A Voyage to Arcturus by David Lindsay (the false prince series .TXT) 📕

“At all events, he will be the cause of your death. But what does it matter? The great point is you are quitting this futile world.⁠ ⁠… Well, Gangnet, I see you’re as slack as ever. I suppose I must do the work.”

He jumped into the lake and began to run through the shallow water, splashing it about. When he came to the nearest island, the water was up to his thighs. The island was lozenge-shaped, and about fifteen feet from end to end. It was composed of a sort of light brown peat; there was no form of living vegetation on its surface. Krag went behind it, and started shoving it toward the current, apparently without having unduly to exert himself. When it was within the influence of the stream the others waded out to him, and all three climbed on.

The voyage began. The current was not travelling at more than two miles an hour. The sun glared down on their heads mercilessly, and there was no shade or prospect of shade. Maskull sat down near the edge, and periodically splashed water over his head. Gangnet sat on his haunches next to him. Krag paced up and down with short, quick steps, like an animal in a cage. The lake widened out more and more, and the width of the stream increased in proportion, until they seemed to themselves to be floating on the bosom of some broad, flowing estuary.

Krag suddenly bent over and snatched off Gangnet’s hat, crushing it together in his hairy fist and throwing it far out into the stream.

“Why should you disguise yourself like a woman?” he asked with a harsh guffaw⁠—“Show Maskull your face. Perhaps he has seen it somewhere.”

Gangnet did remind Maskull of someone, but he could not say of whom. His dark hair curled down to his neck, his brow was wide, lofty, and noble, and there was an air of serious sweetness about the whole man that was strangely appealing to the feelings.

“Let Maskull judge,” he said with proud composure, “whether I have anything to be ashamed of.”

“There can be nothing but magnificent thoughts in that head,” muttered Maskull, staring hard at him.

“A capital valuation. Gangnet is the king of poets. But what happens when poets try to carry through practical enterprises?”

“What enterprises?” asked Maskull, in astonishment.

“What have you got on hand, Gangnet? Tell Maskull.”

“There are two forms of practical activity,” replied Gangnet calmly. “One may either build up, or destroy.”

“No, there’s a third species. One may steal⁠—and not even know one is stealing. One may take the purse and leave the money.”

Maskull raised his eyebrows. “Where have you two met before?”

“I’m paying Gangnet a visit today, Maskull, but once upon a time Gangnet paid me a visit.”

“Where?”

“In my home⁠—whatever that is. Gangnet is a common thief.”

“You are speaking in riddles, and I don’t understand you. I don’t know either of you, but it’s clear that if Gangnet is a poet, you’re a buffoon. Must you go on talking? I want to be quiet.”

Krag laughed, but said no more. Presently he lay down at full length, with his face to the sun, and in a few minutes was fast asleep, and snoring disagreeably. Maskull kept glancing over at his yellow, repulsive face with strong disfavour.

Two hours passed. The land on either side was more than a mile distant. In front of them there was no land at all. Behind them, the Lichstorm Mountains were blotted out from view by a haze that had gathered together. The sky ahead, just above the horizon, began to be of a strange colour. It was an intense jale-blue. The whole northern atmosphere was stained with ulfire.

Maskull’s mind grew disturbed. “Alppain is rising, Gangnet.”

Gangnet smiled wistfully. “It begins to trouble you?”

“It is so solemn⁠—tragical, almost⁠—yet it recalls me to Earth. Life was no longer important⁠—but this is important.”

“Daylight is night to this other daylight. Within half an hour you will be like a man who has stepped from a dark forest into the open day. Then you will ask yourself how you could have been blind.”

The two men went on watching the blue sunrise. The entire sky in the north, halfway up to the zenith, was streaked with extraordinary colours, among which jale and dolm predominated. Just as the principal character of an ordinary dawn is mystery, the outstanding character of this dawn was wildness. It did not baffle the understanding, but the heart. Maskull felt no inarticulate craving to seize and perpetuate the sunrise, and make it his own. Instead of that, it agitated and tormented him, like the opening bars of a supernatural symphony.

When he looked back to the south, Branchspell’s day had lost its glare, and he could gaze at the immense white sun without flinching. He instinctively turned to the north again, as one turns from darkness to light.

“If those were Crystalman’s thoughts that you showed me before, Gangnet, these must be his feelings. I mean it literally. What I am feeling now, he must have felt before me.”

“He is all feeling, Maskull⁠—don’t you understand that?”

Maskull was feeding greedily on the spectacle before him; he did not reply. His face was set like a rock, but his eyes were dim with the beginning of tears. The sky blazed deeper and deeper; it was obvious that Alppain was about to lift itself above the sea. The island had by this time floated past the mouth of the estuary. On three sides they were surrounded by water. The haze crept up behind them and shut out all sight of land. Krag was still sleeping⁠—an ugly, wrinkled monstrosity.

Maskull looked over the side at the flowing water. It had lost its dark green colour, and was now of a perfect crystal transparency.

“Are we already on the Ocean, Gangnet?”

“Yes.”

“Then nothing remains except my death.”

“Don’t think of death, but life.”

“It’s growing brighter⁠—at the same time, more sombre, Krag seems to be fading away.⁠ ⁠…”

“There is Alppain!” said Gangnet, touching his