Extraordinary Old Hermit; With Whom Yoomy Has A Confidential
Interview, But Learns Little
Gliding on, suddenly we spied a solitary Islander putting out in his
canoe from a neighboring cove.
Drawing near, the stranger informed us, that he was just from the face
of the great Pontiff, Hivohitee, who, having dismissed his celestial
guests, had retired to his private sanctuary. Upon this, Media
resolved to land forthwith, and under the guidance of Mohi, proceed
inland, and pay a visit to his Holiness.
Quitting the beach, our path penetrated into the solitudes of the
groves. Skirting the way were tall Casaurinas, a species of cypress, standing motionless in the shadows, as files of mutes at a funeral. But here and there, they were overrun with the adventurous vines of the Convolvulus, the Morning-glory of the Tropics, whose tendrils, bruised by the twigs, dropped milk upon the dragon-like scales of the trees.
This vine is of many varieties. Lying perdu, and shunning the garish
sun through the day, one species rises at night with the stars; bursting forth in dazzling constellations of blossoms, which close at dawn. Others, slumbering through the darkness, are up and abroad with their petals, by peep of morn; and after inhaling its breath, again drop their lids in repose. While a third species, more capricious, refuse to expand at all, unless in the most brilliant sunshine, and upon the very tops of the loftiest trees. Ambitious flowers! that will not blow, unless in high places, with the bright day looking on and admiring.
Here and there, we passed open glades in the woods, delicious with the
incense of violets. Balsamic ferns, stirred by the breeze, fanned all
the air with aromas. These glades were delightful.
Journeying on, we at length came to a dark glen so deftly hidden by
the surrounding copses, that were it not for the miasma thence wafted, an ignorant wayfarer might pass and repass it, time and again, never dreaming of its vicinity.
Down into the gloom of this glen we descended. Its sides were mantled
with noxious shrubs, whose exhalations, half way down, unpleasantly
blended with the piny breeze from the uplands. Through its bed ran a
brook, whose incrusted margin had a strange metallic luster, from the
polluted waters here flowing; their source a sulphur spring, of vile
flavor and odor, where many invalid pilgrims resorted.
The woods all round were haunted by the dismal cawings of crows; tap, tap, the black hawk whetted his bill on the boughs; each trunk stalked a ghost; and from those trunks, Hevaneva procured the wood for his idols.
Rapidly crossing this place, Yoomy's hands to his ears, old Mohi's to
his nostrils, and Babbalanja vainly trying to walk with closed eyes, we toiled among steep, flinty rocks, along a wild, zigzag pathway; like a mule-track in the Andes, not so much onward as upward; Yoomy above Babbalanja, my lord Media above him, and Braid-Beard, our guide, in the air, above all.
Strown over with cinders, the vitreous marl seemed tumbled together, as if belched from a volcano's throat.
Presently, we came to a tall, slender structure, hidden among the
scenic projections of the cliffs, like a monument in the dark, vaulted
ways of an abbey. Surrounding it, were five extinct craters. The air
was sultry and still, as if full of spent thunderbolts.
Like a Hindoo pagoda, this bamboo edifice rose story above story; its
many angles and points decorated with pearl-shells suspended by cords. But the uppermost story, some ten toises in the air, was closely thatched from apex to floor; which summit was gained by a series of ascents.
What eremite dwelleth here, like St. Stylites at the top of his
column?—a question which Mohi seemed all eagerness to have answered.
Dropping upon his knees, he gave a peculiar low call: no response. Another: all was silent. Marching up to the pagoda, and again dropping upon his knees, he shook the bamboos till the edifice rocked, and its pearl-shells jingled, as if a troop of Andalusian mules, with bells round their necks, were galloping along the defile.
At length the thatch aloft was thrown open, and a head was thrust
forth. It was that of an old, old man; with steel-gray eyes, hair and
beard, and a horrible necklace of jaw-bones.
Now, issuing from the pagoda, Mohi turned about to gain a view of the
ghost he had raised; and no sooner did he behold it, than with King
Media and the rest, he made a marked salutation.