Page:Weird Tales Volume 42 Number 06 (1950-09).djvu/84

 of his body knew complete exhaustion. He had stood at the threshold of the dwelling place of his ancestors, but it would have been precious relief had he stepped through and joined them. His four souls had been quite willing to set out on their preordained destinations. But now gentle sleep had come to him at last, sleep without dreams. Nearby in the small artificial lake, a white-plumed heron stood watching. It was late evening when he awakened. A thin sickle of moon lifted slantwise into the sky. A cool breeze stirred the treetops as it swept through the garden. The air was sweet with the breath of many flowers.

Tang Ling rose to his feet. His body felt light, empty with little more texture than a ghost. He was surprised that he could keep his feet on the ground. The breeze, cool and sweet, had intensified. He lifted his treasured vase in his arms. This was creation indeed for even by moonlight he could see that the girl was smiling and in her eyes, all-seeing, there was warm love and tenderness. He could discern her breathing, the rise and fall of her soft breast. And he knew that every beat of her heart was for him. Here was love beyond the reach of poets. With hushed footsteps, he walked back to his sleeping room. The feeling of fatigue remained with him. Merely to walk was a great effort as though old age enshrouded him. He clutched the vase to him for it was the most precious thing he possessed. Though that was wrong, too, for it seemed as if the vase possessed him more truly than he possessed the vase. It was a glowing creation of yellow madness.

ACK in his sleeping room, he placed the vase on a table near the open window where the sunlight could fall upon it. This was like painting a living rose, for it needed no sunlight, it glowed with an enchanting radiance of its own, a radiance that echoed the smile of his beloved. Now slender and fragile she looked, this little porcelain lady, who from the tip of his brush out of a riot of color, had come to dwell in his heart; He was so intensely happy it was like physical pain. Still the feeling: of languor remained. He lay back on the silken pillow of the kong. It was odd to gaze upon his own figure burnished on the vase, seeming far more alive than his living body. Perhaps this was his life's end. If so, what matter? His portrait on the vase would be immortal, nor would age wither the roundness and youth of his face. Gradually sleep assuaged his weariness, sleep deep and merciful.

Hours later, he awakened into a world of golden yellow splendor. He felt abundantly refreshed. Yet he had come unto a rich, new world. Was he now an immortal? Was this the spiritual realms of his ancestors? If so, it was a beautiful awakening. He felt his thighs, his arms; his body was solid enough. Slowly he rose to his feet and gazed in awe about him. Nearby he noticed, as his eyes became attuned to the glowing yellow atmosphere, three pools of cool, clear water while above glowed a painted moon. Then he knew, for beside him stood the fragile girl. He dared not move, lest by doing so he might break the magic thread. And yet, in spite of himself, his arms encircled her and time stood still. Perhaps it had ceased to be when he painted his own figure on the case. Now he dwelt in a yellow porcelain land, without age, where it was forever spring. But, though he did not realize it at that moment, there was grave danger also, a personal danger of his own contriving.

S HE held the girl to him, whose delicate beauty eclipsed the rarest cameo, he felt as though he were master of the universe. The stars were his and the moon also. He could hold morning in his hands. Alas, however, the extreme joy that engulfed him was but momentary, like a fragment of a poem by Li Po. The next instant he was fighting for his life, fighting a foe that existed only through his inspired brush strokes. But real or imagined his opponent fought with demoniac fury. It was all that Tang Ling could do to protect himself, nor had he any thought of being the aggressor. Even as he struggled, he regretted that he had painted this evil attacker with such an abundance of virility. His strength was amazing. Tang Ling was