By Far Euphrates A Tale 2

By Far Euphrates A Tale 2

It was about time for them to be stirring now, to attend to the animals,

to make the coffee, and to do other needful things in preparation for

the journey. But they were used to wait for a signal from their master

for the time being--Mr. Grayson, or Grayson Effendi, as they generally

called him. Pending this, they saw no reason to shorten their repose,

though a few of them sat up, yawned, and began to take out their tobacco

pouches, and to employ themselves in making cigarettes.

 

Presently, from the Effendi's own tent, a slight boyish form emerged,

and trod softly through the rest. "Hohannes Effendi"--so the Turks and

Arabs called him, as a kind of working equivalent for "Master John"--was

a bright, fair-faced, blue-eyed English lad in his sixteenth year. He

was dressed in a well-worn suit of white drill, and his head protected

by a kind of helmet, with flaps to cover the cheeks and neck, since the

glare reflected from the ground was almost as trying as the scorching

heat above.

 

Once beyond the encampment, he quickened his pace, and, fast and

straight as an arrow flies, dashed on over the little hills due

eastwards. For there, the Arabs had told him, "a bow shot off," "two

stones' throw," "the length a man might ride while he said his 'La

ilaha ill Allah!'"--ran the great river. Waking some two hours before

from the profound sleep of boyhood, he had not been able to close his

eyes again for the longing that came over him to look upon it. For this

was "that ancient river," last of the mystic Four that watered the

flowers of Eden, witness of ruined civilizations, survivor of dead

empires, the old historic Euphrates. Not that all this was present to

the mind of young John Grayson; but he had caught from his father, whose

constant companion he was, a reflected interest in "places where things

happened," which was transfigured by the glamour of a young imagination.

 

On and on he went, for the wide, featureless, monotonous landscape

deceived his eye, and the river was really much farther than he thought.

He got amongst tall reeds, which sometimes hindered his view, though

often he could see over them well enough--if there had been anything to

see, except more reeds, mixed with a little rank grass--more low hills,

and over all a cloudless, purple sky. The one point of relief was the

dark spot in the distance, that meant, as he knew, the trees from which

he had started.

 

He thought two or three times of turning back, not from weariness, and

certainly not from fear, except the fear that his father might wonder

what had become of him. But, being a young Englishman, he did not

choose to be beaten, and so he went on.

 

At last there reached his ears what seemed a dull, low murmur, but what

was in fact the never-ceasing sound of a great river on its way to the

sea; while at the same time--

 

 

"The scent of water far away

Upon the breeze was flung."

 

 

He hurried on, now over a grassy place, now through tall, thick reeds,

until at last, emerging from a mass of them, he found himself on the

edge of a steep precipitous bank, and lo! the Euphrates rolled beneath

him.

 

He could have cried aloud in his surprise and disappointment. Was this

indeed the great Euphrates--the grand, beautiful river he had come to

see? Had this indeed flowed through Paradise?--this dull, muddy, most

unlovely stream? Dark, dark it looked, as he stood and gazed down into

its turbid waters. "Dark?" he said to himself, "no, it is not dark, it

is _black_." And the longer he gazed the blacker and the drearier it

grew.

 

Why stay any longer by "this ugly old stream"?--for so he called it.

There was nothing to do, nothing to see. He turned to go back, and then

the whole scene in its loneliness and desolation took a sudden grip of

his young soul. The awe and wonder of the great, silent, solitary space

overcame him. The river, instead of being a voice amidst the stillness,

a living thing amidst the death around, was only another death. It

seemed to flow from some--

 

 

"Waste land where no man comes,

Or hath come, since the making of the world."

 

 

Then all at once, by a very common trick of fancy, young John Grayson

found himself at home--at home really--in happy England. His mother,

dead a year ago, was there still. He saw her room: the table with her

books and work, and her favourite clock upon it; a shawl she used to

wear of some blue, shimmering stuff like silk;--he saw her face. And

then, as suddenly, all was gone. He knew that she was dead. And he stood

alone with the silent sky, the desolate earth, the gloomy river--an atom

of life in the midst of a vast, dead world. Before he knew it the tears

were on his cheek.

 

This would never do. He was ashamed of himself, though there was no one

there to see. Dashing the disgraceful drops aside, he started at a run

to go back.

 

After a time he stopped, in a space fairly clear of reeds, to look about

him. He could see in the distance the clump of trees that marked the

camping place, but it looked very far off. The low hills confused him;

it would not be such an easy matter as he thought to return. He sat down

to rest a little, for disappointment and discouragement made him feel

suddenly very tired.

 

But he soon sprang to his feet again with a shout. A familiar sound

reached his ear, the long Australian "Coo-ee-en!" which his father had

adopted as the most penetrating kind of call. He gave back the cry with

all the strength of his lungs, and waved his handkerchief high in the

air.

 

Presently he saw his father coming towards him through the reeds,

followed by two of the Arabs. He ran to him in high delight, his sad

reflections gone into the vast limbo that engulfs boyish sorrows.

"Father! father! I have found Euphrates."

 

"Yes, my boy, but _I_ had some trouble to find _you_."

 

They stood together, son and father, in that great solitude, as in a

sense they did also in the greater solitude of the world. The father was

one of those men of whom it is impossible to say he belongs to such and

such a type, or, he is cast in such and such a mould. Rather was he

hand-hewn, as by the Great Artist's own chisel. He was tall, spare,

wiry, with a cheek as brown as southern skies could make it, dark hair

and beard showing early threads of grey, dark eyes full of fire, and a

mouth as sensitive as a woman's. The boy had inherited his mother's blue

eyes and fair hair, but he was very like his father, both in __EXPRESSION__

and in the cast of his features, especially the shape of his forehead

and the moulding of his fine mouth and chin. Slight as was the shadow of

rebuke conveyed by his father's words, he felt it--it was so rare.

 

He said simply, "I am sorry."

 

"Did you think Euphrates worth the trouble when you found it?" asked his

father, who had seen the far-famed and disappointing river long ago.

 

"Very much the reverse, father. An uglier, muddier, blacker kind of a

river I never saw."

 

"I suppose we are quite close to it? I will go on and have a look, as

there is no hurry about our start. Stay here, if you are tired, with one

of the Arabs."

 

"I will come back with you. I should like it."

 

"Come along, then."

 

A short walk brought them to the bank, the two Arabs following at a

respectful distance stately and indifferent.

 

The sun was setting now, and, behold! a wonder met their eyes. The dark

stream was transfigured, as if by the wand of an angel. It poured

rejoicing on its way, a torrent of liquid gold; for it had taken to its

heart of hearts all the glory of the setting sun, and gave it back to

the beholder in a marvel of radiance. So might look to mortal eyes the

river of God, the river of the water of life, that runs through the

shining streets of the New Jerusalem. The boy uttered a cry of wonder

and delight. The father gazed in silence. At last he said, "_So the dark

river turns to gold._"

 

"But come, my boy," he added presently, "before the sun sets. Let us

take away with us in memory this look of the Euphrates."

 

 

 

 

Chapter II

 

FATHER AND SON

 

"I cannot rest from travel, I will drink

Life to the lees."

 

--_Tennyson._

 

 

While the travellers go back to their encampment, now in full

preparation for the start, it may be well to introduce them formally by

name. In this respect they were exactly alike; the father's name in full

was John Frederick Pangbourne Grayson, and so was the son's. His

friends, however, generally called him John, Johnnie, or Jack, by

preference the latter, which was his father's custom also.

 

John Frederick Pangbourne had made himself remarkable in early life as a

bold, adventurous traveller, going into places and amongst peoples

little known to the rest of the world. He was in perils of many kinds,

often great, sometimes desperate, but he always came through, thanks to

his cool courage, his quickness of resource, his tact in dealing with

men, and last, but not least, his abounding sympathy and kindness. So

other men said; he himself said simply, if any one spoke of his dangers

and deliverances, "I got out of it," or "they went away," or "they did

me no harm," as the case might be,--"_thank God_." For he feared God;

and though he did not go out of his way to tell it to the world, he was quite willing for the world to know it.