only sand. And now
it would be a green vision, and they would cry: "We have come to
the edge of the desert. After the long night, dawn. God lives!
God lives!" But there would be only sand, sand. And now it would
be a city of shining domes in the distance. And they would nudge
one another and croak, "There are men there, brother, secure streets,
and merchants in their booths; people to talk with, and water for
our poor throats." But there would be only sand, sand, sand. . .
And they would cry like children. "God is dead! Haven't you heard?
Don't you know? God is dead in His heaven, and the warlocks are
loosed on the land!"
And on the last day of the moon they were all but in sight of the
desert's edge, though they didn't know. And the goblins and the
warlocks took counsel, for they were now afraid Marco and his few
people would escape. They gathered together and they read the runes
of the Flowing Sand.
And suddenly the camels rushed screaming into the desert with sudden
panic, and a burning wind came, and the sands rose, and the desert
heeled like a ship, and the day became night.
And young Marco Polo could stand no more. That was the end, the end
of him, the end of the world, the end of everything. There was red
darkness every where, and he could see nobody. "O my Lord Jesus!"
he cried. "O little Golden Bells!" The wind boomed like an organ.
The sand screamed. "O my Lord Jesus! O little Golden Bells!" And
the voices of his father and uncle were like the tweeting birds.
"Where's the lad, Matthew? Where's our lad?" "Mark, Mark, where
have you got to? Lad of our heart, where are you?" But they couldn't
find each other. The sand buffeted them like shuttlecocks. "Boy Mark!"
The sand snarled like a dog; the wind hammered like drums. "Oh, Golden
Bells! O, little Golden Bells! O, my Lord Jesus, must it end here ?"
And the fight went out of him, and a big sob broke in him, and he
lay down to die. . .
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