Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (165 page)

"No,
thanks.
I'm
off.
You're
sure
you
know
nothing
about
Skroe-lings?"

"Not
unless
he's
been
entered
for
the
Liverpool
Handicap."
He nodded
and
disappeared
in
the
crowd.

Now
it
is
written
in
the
Saga
of
Eric
the
Red
or
that
of
Thorfin Karlsefne,
that
nine
hundred
years
ago
when
Karlsefne's
galleys came
to
Leif's
booths,
which
Leif
had
erected
in
the
unknown
land called
Markland,
which
may
or
may
not
have
been
Rhode
Island, the
Skroelings—and
the
Lord
He
knows
who
these
may
or
may
not have
been—came
to
trade
with
the
Vikings,
and
ran
away
because they
were
frightened
at
the
bellowing
of
the
cattle
which
Thorfin had
brought
with
him
in
the
ships.
But
what
in
the
world
could
a Greek
slave
know
of
that
affair?
I
wandered
up
and
down
among the
streets
trying
to
unravel
the
mystery,
and
the
more
I
considered
it, the
more
baffling
it
grew.
One
thing
only
seemed
certain,
and
that certainty
took
away
my
breath
for
the
moment.
If
I
came
to
full knowledge
of
anything
at
all,
it
would
not
be
one
life
of
the
soul
in Charlie
Mears's
body,
but
half
a
dozen—half
a
dozen
several
and separate
existences
spent
on
blue
water
in
the
morning
of
the world!

Tlien
I
walked
round
the
situation.

Obviously
if
I
used
my
knowledge
I
should
stand
alone
and unapproachable
until
all
men
were
as
wise
as
myself.
That
would be
something,
but
manlike
I
was
ungrateful.
It
seemed
bitterly unfair
that
Charlie's
memory
should
fail
me
when
I
needed
it
most. Great
Powers
above—I
looked
up
at
them
through
the
fog
smoke-did
the
Lords
of
Life
and
Death
know
what
this
meant
to
me?
Nothing
less
than
eternal
fame
of
the
best
kind,
that
comes
from
One, and
is
shared
by
one
alone.
I
would
be
content—remembering
Clive, I
stood
astounded
at
my
own
moderation,—with
the
mere
right
to tell
one
story,
to
work
out
one
little
contribution
to
the
light
literature
of
the
day.
If
Charlie
were
permitted
full
recollection
for
one hour—for
sixty
short
minutes—of
existences
that
had
extended
over
a thousand
years—I
would
forego
all
profit
and
honor
from
all
that I
should
make
of
his
speech.
I
would
take
no
share
in
the
commotion that
would
follow
throughout
the
particular
corner
of
the
earth that
calls
itself
"the
world."
The
thing
should
be
put
forth
anonymously.
Nay,
I
would
make
other
men
believe
that
they
had
written it.
They
would
hire
bull-hided
self-advertising
Englishmen
to
bellow it
abroad.
Preachers
would
found
a
fresh
conduct
of
life
upon
it, swearing
that
it
was
new
and
that
they
had
lifted
the
fear
of
death from
all
mankind.
Every
Orientalist
in
Europe
would
patronize
it discursively
with
Sanskrit
and
Pali
texts.
Terrible
women
would invent
unclean
variants
of
the
men's
belief
for
the
elevation
of their
sisters.
Churches
and
religions
would
war
over
it.
Between the
hailing
and
re-starting
of
an
omnibus
I
foresaw
the
scuffles
that would
arise
among
half
a
dozen
denominations
all
professing
"the doctrine
of
the
True
Metempsychosis
as
applied
to
the
world
and the
New
Era";
and
saw,
too,
the
respectable
English
newspapers shying,
like
frightened
kine,
over
the
beautiful
simplicity
of
the
tale. The
mind
leaped
forward
a
hundred—two
hundred—a
thousand years.
I
saw
with
sorrow
that
men
would
mutilate
and
garble
the
story; that
rival
creeds
would
turn
it
upside
down
till,
at
last,
the
western world,
which
clings
to
the
dread
of
death
more
closely
than
the
hope of
life,
would
set
it
aside
as
an
interesting
superstition
and
stampede after
some
faith
so
long
forgotten
that
it
seemed
altogether
new.
Upon this
I
changed
the
terms
of
the
bargain
that
I
would
make
with
the Lords
of
Life
and
Death.
Only
let
me
know,
let
me
write,
the
story with
sure
knowledge
that
I
wrote
the
truth,
and
I
would
burn
the manuscript
as
a
solemn
sacrifice.
Five
minutes
after
the
last
line
was written
I