The Pilgrim and His Pilgrimage
For many, many, weary months the Pilgrim journeyed in the wide and pathless Desert of Facts. So many indeed were the months that the wayworn Pilgrim, himself, came at last to forget their number.
And always, for the Pilgrim, the sky by day was a sky of brass, softened not by so much as a wreath of cloud mist. Always, for him, the hot air was stirred not by so much as the lift of a wild bird’s wing. Never, for him, was the awful stillness of the night broken by voice of his kind, by foot-fall of beast, or by rustle of creeping thing. For the toiling Pilgrim in the vast and pathless Desert of Facts there was no kindly face, no friendly fire. Only the stars were many—many and very near.
Day after day, as the Pilgrim labored onward, through the torturing heat, under the sky of brass, he saw on either hand lakes of living waters and groves of many palms. And the waters called him to their healing coolness: the palms beckoned him to their restful shade and shelter. Night after night, in the dreadful solitude, frightful Shapes came on silent feet out of the silent darkness to stare at him with doubtful, questioning, threatening eyes; drawing back at last, if he stood still, as silently as they had come, or, if he advanced, vanishing quickly, only to reappear as silently in another place.
But the Pilgrim knew that the enchanting scenes that lured him by day were but pictures in the heated air. He knew that the fearful Shapes that haunted him by night were but creatures of his own overwrought fancy. And so he journeyed on and ever on, in the staggering heat, under the sky of brass, in the awful stillness of the night: on and ever on, through the wide and pathless waste, until he came at last to the Outer-Edge-Of-Things—came to the place that is between the Desert of Facts and the Beautiful Sea, even as it is written in the Law of the Pilgrimage.
The tired feet of the Traveler left now the rough, hot floor of the desert for a soft, cool carpet of velvet grass all inwrought with blossoms that filled the air with fragrance. Over his head, tall trees gently shook their glistening, shadowy leaves, while sweet voiced birds of rare and wondrous plumage flitted from bough to bough. Across a sky of deepest blue, fleets of fairy cloud ships, light as feathery down, floated—floated—drifting lazily, as though, piloted only by the wind, their pilot slept. All about him, as he walked, multitudes of sunlight and shadow fairies danced gaily hand in hand. And over the shimmering surface of the Sea a thousand thousand fairy waves ran joyously, one after the other, from the sky line to the pebbly beach, making liquid music clearer and softer than the softest of clear toned bells.
And there it was, in that wondrously beautiful place, the Outer-Edge-Of-Things, that the Pilgrim found, fashioned of sheerest white, with lofty dome, towering spires, and piercing minarets lifting out of the living green, the Temple of Truth.
In reverent awe the Pilgrim stood before the sacred object of his Pilgrimage.
At last, with earnest step, the worshiper approached the holy edifice. But when he would have passed through the high arched door, his way was barred by one whose garments were white even as the whiteness of the Temple, whose eyes were clear even as the skies, and whose face shone even as the shining Beautiful Sea.
The Pilgrim, hesitating, spoke: “You are?”
The other answered in a voice that was even as the soft wind that stirred the leaves of the forest: “I am Thyself.”
Then the Pilgrim—“And your office?”
“I am the appointed Keeper of the Temple of Truth; save by my permission none may enter here.”
Cried the Pilgrim eagerly: “But I? I may enter? Surely I have fulfilled The Law! Surely I have paid The Price!”
“What law have you fulfilled? What price have you paid?” gently asked he in the garments of white.
Proudly now the other answered: “I have accomplished alone the long journey through the Desert of Facts. Alone I have endured the days under the sky of brass; alone I have borne the awful solitude of the nights. I was not drawn aside by the lovely scenes that tempted me. I was not turned back by the dreadful Shapes that threatened me. And so I have attained the Outer-Edge-Of-Things.”
“You have indeed fulfilled The Law,” said he of the shining face. “And The Price?”
The Pilgrim answered sadly: “I left behind all things dearest to the heart of man—Wealth of Traditions inherited from the Long Ago, Holy Prejudices painfully gathered through the ages of the past, Sacred Opinions, Customs, Favors and Honors of the World that is, in the times that are.”
“You have indeed paid The Price,” said the soft voice of the other, “but still, still there is one thing more.”
“And the one thing more?” asked the Pilgrim, “I knew not that there could be one thing more.”
The Keeper of the Temple was silent for a little, then said very gently: “Is there nothing, O Hadji, that you would ask Thyself?”
Then all at once the Pilgrim understood. Said he slowly: “There is still one thing more. Tell me, tell me—Why? Why The Law of the Pilgrimage? Why the journey so long? Why the way so hard? Why is the Temple of Truth here on the Outer-Edge-Of-Things?”
And Thyself answered clearly: “He who lives always within Things can never worship in Truth. Eyes blinded by the fog of Things cannot see Truth. Ears deafened by the din of Things cannot hear Truth. Brains bewildered by the whirl of Things cannot think Truth. Hearts deadened by the weight of Things cannot feel Truth. Throats choked by the dust of Things cannot speak Truth. Therefore, O Hadji, is the Temple of Truth here on the Outer-Edge-Of-Things; therefore is The Law of the Pilgrimage.”
“And The Price?” asked the Pilgrim; “It was so great a price. Why?”
Thyself answered: “Found you no bones in the Desert? Found you no graves by the way?”
The other replied: “I saw the Desert white with bones—I found the way set among many graves.”
“And the hands of the dead?”—asked Thyself, in that voice so like the wind that stirred the leaves of the forest—“And the hands of the dead?”
And the Pilgrim answered now with understanding: “The hands of the dead held fast to their treasures—held fast to their Wealth of Traditions, to their Holy Prejudices, to the Sacred Opinions, Customs, Favors and Honors of Men.”
Then Thyself, the appointed Keeper of the Temple of Truth, went quietly aside from the path. With slow and reverent step, with bowed uncovered head, the Pilgrim crossed the threshold and through the high arched doorway entered the sacred corridors.
But within the Temple, before approaching the altar with his offering, the Pilgrim was constrained to retire to The Quiet Room, there to spend the hours until a new day in prayerful meditation. It was there that this Tale of The Uncrowned King came to him—came to him at the end of his long pilgrimage across the Desert of Facts—came to him after he had paid The Price, after he had fulfilled The Law, after he had asked of Thyself, the Keeper of the Temple, “Why?”
There, in The Quiet Room in the Temple of Truth on the Outer-Edge-Of-Things, the Voices to the Pilgrim told this Tale of The Uncrowned King.