A strange compulsion came upon the Singer. Furiously he wanted so to sing the Hater’s tune.

He barely staunched the eager urge to sing.

The morning sun glinted fire upon the silver flute. The music and the dazzling light appeared to mesmerize the Singer.

“You must not sing the Hater’s song,” the Father-Spirit cried, “Be very careful, for I love you, Troubadour.”

“Now,” cried the World Hater, “Let’s do this tune at once. I’ll pipe, you sing. Think of the thousand kingdoms that will dance about our feet.”

“No, Hater, I’ll not sing your melodies,” the Troubadour replied.

“What then Singer will you sing?”

“The Ancient Star-Song of the Father-Spirit.”

“Alone, without accompaniment?”

“Yes, Hater, all alone if need be.”

“You need my pipe, man.”

“You need my song instead.”

“The music of your song is far beyond my tiny pipe.”

“Then, go! For I shall never sing a lesser piece.”

Then all at once the Troubadour began again. The mountains amplified his song. It swirled as sunlit symphony, until the Hater put his pipe beneath his belt and fled before the song of love.

“Beloved Singer, beware the World Hater,” the Father-Spirit said.

Then upward there the Singer stretched his arms and said again, “I love you, Father-Spirit.”

He waited there a moment while the sky embraced him and then he walked away. Ahead he saw the cities rise, and people thronged the crowded ways.

VI

If she has loved him, a man will carry anything for his mother—a waterpot or a world.

“Where first to sing?” he thought.

He turned back to the highlands where he had left the broken tool so useless on the vise.

For days he walked. The dust flew up around his feet as he walked home.

At length, he passed the village signpost and there by odd coincidence, his mother at that very time stood by the well.

They met.

He reached to carry her stone jar.

“It’s not traditional,” she said.

He took it anyway.

Her cares had made her fifty years seem even more.

“You broke your hammer on the vise,” she said. “I had it mended for you.”

“I’m through with hammers, anyway,” he said. “I’ve just come home to board the shop.”

“And then you’ll leave?”

“I will,” he said.

“Where will you go?” She studied paving stones as on they walked. He moved the heavy jar to ride upon his other shoulder.

“Wherever there are crowds of many people.”

“The Great Walled City of the Ancient King?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

He feared to talk to her. Yet he must tell her of the River Singer and all about the Star-Song, he had so lately sung. He seemed afraid that she would think him mad. He could not bear to hurt her. For besides the Father-Spirit, he loved her most of all. At length he knew he must lay bare his heart.

“You seem so troubled, son,” she said.

“Not for myself,” he said. Then with the hand that was not needed in balancing the jar, he took her hand and smiled.