rather than a mere acquaintance, and it was not long afterwards—without any undue pressure on my part—that he attempted to explain, step by careful step, the true nature of his artistic quest.
“Do you know the name of Proteus?” he asked me, while he sat before my fire, pulling his threadbare jerkin tightly about his lean frame.
“Certainly,” said I, having by then progressed far enough in my education to know more than a little Greek. “He was the Old Man of the Sea, Poseidon’s seal-herd. Homer tells the tale of how he was trapped by Menelaus after Troy fell; although he changed his shape repeatedly, Menelaus would not let him go until he had revealed the secret of what Menelaus must do in order to win safely home to Sparta.”
“That story reduces him in status,” Clement told me, soberly. “He is an older sea-god by far than the upstart Poseidon, and not just a lord of the sea, although he came out of its bosom uncountable eons ago. He is change itself, and the world is not rid of him, despite that we think that we have bound him to our service, as proud Menelaus claimed to have done.”
“I know no older tales of him than those the Greeks told,” I admitted. “He is in the Odyssey, and also the Georgics of Virgil, but that is all.”
“The older tales were never written down,” said Clement, “but they are preserved nevertheless for those who know how to listen. Do you know the western isles, beyond the northern part of Britain?”
“Only by repute,” I replied.
“They are inhabited by fisher-folk, who have many tales to tell of the tempestuous ocean from which they make their living—and which they call, in recognition of the price which they must pay for their livelihood, the Great Grey Widowmaker. Many of these tales tell of a group of islands which lies far beyond the western horizon, which the fisher-folk call Mag Mell, or the Land of Happiness.
“In Mag Mell, they say, summer is perpetual, and the trees produce fruit in great profusion, while fine corn is always ripening in the valleys between the warm wild hills. From these isles, it is enviously said, no man need ever set sail in a tiny wooden boat, to submit himself to the mercy of the murderous waves. If they are asked, ‘Why do men not set sail for these Isles of the Blest, to make better lives for themselves?’ the fisher-folk will answer that many have, and that some have succeeded. They will also say, however, that the journey is extremely perilous because the sea between their own islands and the others is the haunt of a dire demon of the sea, which they call a draug.
“The draug, according to the island people, was once a fabulous dragon of the air, whose scales were colored like the rainbow and which meant no harm to man. One day, though, the wondrous beast was seized by an old and meddlesome sea-god, who cast it down from the bright blue sky into the cold grey sea. There its scales became silvery and pale, and its glorious wings became mere spiny fins. The gall of these misfortunes made its heart bitter against all creatures, especially the men who might witness its degradation, so that it became an enemy to all those folk who sail in ships. Now, they say, the draug does the dark work of the master who remade it, seizing the boats of all who try to sail to the Land of Happiness, and crushing their timbers in its cruel coils.
“If these folk are asked, ‘Why did the old sea-god set this hateful leviathan to do such work?’ they will answer that he is vilely envious of any who might find calm and content and peace of mind, for, although he has the powers of a god, he has none of these things for himself, and by virtue of his nature can never find them.
“There are in the land of the Scots those who keep sheep on the hills, and those who till the ground, and none of whom can truly understand the life of fisher-folk. Men like these have long taken leave to laugh at those islanders who dare to believe that a god might be envious of happy men, and by their mockery have driven the old beliefs into secrecy. Nowadays, fear of heresy-hunters makes the islanders anxious to copy the religious forms of the mainland, but some of the most ancient men and women still remember what was done in olden days. Then, when a brave man set out in his boat and did not return, his family would hold two funeral rites instead of one. In the first they cried their anxious lamentations because the Great Grey Widowmaker had claimed another life with its cold embrace, but in the second they sang and danced to express the hope that the man might have escaped the draug and the envy of the old sea-god, and might have come therefore to his appointed rest in marvelous Mag Mell.”
“It is a pretty tale,” I admitted, though the mention of heresy-hunters made me shiver. “And you believe that this old and meddlesome sea-god, who could never find calm and peace of mind, was the same as Homer’s Proteus?”
“He is the same,” Clement assured me. “I know it, for I am his worshipper—perhaps the last worshipper he has in this dull and Christian world—and I am the custodian of one of the seven fallen stones.”
I did not immediately ask him what he meant by the seven fallen stones, because I was deeply disturbed by his declaration—even though I did not think he meant it seriously—that he worshipped a pagan god. We live in enlightened times, it is said, but in the days of my youth heretics still burned in their hundreds in many European lands, and none but a fool would ever declare himself a worshipper of demonic idols, even in metaphor or jest. Like the careful young man I was, I closed my mouth whenever I heard the least suggestion of blasphemy or heresy, and it was not until another night, when the cold had driven Clement to my fireside yet again, that he told me the legend of the seven fallen stones.
“There is a very ancient story,” he said, contemplatively, “which is true, alas, which tells how the first god of the sea once cut seven magical stones from the rocks that support the deepest part of his kingdom. He threw them high into the dark night-sky, so that when they fell once more upon the earth, they were scattered far and wide about its surface.
“Many tales have been told of the finding of those stones, by men or by hobgoblins, though none but a few of their tellers had any inkling of where the stones originated, or what their purpose was. Most tales of this kind are tragedies of lives and projects blighted; some few are tales of tragedy avoided by cleverness and self-restraint; but none are tales of fortunes made and power gained, for these dull and deceptive stones cut by the old sea-god were made to sow the seeds of a terrible revelation.
“According to the legend, the unlucky man that finds one of the seven fallen stones, and takes it in his hand, will find that while he holds it he has a magic power of sight, which shows him in the things which are that which in time they are certain to become. When he looks upon a worm, the holder of the stone might see a bright-winged insect; but when he looks upon a lover, he can only see a corpse moldering in the grave; when he looks upon an empire he must witness the bloodbath of rebellion that will tear it down; when he looks upon the sun, he will see an exploded ember; and when he looks up into the starry sky, he will see the eternal darkness that will reign when the stars themselves have died. By such means, the finder of one of the seven fallen stones is forced to know that there is hope only in the smallest and most wretched of things, while in all that seems glorious, there is naught but the promise of loss and emptiness.
“The tales of which I speak, almost without exception, regard the finding of such a stone as a misfortune to be avoided. This is understandable, for such tales are intended to offer advice to brave soldiers, clever thieves and bold explorers. The moral intended to be drawn therefrom is that men should beware of strange dark things that are found, as if by chance, in secret coverts; and that they should not seek to know the mysteries the future holds, lest the revelation be too much for mortal hopes to bear.”
“I presume from your tone,” I said, “that you have some cause to disagree.”
“I am neither a soldier nor a thief,” he told me. “I am a painter, to whom truth is more precious than glamour. I do not fear change, nor seek to bind it to my convenience. I desire to be its celebrant, to perceive it as it is, and to make my perceptions known to other men.”
“So you strive to capture the spirit of change in your paintings,” I said, proud of my powers of deduction, and anxious to show that I too knew how to declaim in a passably eloquent manner. “You have taken this ancient and troubled sea-god as your spiritual tutor, and it