He spoke to us of other worlds, though upon what authority he would not say. Nor did we, when we had much heard him, much question him. But he spoke of wonderful things and we were content to hear them.
He spoke of red worlds of tumultuous black oceans—of worlds that were only oceans but not of water, frozen fast on every surface and beneath which swam sightless leviathans, monsters of our dreams—of worlds of flame, where seas of lava rolled, where mountains rose and tumbled with the changing climes of aeon-seasons—of worlds where grasping plants lived thick in flight like swarms of sparrows, making dark the empty lands that passed below—of double-worlds, of moons of moons, and of a gaping blackness at the heart of space where once there shone the brightest star.
He spoke of these and turned his eyes upon the sky. And though the sky was thick with clouds and no star shone, he smiled as though he guessed the stars behind them, and greeted each with the small, inscrutable deviations of his gaze.
So we listened through the days and nights, while he filled our thoughts with more than we remember. But we saw each scene he spoke as though painted on a canvas hung before us—saw the countless alterations of light and life, of alien landscapes and invisible things—until the day came when he was here no more.
He left no note and took nothing from his house. No one saw him leave and he was never seen again. It was as though he had gone by natural steps from the earth to the stars of which he was so enamored. Yet we remember him and remember what he told us. They fill our dreams, his seas of fire and ice, his alien beasts both vast and microscopic, his suns of suns and moons of moons, his cohabitating planets.
Nor do we regret that we did not inquire more before he left. His visions, worlds, his secret authority, exist today in all we do and say. Not having been forgotten, they have not departed. He spoke of wonderful things, and we are content to hear them. |
