Everywhere the music went, full health came.

And all the way, men everywhere were whispering that the long-awaited Troubadour had come.

“It is he,” they said, “at last he’s come. Praise the Father-Spirit, he has come.”

X

The word crying does not appear in the lexicon of heaven. It is the only word listed in the lexicon of hell.

The Singer woke at midnight. In the stupor of half-consciousness—neither quite aware nor yet asleep—he was alone.

The air was full of moans. With groans of grief and pity, the night was crying. He had never heard the darkness cry before.

“Where are you, World Hater?” he shouted.

“Standing in the doorway of the worlds—reveling in my melodies of ugliness and death.”

The Singer listened. The morbid air depressed him and he could not help but weep himself. He ached from the despair. “How long have they cried beyond the doorway of the worlds?” he asked.

The World Hater seemed to summon up the volume of their moaning and then he shouted, “They’ve moaned a million years—It never stops. They hurt with pain that burns and eats the conscience—illuminating every failure. They never can be free. Crying is the only thing they know.”

“Poor souls! Have they nothing to look back upon with joy?” the Singer asked.

“No. Nor anything to look forward to with hope.”

“Could they never give up suffering for one small moment, every thousand years or so?”

“No. Never. They ache in simply knowing they will never cease to ache.”

“I’m coming to the Canyon of the Damned you know.”

“You dare not think that you could sing above their anguished dying that never will be dead.”

“You’ll see, World Hater. I will come.”

“It’s my domain!” the Hater protested.

“You have no domain. How dare you think that you can hold some corner of Earthmaker’s universe and make it your own private horror chamber!”

“It is forever, Singer!”

“Yes, but not off-limits to the song. I’ll smash the gates that hold the damned and every chain will fall away.

“I’ll sing to every suffering cell of hate, the love song of my soul.

“I’ll stand upon the torment of the Canyon of the Damned.”

The troubled air grew still. The World Hater stepped outside the universe—pulled shut the doorway of the worlds.

And Crying softly slept with Joy.

XI

Oftentimes Love is so poorly packaged that when we have sold everything to buy it, we cry in finding all our substance gone and nothing in the tinsel and the ribbon.

Hate dresses well to please a buyer.

He met a woman in the street. She leaned against an open door and sang through her half-parted lips a song that he could barely hear. He knew her friendship was for hire. She was without a doubt a study in desire. Her hair fell free around her shoulders. And intrigue played upon her lips.