A Little Boy Lost

Chapter 5

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THE PEOPLE OF THE MIRAGE

In that remote land where Martin was born, with its bright warm

climate and rich soil, no person need go very long hungry--not even

a small boy alone and lost on the great grassy plain. For there is a

little useful plant in that place, with small leaves like clover

leaves and a pretty yellow flower, which bears a wholesome sweet root,

about as big as a pigeon's egg and of a pearly white colour. It is

so well known to the settlers' children in that desert country that

they are always wandering off to the plain to look for it, just as

the children in a town are always running off with their halfpence

to the sweet-stuff shop. This pretty white root is watery, so that

it satisfies both hunger and thirst at the same time. Now when Martin

woke next morning, he found a great many of the little three-leaved

plants growing close to the spot where he had slept, and they

supplied him with a nice sweet breakfast. After he had eaten enough

and had amused himself by rolling over and over several times on the

grass, he started once more on his travels, going towards the

sunrise as fast as he could run. He could run well for a small boy,

but he got tired at last and sat down to rest. Then he jumped up and

went on again at a trot: this pace he kept up very steadily, only

pausing from time to time to watch a flock of small white birds that

followed him all the morning out of curiosity. At length he began to

feel so hot and tired that he could only walk. Still he kept on; he

could see no flowers nor anything pretty in that place--why should

he stay in it? He would go on, and on, and on, in spite of the heat,

until he came to something. But it grew hotter as the day advanced,

and the ground about him more dry and barren and desolate, until at

last he came to ground where there was scarcely a blade of grass: it

was a great, barren, level plain, covered with a slight crust of

salt crystals that glittered in the sun so brightly that it dazzled

and pained his eyesight. Here were no sweet watery roots for

refreshment, and no berries; nor could Martin find a bush to give

him a little shade and protection from the burning noonday sun. He

saw one large dark object in the distance, and mistaking it for a

bush covered with thick foliage he ran towards it; but suddenly it

started up, when he was near, and waving its great grey and white

wings like sails, fled across the plain. It was an ostrich!

Now this hot, shadeless plain seemed to be the very home and

dwelling-place of the False Water. It sparkled and danced all round

him so close that there only appeared to be a small space of dry

ground for him to walk on; only he was always exactly in the centre

of the dry spot; for as he advanced, the glittering whiteness, that

looked so like shiny water, flew mockingly before his steps. But he

hoped to get to it at last, as every time he flagged in the chase

the mysterious figure of the day before appeared again to lure him

still further on. At length, unable to move another step, Martin sat

right down on the bare ground: it was like sitting on the floor of a

heated oven, but there was no help for it, he was so tired. The air

was so thick and heavy that he could hardly breathe, even with his

mouth wide open like a little gasping bird; and the sky looked like

metal, heated to a white heat, and so low down as to make him fancy

that if he were to throw up his hands he would touch it and burn his

fingers.

And the Mirage--oh, how it glistened and quivered here where he had

sat down, half blinding him with its brightness! Now that he could

no longer run after it, nor even walk, it came to him, breaking

round and over him in a thousand fantastic shapes, filling the air

with a million white flakes that whirled about as if driven by a

furious wind, although not a breath was stirring. They looked like

whitest snow-flakes, yet stung his cheeks like sparks of fire. Not

only did he see and feel, he could even _hear_ it now: his ears were

filled with a humming sound, growing louder and louder every minute,

like the noise made by a large colony of bumble-bees when a person

carelessly treads on their nest, and they are angered and thrown

into a great commotion and swarm out to defend their home. Very soon

out of this confused murmur louder, clearer sounds began to rise;

and these could be distinguished as the notes of numberless musical

instruments, and voices of people singing, talking, and laughing.

Then, all at once, there appeared running and skipping over the

ground towards him a great company of girls--scores and hundreds of

them scattered over the plain, exceeding in loveliness all lovely

things that he had ever beheld. Their faces were whiter than lilies,

and their loose, fluttering hair looked like a mist of pale shining

gold; and their skirts, that rustled as they ran, were also shining

like the wings of dragon-flies, and were touched with brown

reflections and changing, beautiful tints, such as are seen on

soap-bubbles. Each of them carried a silver pitcher, and as they ran

and skipped along they dipped their fingers in and sprinkled the

desert with water. The bright drops they scattered fell all around

in a grateful shower, and flew up again from the heated earth in the

form of a white mist touched with rainbow colours, filling the air

with a refreshing coolness.

At Martin's side there grew a small plant, its grey-green leaves

lying wilted on the ground, and one of the girls paused to water it,

and as she sprinkled the drops on it she sang:--

"Little weed, little weed,

In such need,

Must you pain, ask in vain,

Die for rain,

Never bloom, never seed,

Little weed?

O, no, no, you shall not die,

From the sky

With my pitcher down I fly.

Drink the rain, grow again,

Bloom and seed,

Little weed."

Martin held up his hot little hands to catch some of the falling

drops; then the girl, raising her pitcher, poured a stream of cool

water right into his face, and laughing at what she had done, went

away with a hop, skip, and jump after her companions.

The girls with pitchers had all gone, and were succeeded by troops

of boys, just as beautiful, many of them singing and some playing on

wind and stringed instruments; and some were running, others quietly

walking, and still others riding on various animals--ostriches, sheep,

goats, fawns, and small donkeys, all pure white. One boy was riding

on a ram, and as he came by, strum-strumming on a little

silver-stringed banjo, he sang a very curious song, which made Martin

prick up his ears to listen. It was about a speckled snake that

lived far away on a piece of waste ground; how day after day he

sought for his lost playmate--the little boy that had left him; how

he glided this way and that on his smooth, bright belly, winding in

and out among the tall wild sunflowers; how he listened for the dear

footsteps--listened with his green leaf-shaped, little head raised

high among the leaves. But his playmate was far away and came no

more to feed him from his basin of bread and milk, and caress his

cold, smooth coils with his warm, soft, little hand.

Close after the boy on the ram marched four other little boys on foot,

holding up long silver trumpets in readiness to blow. One of them

stopped, and putting his trumpet down close to Martin's ear, puffed

out his little, round cheeks, and blew a blast that made him jump.

Laughing at the joke, they passed on, and were succeeded by others

and still others, singing, shouting, twanging their instruments, and

some of them stopping for a few moments to look at Martin or play

some pretty little trick on him.

But now all at once Martin ceased to listen or even look at them,

for something new and different was coming, something strange which

made him curious and afraid at the same time. It was a sound, very

deep and solemn, of men's voices singing together a song that was

like a dirge and coming nearer and nearer, and it was like the

coming of a storm with wind and rain and thunder. Soon he could see

them marching through the great crowd of people--old men moving in a

slow procession, and they had pale dark faces and their hair and

long beards were whiter than snow, and their long flowing robes were

of the silvery dark colour of a rain-cloud. Then he saw that the

leaders of the procession were followed by others who carried a

couch of mother-o'-pearl resting on their shoulders, that on the

couch reposed a pale sweet-looking youth dressed in silk clothes of

a delicate rose-colour. He also wore crimson shoes, and a

tight-fitting apple-green skull cap, which made his head look very

small. His eyes were ruby-red, and he had a long slender nose like a

snipe's bill, only broad and flattened at the tip. And then Martin

saw that he was wounded, for he had one white hand pressed to his

side and it was stained with blood, and drops of blood were

trickling through his fingers.

He was troubled at the sight, and he gazed at him, and listened to

the words of that solemn song the old men were singing but could not

understand them. Not because he was a child, for no person, however

aged and wise and filled with all learning he might be, could have

understood that strange song about Wonderful Life and Wonderful Death.

Yet there was something in it too which any one who heard it, man or

child, could understand; and he understood it, and it went into his

heart to make it so heavy and sad that he could have put his little

face down on the ground and cried as he had never cried before. But

he did not put his face down and cry, for just then the wounded youth

looked down on him as they carried him past and smiled a very sweet

smile: then Martin felt that he loved him above all the bright and

beautiful beings that had passed before him.

Then, when he was gone from sight; when the solemn sound of the

voices began to grow fainter in the distance like the sound of a

storm when it passes away, his heaviness of heart and sorrow left him,

and he began to listen to the shouts and cries and clanging of noisy

instruments of music swiftly coming nearer and nearer; and then all

round and past him came a vast company of youths and maidens singing

and playing and shouting and dancing as they moved onwards. They

were the most beautiful beings he had ever seen in their shining

dresses, some all in white, others in amber-colour, others in

sky-blue, and some in still other lovely colours. "The Queen! the

Queen!" they were shouting. "Stand up, little boy, and bow to the

Queen."

"The Queen! Kneel to the Queen, little boy," cried others.

Then many others in the company began crying out together, "The Queen!

lie down flat on the ground, little boy."

"The Queen! Shut your eyes and open your mouth, little boy."

"The Queen! Run away as fast as you can, little boy."

"Stand on your head to the Queen, little boy!"

"Crow like a c**k and bark like a dog, little boy!"

Trying to obey all these conflicting commands at one and the same

time, poor Martin made strange noises and tumbled about this way and

that and set them all laughing at him.

"The Queen wishes to speak to you--stand up, little boy," said one

of the brightest beings, touching Martin on the cheek.

There before him, surrounded by all that beautiful company, stood

the horses that drew her--great milk-white horses impatiently pawing

the dusty ground with their hoofs and proudly champing their gold

bridles, tossing the white froth from their mouths. But when he

lifted his eyes timidly to the majestic being seated in her chariot

before him he was dazzled and overcome with the sight. Her face had

a brightness that was like that of the Mirage at noon, and the eyes

that gazed on him were like two great opals; she appeared clothed in

a white shining mist, and her hair spread wide on her shoulders

looked white--whiter than a lamb's fleece, and powdered with fine

gold that sparkled and quivered and ran through it like sparks of

yellow fire: and on her head she wore a crown that was like a diamond

seen by candle-light, or like a dewdrop in the sun, and every moment

it changed its colour, and by turns was a red flame, then a green,

then a yellow, then a violet.

"Child, you have followed me far," said the Queen, "and now you are

rewarded, for you have looked on my face and I have refreshed you;

and the Sun, my father, will never more hurt you for my sake."

"He is a naughty boy and unworthy of your goodness," spoke one of

the bright beings standing near. "He killed the spoonbill."

"He cried for the poor slain bird," replied the Queen. "He will

never remember it without grief, and I forgive him."

"He went away from his home and thinks no more of his poor old

father and mother, who cry for him and are seeking for him on the

great plain," continued the voice.

"I forgive him," returned the Queen. "He is such a little

wanderer--he could not always rest at home."

"He emptied a bucketful of water over good old Jacob, who found him

and took him in and fed him, and sang to him, and danced to him, and

was a second father to him."

At that there was great laughter; even the Queen laughed when she

said that she forgave him that too. And Martin when he remembered

old Jacob, and saw that they only made a joke of it, laughed with

them. But the accusing voice still went on:

"And when the good old shepherd went to sleep a second time, then

the naughty little boy climbed on the table and picked a hole in the

thatch and got out and ran away."

Another burst of laughter followed; then a youth in a shining,

violet-coloured dress suddenly began twanging on his instrument and

wildly capering about in imitation of old Jacob's dancing, and while

he played and danced he sang--

"Ho, sheep whose ways are known to me,

Both ewe and lamb

And horned ram

Wherever can that Martin be?

All day for him I ride

Over the plains so wide,

And on my horn I blow,

Just to let him know

That Jacob's on his track,

And soon will have him back,

I look and look all day,

And when I'm home I say:

He isn't like a mole

To dig himself a hole;

Them little legs he's got

They can't go far, trot, trot,

They can't go far, run run,

Oh no, it is his fun;

I'm sure he's near,

He must be here

A-skulking round the house

Just like a little mouse.

I'll get a mouse-trap in a minute,

And bait with cheese that's smelly

To bring him helter-skelly--

That little empty belly,

And then I'll have him in it.

Where have he hid,

That little kid,

That good old Jacob was so kind to?

And when a rest I am inclined to

Who'll boil the cow and dig the kittles

And milk the stockings, darn the wittles?

Who mugs of tea

Will drink with me?

When round and round

I pound the ground

With boots of cowhide, boots of thunder,

Who'll help to make the noise, I wonder?

Who'll join the row

Of loud bow-wow

With din of tin and copper clatter

With bang and whang of pan and platter?

O when I find

Him fast I'll bind

And upside down I'll hold him;

And when a-home I gallop late-o

I'll give him no more cold potato,

But cuff him, box him, bang him, scold him,

And drench him with a pail of water,

And fill his mouth with wool and mortar,

Because he don't do things he oughter,

But does the things he ought not to,

Then tell me true,

Both ram and ewe,

Wherever have that Martin got to?

For Jacob's old and deaf and dim

And never knowed the ways of him."

"I forgive him everything," said the Queen very graciously, when the

song ended, at which they all laughed. "And now let two of you speak

and each bestow a gift on him. He deserves to be rewarded for

running so far after us."

Then one of those bright beautiful beings came forward and cried out:

"He loves wandering; let him have his will and be a wanderer all his

days on the face of the earth."

"Well spoken!" cried the Queen.

"A wanderer he is to be," said another: "let the sea do him no

harm--that is my gift."

"So be it," said the Queen; "and to your two gifts I shall add a

third. Let all men love him. Go now, Martin, you are well equipped,

and satisfy your heart with the sight of all the strange and

beautiful things the world contains."

"Kneel and thank the Queen for her gifts," said a voice to Martin.

He dropped on to his knees, but could speak no word; when he raised

his eyes again the whole glorious company had vanished.

The air was cool and fragrant, the earth moist as if a shower had

just fallen. He got up and slowly walked onward until near sunset,

thinking of nothing but the beautiful people of the Mirage. He had

left the barren salt plain behind by now; the earth was covered with

yellow grass, and he found and ate some sweet roots and berries.

Then feeling very tired, he stretched himself out on his back and

began to wonder if what he had seen was nothing but a dream. Yes, it

was surely a dream, but then--in his life dreams and realities were

so mixed--how was he always to know one from the other? Which was

most strange, the Mirage that glittered and quivered round him and

flew mockingly before him, or the people of the Mirage he had seen?

If you are lying quite still with your eyes shut and some one comes

softly up and stands over you, somehow you know it, and open your

eyes to see who it is. Just in that way Martin knew that some one

had come and was standing over him. Still he kept his eyes shut,

feeling sure that it was one of those bright and beautiful beings he

had lately seen, perhaps the Queen herself, and that the sight of

her shining countenance would dazzle his eyes. Then all at once he

thought that it might be old Jacob, who would punish him for running

away. He opened his eyes very quickly then. What do you think he saw?

An ostrich--that same big ostrich he had seen and startled early in

the day! It was standing over him, staring down with its great

vacant eyes. Gradually its head came lower and lower down, until at

last it made a sudden peck at a metal button on his jacket, and gave

such a vigorous tug at it that Martin was almost lifted off the

ground. He screamed and gave a jump; but it was nothing to the jump

the ostrich gave when he discovered that the button belonged to a

living boy. He jumped six feet high into the air and came down with

a great flop; then feeling rather ashamed of himself for being

frightened at such an insignificant thing as Martin, he stalked

majestically away, glancing back, first over one shoulder then the

other, and kicking up his heels behind him in a somewhat disdainful

manner.

Martin laughed, and in the middle of his laugh he fell asleep.

In the 1600s, Balthasar Gracian, a jesuit priest wrote 300 aphorisms on living life called "The Art of Worldly Wisdom." Join our newsletter below and read them all, one at a time.