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Acolyte, v. 1, issue 4, Summer 1943
Page 7
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RETURN BY SUNSET (From a painting by Clark Ashton Smith) by R. H. Barlow -oOo- Flooding up from abysses under abysses, streaming scarlet like gore from an enormous wound, the sun groped down into darkness. Its rays seceded from the great conical ruin on the valley-rim. Then for a little, vast flocks of birds sought haven amid the dirt-covered rubble. Clamorous with fear of the night, they piled and fluttered into shafts and crevices like swarming bees--and were gone. Not a feather then showed among the occasionally-carven stones which looked out across the valley. Night was there, still yet vibrant, like a pool which hides fish, like an age-darkened mirror which no longer shows faces. There was no road to the littered oliff and had not been for a measureless time; for time enough to forget a civilization. Once a temple had stood there, but no more acolytes came to the broken shrine, no one remembered to pay homage to the gods. Of the walls remaining, not one was waist-high: much of the rock facing of the cone--whose oentre was clay--had slid into ruin and been covered by vines: none of the square brick columns nearby supported a roof. A stone basin, large enough to lie in, and rimmed with half-obliterated carvings of some procession, alone remained intact, one edge buried--a sacrificial bowl, grown over with flowering gourds. The god had grown weary and departed. Whatever screams had once lulled him were now not even echoed on the wind; whatever blood and entrails had once gleamed before his eyes were now long superseded by the leaves and the rain and the snow. The ruin was old as the cliff it stood on, and like the cliff would last always. It could undergo no further change. A future as long as its past, disturbed by no slipping stone, lay before it---and already it was older than death. It would lie lonely in the rain for centuries; it would listen to the lamentations of the night-wind who mourns that man should ever have been tricked into existence; it would stare by summer at the sun and dress itself by winter in the ice. Yet iw would suffer no change by these. Unto the ultimate blackness, when all the small golden suns burnt out forever, the idols would lie and think stone thoughts, the tumbled walls would strive to remember what hands had built them in a long while since. When Dal saw it, the girl Leyenda was with him. They had crossed many valleys and delved into many forests escaping from her brothers; and weariness walked with them now. Up the long hill at evening they had seen the ruin, of a type familiar throughout the land, and hoping it might afford refuge, had climbed to it. When they saw that no chamber was complete they sat on a low grey rock carved with half a face. How could they go on? Behind them was a route they dared not retrace; in front, the cliff fell straight away to obscure bottom-lands shielded with mist. They seemed to be on the crest of an onrushing wave. How gently ruin had come to this place! Little yellow wild-flowers were sprinkled across its pavement; dirt and rubble lay where once rich-garmented priests alone could set foot. Yet war for once was not to blame---no battle but the wind had taken this high place, no victor but the frost had trod it. Leyenda turned her face to her lover. "Must we go back?" He lifted up a handful of her yellow hair and held it to his lips. "Tomorrow--tomorrow," he said. She seemed satisfied with this. "I am glad that we can stay. Surely they will not come here." He did not answer, but looked at her, and she bit her lip, saying: -- 7 --
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RETURN BY SUNSET (From a painting by Clark Ashton Smith) by R. H. Barlow -oOo- Flooding up from abysses under abysses, streaming scarlet like gore from an enormous wound, the sun groped down into darkness. Its rays seceded from the great conical ruin on the valley-rim. Then for a little, vast flocks of birds sought haven amid the dirt-covered rubble. Clamorous with fear of the night, they piled and fluttered into shafts and crevices like swarming bees--and were gone. Not a feather then showed among the occasionally-carven stones which looked out across the valley. Night was there, still yet vibrant, like a pool which hides fish, like an age-darkened mirror which no longer shows faces. There was no road to the littered oliff and had not been for a measureless time; for time enough to forget a civilization. Once a temple had stood there, but no more acolytes came to the broken shrine, no one remembered to pay homage to the gods. Of the walls remaining, not one was waist-high: much of the rock facing of the cone--whose oentre was clay--had slid into ruin and been covered by vines: none of the square brick columns nearby supported a roof. A stone basin, large enough to lie in, and rimmed with half-obliterated carvings of some procession, alone remained intact, one edge buried--a sacrificial bowl, grown over with flowering gourds. The god had grown weary and departed. Whatever screams had once lulled him were now not even echoed on the wind; whatever blood and entrails had once gleamed before his eyes were now long superseded by the leaves and the rain and the snow. The ruin was old as the cliff it stood on, and like the cliff would last always. It could undergo no further change. A future as long as its past, disturbed by no slipping stone, lay before it---and already it was older than death. It would lie lonely in the rain for centuries; it would listen to the lamentations of the night-wind who mourns that man should ever have been tricked into existence; it would stare by summer at the sun and dress itself by winter in the ice. Yet iw would suffer no change by these. Unto the ultimate blackness, when all the small golden suns burnt out forever, the idols would lie and think stone thoughts, the tumbled walls would strive to remember what hands had built them in a long while since. When Dal saw it, the girl Leyenda was with him. They had crossed many valleys and delved into many forests escaping from her brothers; and weariness walked with them now. Up the long hill at evening they had seen the ruin, of a type familiar throughout the land, and hoping it might afford refuge, had climbed to it. When they saw that no chamber was complete they sat on a low grey rock carved with half a face. How could they go on? Behind them was a route they dared not retrace; in front, the cliff fell straight away to obscure bottom-lands shielded with mist. They seemed to be on the crest of an onrushing wave. How gently ruin had come to this place! Little yellow wild-flowers were sprinkled across its pavement; dirt and rubble lay where once rich-garmented priests alone could set foot. Yet war for once was not to blame---no battle but the wind had taken this high place, no victor but the frost had trod it. Leyenda turned her face to her lover. "Must we go back?" He lifted up a handful of her yellow hair and held it to his lips. "Tomorrow--tomorrow," he said. She seemed satisfied with this. "I am glad that we can stay. Surely they will not come here." He did not answer, but looked at her, and she bit her lip, saying: -- 7 --
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