The Fire People Page 29

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  THE RETURN.

  There is but little more to add. With the death of Tao and the changing ofthe law concerning the virgins' wings, my mission on Mercury was over. ButI did not think of that then, for with the war ended, my position asvirtual ruler of the Light Country still held Mercer and me occupied witha multiplicity of details. It was a month or more after our return fromthe Twilight Country that Miela reminded me of father and my duty to him."You have forgotten, my husband. But I have not. Your world--it calls younow. You must go back."

  Go back home--to father and dear little Beth! I had not realized how muchI had wanted it.

  "What you have done for our nation--for our girls--can never be repaid,Alan. And you can do more in later years, perhaps. But now your fatherneeds you--and we must think of him."

  I cast aside every consideration of what changes would first have to bemade here on Mercury, and decided in that moment to go.

  "But you must go with me, Miela," I said, and then, as I thought ofsomething else, I added gently: "You will, won't you, little wife? For youknow I cannot leave you now."

  She smiled her tender little smile.

  "'Whither thou goest, I will go,' my husband," she quoted softly, "'forthy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.'"

  We were ready to start at the time of the next inferior conjunction ofMercury with the earth. At our combined pleading, and with the permissionof his associates, Fuero was persuaded to take command of the nationduring my absence; and I felt I was leaving affairs in able hands.

  Lua refused to accompany us; but she urged Anina to go, and the littlegirl was ready enough to take advantage of her mother's permission.

  Though he said nothing, I shall never forget Mercer's face as thisdecision was made.

  The vehicle in which Miela had made her former trip was still lying in thevalley where we had left it. We went away privately, only Lua and Fueroaccompanying us out of the city.

  Lua parted with her two daughters quietly. Her emotions at seeing them goshe concealed under that sweet, gentle reserve which was characteristic ofher always.

  "Promise me you will be careful of her, Alan," she said softly as shekissed me at parting.

  * * * * *

  We landed in the Chilean Andes, with that patient statue of the Christ towelcome us back to earth. The Trans-Andean Railroad runs near it, and wesoon were in the city of Buenos Aires. The two girls, with wings shroudedin their long cloaks, walked about its crowded streets with a wondermentI can only vaguely imagine. We had only what little money I had taken withme to Mercury. I interviewed a prominent banker of the city, told him inconfidence who I was, and from him obtained necessary funds.

  We cabled father then, and he answered at once that he would come down andjoin us. We waited for him down there, and in another month he was withus--dear old gentleman, leaning over the steamer rail, trying to hold backthe tears of joy that sprang into his eyes at sight of me. Little Beth waswith him, too, smart and stylish as ever, and good old Bob Trevor, whomshe shyly presented as her husband.

  The beach at Mar del Plata, near Buenos Aires, is one of the mostbeautiful spots in South America; and on a clear moonlit night, with theSouthern Cross overhead, it displays the starry heavens as few otherplaces can on this earth.

  On such a night in February, 1942, Mercer and Anina sat together on thesand, apart from the gay throng that crowded the pavilion below them. Thegirl was dressed all in white, with a long black cape covering her wings.Her beautiful blond hair was piled on her head in huge soft coils, andover it she had thrown a filmy, sky-blue mantilla that shone with a softluster in the moonlight and seemed reflected in the blue of her eyes.

  Mercer in white flannels sat beside her, cross-legged on the white sand,with a newly purchased Hawaiian guitar across his lap. From the band standin the pavilion down the beach faint strains of music floated up to them.The moon silvered the water before them; a soft, gentle breeze of summercaressed their cheeks; the myriad stars glittered overhead like brilliantgems scattered on the turquoise velvet of the sky.

  Anina, chin cupped in her hand, sat staring at the wonderful heavens thatall her life before had been withheld from her sight. She sighedtremulously.

  "I want to say this is a night," Mercer declared, breaking a long silence.

  "It's--it's beautiful," she answered softly. "Those millions ofworlds--like mine, perhaps--or like this one of yours." She turned to him."Ollie, which of them is my world?"

  "You can't see it now, Anina. It's too close to the sun."

  Again she sighed. "I'm sorry for that. It would seem closer, perhaps, ifwe could see it."

  "You're not sorry you came, Anina? You don't want to go back now?"

  "Not now, Ollie." She smiled into his earnest, pleading eyes. "For those Ilove are here as well as there. I have Miela and Alan--and--"

  "And?" Mercer leaned forward eagerly.

  "And Miela's little son--that darling little baby. We must go back soonand see Miela. She will be wondering where we are."

  Mercer sat back. "Oh," he said. "Yes, we must."

  The band in the pavilion stopped its music. Mercer slid his little steelcross-piece over the guitar strings and began to play the haunting, cryingmusic of the islands, the music of moonlight and love. After a moment hestopped abruptly.

  "Anina, that little song you sang in the boat that day--you remember--theday we went to the Water City? Sing it again, Anina."

  She sang it through softly, just as she had in the boat, to its lastending little half-sob.

  Mercer laid his guitar on the sand beside him.

  "You said that music talks to you, Anina--though sometimes you--you don'tunderstand just what it tries to say. I feel it that way, too--only--onlyto-night--now--I think I _do_ understand."

  His voice was very soft and earnest and just a trifle husky.

  "You said that it was a love-song, Anina, and it was sad because love issad. Do you--think love is always sad?" He put out his hand awkwardly andtouched hers.

  "Do you, Anina?" he whispered.

  Her little figure swayed toward him. She half turned, and in her shiningeyes he saw the light that needs no words to make its meaning clear.

  The timidity that so often before had restrained him was swept away; hetook her abruptly into his arms, kissing her hair, her eyes, her lips.

  "Love isn't--always very sad, is it, Anina?"

  Her arms held him close.

  "I--I don't know," she breathed against his shoulder. "But it's--it'svery--wonderful."