Besides, it's part of my duties to teach you wisdom. Now, it is not a terrible thing, at all, at all, to be old. I see the young folk start out in life, and before them, there's the showers of April, there's wind and heat and thunder and lightning. But I'm in warm, brown October, and all of it's gone by me. And in a little while I'll sleep, and 'tis I need it, God help me! The old don't sleep much, wee Golden Bells, so 'tis a comfort to look forward to one's rest after the hardness of the world. In a hundred or more years or five hundred, just as the fancy takes me, I'll wake up for a while and wander down the world to hear the people sing my songs, and then I'll go back to my sleep."
And she was going to ask him another question when the Sanang came up.
The magician was a thick man with merry eyes and a cruel mouth.
"Golden Bells," he says, "there's rare entertainment in the crystal glass."
"What is it, Sanang!"
"The warlocks of the Gobi have a young lad down, and they're waiting until the soul comes out of his body. Come, I'll show you."
And in the crystal glass he showed her Marco Polo, and the knees going from under him in the roaring sands. She gave a quick cry of pity.
"Oh, the poor lad!"
Sanang chuckled. "He started out with a big caravan to preach what he thought was a truth to China. I've been watching him all along, and it's been rare sport. I knew it would come to this."
"Couldn't you save him, Sanang?" she cried. "O, Sanang, he's so young, and he set out to come to us. Couldn't you save him?"
"Well, I might." Sanang was not pleased. "It'll be a while before the shadow comes out of him. But it would be rare sport to watch and see the warlocks and the ghouls and the goblins set on it the way terriers do be setting on an otter."
"Oh, save him, Sanang! Save him!"
"Now, Golden Bells, I might be able to save him, and again I mightn't."
"Save him, Sanang!" Li Po broke in. "Save him the way the wee one wants. For if you don't, Sanang, I'll write a song about you that'll be remembered for generations, and they'll point out your grandchildren and your grandchildren's grandchildren, and they'll laugh and sing Li Po's song:
"'There was a fat worm who considered himself a serpent -- '"
"Oh, now, Li Po, for God's sake, let you not be composing poems on me, for 'tis you have the bitter tongue. Promise me now, and I'll save him. We'll send for the keeper of the khan's drums."
And they sent for the keeper, and Sanang gave a message to be put on the Speaking Drums.
"Let you now," he told his helper, "get me the Distant Ears."
And the helper brought him the Golden Ears, which were the like of a great bird's wings, and he put them on his head and he listened.
"I hear the drums of the battlements," he said, ". . .and I hear the Drums of the Hill of Graves. . ."
And he listened a while, and Golden Bells was white.
"I hear the Drums of the Dim Mountain,". . .and for a while he said nothing.
"Those would be the drums of Yung Chang. . ."
"I hear the Drums of Kai Yu Kwan," he said.
"Yes, Sanang, yes." Little Golden Bells was one quiver of fear.
"I hear the Drums of the Convent of the Red Monks," said Sanang.
"I hear drums calling the Tatar tribes. . .I hear the slap of saddles.
I hear the jingle of bits. . .I hear galloping ponies. . ."
"Yes, Sanang, Oh, hurry, Sanang! hurry!"
He listened a little while longer, and then he took off the Distant Ears.
"Your man's saved," he said.
Then little Golden Bells laughed and then she cried. She caught Li Po's hand and laughed again and again she cried. Sanang shook his head to get out of his ears the deafening noises of the world.
And Li Po smiled out of his sad eyes.
"I think I'll go and write a marriage-song, Golden Bells.
"Whom will you write the marriage-song for, Li Po?"
"I'll write it for you, Golden Bells."
"But I'm not going to be married, Li Po. There is no one. I love no one, Li Po. I do not. I do not, indeed."
"Then take your lute and sing me the 'Song of the Willow Branches,'
which is the saddest song in the world."
She shook her head, and blushed. "I cannot sing that song, Li Po.
I don't feel like singing that song."
"Then I must write you another song, Little Golden Bells. . ."
