The heart can think of no devotion
Greater than being shore to the ocean --
Holding the curve of one position,
Counting an endless repetition.
-- "Devotion" by Robert Frost
***
1.
The man walked aimlessly in a wilderness of pine needles and bracken. His hands bled at the palms and bruises darkened his fingernails, for he'd climbed many rocks and trees, always heading up and up though the way proved hard. Yet his purpose was hidden from him. Many times, as dry leaves crunched or sticks or needles snapped under his feet, he said, "I have forgotten why." But up he climbed.
The woman, however, waded streams and watery paths so that her feet were wet and cold. She had resolved to find the water's source; "Long ago," she said to herself. "Long ago I began." And it was so. The streams she followed swerved and twisted and hid themselves deep underground for days on end until, with hope dying, she'd hear a faint bubbling or trickle and follow it.
And these two, man and woman, who had put their backs to one another, continued for a time neither could reckon.
The woman, however, waded streams and watery paths so that her feet were wet and cold. She had resolved to find the water's source; "Long ago," she said to herself. "Long ago I began." And it was so. The streams she followed swerved and twisted and hid themselves deep underground for days on end until, with hope dying, she'd hear a faint bubbling or trickle and follow it.
And these two, man and woman, who had put their backs to one another, continued for a time neither could reckon.
2.
A bird woke him. Beyond his reach it mocked him and his hunger. He lay there, his body crying out, for the whole of the morning. His thoughts were blank. Not even the ants exploring his ankles could rouse him. It was the light that finally moved him; mottled through the leaves and bright, it rested on his head. He sat up and thought about standing. Instead, he crawled with his eyes on the rocky floor. Bent this way, the man traveled until he realized light surrounded him -- no longer did the pines grow thickly together, no longer did the brush stick him. He stopped and looked.
She shivered. The lapping of water, the sting of its cold, the weight of it in her clothes, she felt it all. On the bank of a rushing river she stood watching it pass and pass. This is what she'd followed for time unknown. Now it surged around her, strong and full. And yet -- she shivered again. Her feet sank into the turf at the edge, and though she knew she must soon move or fall in, she tried to push the thought from her mind -- for which way? Up or down the river was the same. So she stood, undecided, and let the cold seep further into her.
And then, though so far from one another, the memory of the sea touched both the man and the woman in the same hour. Standing on a faraway slope, the man thought he saw it glistening on the horizon like a diamond; there, on the bank of the murmuring river, the woman thought she heard the water chuckling about its destination.
He, then, no longer ran toward the ease of the next height -- which would surely come in the next height -- but forsook his sole journey; she, then, no longer listened for the next twist in her way -- which was also a twist in her heart -- but let go her tangled desire. Both man and woman gave in to the thought of the sea, and it filled them.
She shivered. The lapping of water, the sting of its cold, the weight of it in her clothes, she felt it all. On the bank of a rushing river she stood watching it pass and pass. This is what she'd followed for time unknown. Now it surged around her, strong and full. And yet -- she shivered again. Her feet sank into the turf at the edge, and though she knew she must soon move or fall in, she tried to push the thought from her mind -- for which way? Up or down the river was the same. So she stood, undecided, and let the cold seep further into her.
And then, though so far from one another, the memory of the sea touched both the man and the woman in the same hour. Standing on a faraway slope, the man thought he saw it glistening on the horizon like a diamond; there, on the bank of the murmuring river, the woman thought she heard the water chuckling about its destination.
He, then, no longer ran toward the ease of the next height -- which would surely come in the next height -- but forsook his sole journey; she, then, no longer listened for the next twist in her way -- which was also a twist in her heart -- but let go her tangled desire. Both man and woman gave in to the thought of the sea, and it filled them.
3.
Dusk of the following day saw him at the base of the first mountain. Many were the peaks he'd climbed, always seeking the newest and the next. Now, however, his eyes sought the glimmer, the spark, of the ocean. Here, at the entrance to a deep valley, the inspiration of his return journey lay hidden in both distance and fog. "But I know the way," he said. Truly, his mind rebuilt the way he'd taken even as he paused, and he wondered at the stupor he'd awakened from.
What of her? Hours of night beheld her shape on the bank of the river, and her stillness aroused the curiosity of shy nocturnals who winged close to her or studied her scent on the air. Her body remained motionless, but her mind roared. "What then?" These two words escaped from her lips as light in the east at last brought the dawn, for these two words had dipped and swirled within her since the memory of the sea rose up and changed her. There, as the full sun alighted on her shoulder, she spurned the chill of the air and the chill of the water, and dove headlong into the river current.
Time did not slack for either man or woman but passed. Valley after valley the man descended and difficulty increased. And, swimming, the woman became weary; though she swam with the river, her body bade her lay upon the shore until the water's song of the sea renewed her efforts. Yet, the promise of some ancient vow that tied itself to the coast within them gathered strength when there seemed no strength, and on they pressed.
Soon, standing side by side, they looked upon the ocean, and the breeze taught their hair to dance.
"We've known, haven't we? Maybe not so clearly as this, but we've known -- and now we see: This has grown up as it always does, and we are tempted to run once more."
Light touched them then, and the blue of the sky was almost white.
"Though my blood pours out, I will not go again." The man kissed her head. "Today we will find all that lies beyond."
And it was so.
What of her? Hours of night beheld her shape on the bank of the river, and her stillness aroused the curiosity of shy nocturnals who winged close to her or studied her scent on the air. Her body remained motionless, but her mind roared. "What then?" These two words escaped from her lips as light in the east at last brought the dawn, for these two words had dipped and swirled within her since the memory of the sea rose up and changed her. There, as the full sun alighted on her shoulder, she spurned the chill of the air and the chill of the water, and dove headlong into the river current.
Time did not slack for either man or woman but passed. Valley after valley the man descended and difficulty increased. And, swimming, the woman became weary; though she swam with the river, her body bade her lay upon the shore until the water's song of the sea renewed her efforts. Yet, the promise of some ancient vow that tied itself to the coast within them gathered strength when there seemed no strength, and on they pressed.
4.
Then the day of meeting:
The man surveyed the tops of trees in a line upon a rocky slope and looked for a way down. He edged closer and farther down until the ledge broke free, and with stones and dust all around him, he fell through the trees, his hands grasping the whole way, but the steep side allowed for only tumbling. Bruised and winded, he lay under the pines and let his eyes close until he heard birds calling and the sound of running water.
The previous night the woman had fought strong tides that pulled her toward the center, and would have pulled her under but for the abundance of low sycamore branches. She was able to cling to them and slowly, finally, find the shore she now slept upon. The branchlets hung about her and hid her from plain sight, keeping also the dew from her. Its twirling in the river and tossing in the wind produced a melody that first sang her to sleep and now visited her dreams.
Afternoon. The sun hot in open spaces where bees and swarming gnats congregated. The man knew the river was close, and he stumbled upon it suddenly, when his mind had strayed to thoughts of the expanse he'd seen from the mountains -- the jewel of the horizon. And then, with the sound of high tide urging him on, he was among the sycamore branches, awakened from his daydream to see the woman, supine and asleep. He watched her for several minutes before his mouth said, "Do I know you?" The woman stirred, but did not wake. "I will wait for her," he said and drank deeply from the river.
When the stars showed dimly in the east she sat up and looked about. The man, by this time, was himself dozing on the bank. She did not fear but spoke. "Who are you?"
And the man, sleep yet tugging at his mind, said, "One from the mountains, though returning to the sea."
Silence fell. The water and the night attended their senses. By and by they spoke to one another and found they traveled the same direction for the same purpose. As the moon's thin arm rose over them, and she remembered the sound of sea foam on the sand, she said, "Let us go together." And the man was glad.
The sun rose the following day and warmed their backs and tipped the river with light where it rushed together. Early they set out, always along the water, and they talked little. A shyness had settled down upon both the man and the woman. When they found one another the day before, an end to their solitude and the thought that it might not return brought them close -- but now, with the sky's blue tent over their heads, the desire to drift from one another grew hot. It's true: If not for the sound of the beach, for the tumult of the waves, they may have turned away once more. But the sea lured them from such thoughts and they ran toward the hills that would show them their final way.The man surveyed the tops of trees in a line upon a rocky slope and looked for a way down. He edged closer and farther down until the ledge broke free, and with stones and dust all around him, he fell through the trees, his hands grasping the whole way, but the steep side allowed for only tumbling. Bruised and winded, he lay under the pines and let his eyes close until he heard birds calling and the sound of running water.
The previous night the woman had fought strong tides that pulled her toward the center, and would have pulled her under but for the abundance of low sycamore branches. She was able to cling to them and slowly, finally, find the shore she now slept upon. The branchlets hung about her and hid her from plain sight, keeping also the dew from her. Its twirling in the river and tossing in the wind produced a melody that first sang her to sleep and now visited her dreams.
Afternoon. The sun hot in open spaces where bees and swarming gnats congregated. The man knew the river was close, and he stumbled upon it suddenly, when his mind had strayed to thoughts of the expanse he'd seen from the mountains -- the jewel of the horizon. And then, with the sound of high tide urging him on, he was among the sycamore branches, awakened from his daydream to see the woman, supine and asleep. He watched her for several minutes before his mouth said, "Do I know you?" The woman stirred, but did not wake. "I will wait for her," he said and drank deeply from the river.
When the stars showed dimly in the east she sat up and looked about. The man, by this time, was himself dozing on the bank. She did not fear but spoke. "Who are you?"
And the man, sleep yet tugging at his mind, said, "One from the mountains, though returning to the sea."
Silence fell. The water and the night attended their senses. By and by they spoke to one another and found they traveled the same direction for the same purpose. As the moon's thin arm rose over them, and she remembered the sound of sea foam on the sand, she said, "Let us go together." And the man was glad.
5.
Soon, standing side by side, they looked upon the ocean, and the breeze taught their hair to dance.
6.
Their joy held with the day -- yes, even as the fire they built for the night sent sparks heavenward, their faces glowed with not only joy but hope.
"Days ago," the woman said, "I thought there was nothing more than the river to search out; nothing more than searching for signs of it. But here," and she looked out upon all they'd found that day, words ceasing.
"Yes." And the man's eyes rested on the orange embers. "It was not long ago that I would have climbed the mountains forever. Looking for -- for I don't know what."
7.
The morning found them at the end of a long walk along the shore. They'd talked of all they could remember, for forgetfulness had begun to fall from them like scales, and their conversation was no longer forced. Now they stood silent before a mass of growth. Tucked away from the sea among a hill of rock it seemed a wild patch of willows and vines had exploded from every crack and crevice. They'd thought to find fresh water and turned from the beach, but were now blocked.
"Maybe farther down we can find a way back to the river." And the man turned to go.
"Wait -- do you hear that?" The woman touched the man's shoulder with her hand. "That -- that moan."
"The sea -- "
"No, I hear the sea. But I also hear a higher sound. Yes. It's in there." She ran as far in as she could and began to pull the branches apart. "Hello?" And her rising concern drew the man to help. Not only the thin branches impeded them, but also large rocks that shifted with their work. Seaweed and slithering creatures emerged and yet the couple continued to clear their way until he stopped her.
"What's there -- what is that by the wall in the hill?"
She looked up. "Yes, I see something." They stood side by side and tried to see through the thick growth and tangled vines. "I don't know."
"My mind tells me we've been here before." And he looked at her. She turned toward him as he said, "I know it's true."
The woman could only search his eyes, but her thoughts were clear and not without sorrow.
Behind them, on the vast horizon, the light died with the setting sun, a great procession of colors looking on. They kindled a fire there, and through the night discussed what the last few days might mean, their memories coming alive under a clear sky full of heaven's jewels.
The days to come found them working to clear the wild vegetation and somehow discover the source of the sounds within. But it was difficult, for always their hands were wet, and they were forced to stop and clean them or else suffer endless cuts. Each time they paused, they sat together and marveled at the place they knew. "How can we know it?" They said in turn to the other. And the mystery hung on them like a drenching dew.
"What's there -- what is that by the wall in the hill?"
She looked up. "Yes, I see something." They stood side by side and tried to see through the thick growth and tangled vines. "I don't know."
"My mind tells me we've been here before." And he looked at her. She turned toward him as he said, "I know it's true."
The woman could only search his eyes, but her thoughts were clear and not without sorrow.
Behind them, on the vast horizon, the light died with the setting sun, a great procession of colors looking on. They kindled a fire there, and through the night discussed what the last few days might mean, their memories coming alive under a clear sky full of heaven's jewels.
The days to come found them working to clear the wild vegetation and somehow discover the source of the sounds within. But it was difficult, for always their hands were wet, and they were forced to stop and clean them or else suffer endless cuts. Each time they paused, they sat together and marveled at the place they knew. "How can we know it?" They said in turn to the other. And the mystery hung on them like a drenching dew.
8.
"The sound has changed this morning." The woman had risen before the sun, and she spoke to the man as he approached. "Listen. It seems as though it knows we are here, getting closer."
The man heard the change, and he also worried that she would not cease her work until she eased the pain of who or whatever moaned. Her hands and arms showed angry red slashes, like his own, and he knew they would bleed with the first attempt at pulling a vine or lifting a sand-covered stone. "Come to the fire and eat, we can begin soon -- "
"No. No, I can't." She took his hand. "I've stood here and thoughts, old thoughts, have haunted me. We've forgotten." She could not speak any more, but wept with her hands to her face.
The man embraced her and felt her sobs upon his chest. "I know. When I saw you were not beside me this morning, I felt something new -- like I'd lost you before." He knew she looked up at him now, and he was glad that night still covered him, for his face burned with shame. "Then my mind drew pictures for me of the mountain spaces above, and I thought of returning."
She sighed. "Yes. And the coolness of the streams has passed over my heart time and again."
"Is this why? Did we turn from this?"
"We've known, haven't we? Maybe not so clearly as this, but we've known -- and now we see: This has grown up as it always does, and we are tempted to run once more."
Light touched them then, and the blue of the sky was almost white.
"Though my blood pours out, I will not go again." The man kissed her head. "Today we will find all that lies beyond."
And it was so.
9.
Though the pain increased with each movement of their bodies, they cleared a path that led them beyond the willows and vines. Now, filthy and ragged, they stood hand in hand in front of a doorway cut in the rock.
"Yes," the man said. "Here." He put his free hand on the lintel above them. "The sound comes from here." They entered.
Their eyes adjusted slowly to the dark room, and she said, "And I know it. Don't you also?" She moved forward without him, toward another room even darker than the first.
"Wait. Let me find a lamp."
But she would not wait. "Come," she said. "Hurry."
The man ran back to their fire, lit a large branch, and quickly returned to light a fire in the corner of the dark room. He found lamps also, and he carried one toward the woman. He knew what he would find, and, just outside the second room, his nose caught the scent of a mountain meadow -- a wide space, open in all directions. There, with his feet on the threshold, he tore the thought of turning from his mind, and went in to his wife.
"See? You see?" And this was all she could say, for the pain within was greater than the pain of her fingertips and hands.
"I see."
They looked to one another, and for moments unreckoned they held one another's gaze as she held their child and whispered reasurances. Finally, he came to them. He fell to his knees and relearned his child's face.
"The vines will grow," he said. "They will grow, and the willows will come with them. And water, fresh water, comes from far away, and this place will close in."
She finished for him: "But we will clear it. Though our hands cry out, we will clear it. And go for water -- you and I -- and we will not forget."
And it was so.
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