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The Victory of the Moon by Stephen Crane

 

The Strong Man of the Hills lost his wife. Immediately he went abroad, calling aloud. The people all crouched afar in the dark of their huts, and cried to him when he was yet a long distance away: “No, no, great chief, we have not even seen the imprint of your wife's sandal in the sand. If we had seen it, you would have found us bowed down in worship before the marks of her ten glorious brown toes, for we are but poor devils of Indians, and the grandeur of the sun rays on her hair would have turned our eyes to dust.”

“Her toes are not brown. They are pink,” said the Strong Man from the Hills. “Therefore do I believe that you speak the truth when you say you have not seen her, good little men of the valley. In this matter of her great loveliness, however, you speak a little too strongly. As she is no longer among my possessions, I have no mind to hear her praised. Whereabouts is the best man of you?”

None of them had stomach for this honour at the time. They surmised that the Strong Man of the Hills had some plan for combat, and they knew that the best of them would have in this encounter only the strength of the meat in the grip of the fire. “Great King,” they said, in one voice, “there is no best man here.”

“How is this?” roared the Strong Man. “There must be one who excels. It is a law. Let him step forward then.”

But they solemnly shook their heads. “There is no best man here.”

The Strong Man turned upon them so furiously that many fell to the ground. “There must be one. Let him step forward.” Shivering, they huddled together and tried, in their fear, to thrust each other toward the Strong Man.

At this time a young philosopher approached the throng slowly. The philosophers of that age were all young men in the full heat of life. The old greybeards were, for the most part, very stupid, and were so accounted.

“Strong Man from the Hills,” said the young philosopher, “go to yonder brook and bathe. Then come and eat of this fruit. Then gaze for a time at the blue sky and the green earth. Afterward I have something to say to you.”

“You are not so wise that I am obliged to bathe before listening to you?” demanded the Strong Man, insolently.

“No,” said the young philosopher. All the people thought this reply very strange.

“Why, then, must I bathe and eat of fruit and gaze at the earth and the sky?”

“Because they are pleasant things to do.”

“Have I, do you think, any thirst at this time for pleasant things?”

“Bathe, eat, gaze,” said the young philosopher with a gesture.

The Strong Man did, indeed, whirl his bronzed and terrible limbs in the silver water. Then he lay in the shadow of a tree and ate the cool fruit and gazed at the sky and the earth. “This is a fine comfort,” he said. After a time he suddenly struck his forehead with his finger. “By the way, did I tell you that my wife had fled from me?”

“I know it,” said the young philosopher.

Later the Strong Man slept peacefully. The young philosopher smiled.

But in the night the little men of the valley came clamouring: “Oh, Strong Man of the Hills, the moon derides you!”

The philosopher went to them in the darkness. “Be still, little people. It is nothing. The derision of the moon is nothing.”

But the little men of the valley would not cease their uproar. “Oh, Strong Man! Strong Man, awake! Awake! The moon derides you!”

Then the Strong Man aroused and shook his locks away from his eyes. “What is it, good little men of the valley?”

“Oh, Strong Man, the moon derides you! Oh, Strong Man!”

The Strong Man looked, and there, indeed, was the moon laughing down at him. He sprang to his feet and roared. “Ah, old, fat, lump of moon, you laugh! Have you seen my wife?”

The moon said no word, but merely smiled in a way that was like a flash of silver bars.

“Well, then, moon, take this home to her,” thundered the Strong Man, and he hurled his spear.

The moon clapped both hands to its eye, and cried: “Oh! Oh!”

The little people of the valley cried: “Oh, this is terrible, Strong Man! He has smitten our sacred moon in the eye!”

The young philosopher cried nothing at all.

The Strong Man threw his coat of crimson feathers upon the ground. He took his knife and felt its edge. “Look you, philosopher,” he said. “I have lost my wife, and the bath, the meal of fruit in the shade, the sight of sky and earth are still good to me, but when this false moon derides me, there must be a killing.”

“I understand you,” said the young philosopher.

The Strong Man ran off into the night. The little men of the valley clapped their hands in ecstacy and terror. “Ah! ah! what a battle will there be!”

The Strong Man went into his own hills and gathered there many great rocks and trunks of trees. It was strange to see him erect upon a peak of the mountains and hurling these things at the moon. He kept the air full of them.

“Fat moon, come closer,” he shouted. “Come closer, and let it be my knife against your knife. Oh, to think that we are obliged to tolerate such an old, fat, stupid, lazy, good-for-nothing moon. You are ugly as death, while I—Oh, moon, you stole my beloved, and it was nothing, but when you stole my beloved and laughed at me, it became another matter. And yet you are so ugly, so fat, so stupid, so lazy, so good-for-nothing. Ah, I shall go mad! Come closer, moon, and let me examine your round, grey skull with this club.”

And he always kept the air full of great missiles.

The moon merely laughed, and said: “Why should I come closer?”

Wildly did the Strong Man pile rock upon rock. He builded him a tower that was the father of all towers. It made the mountains to appear to be babes. Upon the summit of it he swung his great club and flourished his knife.

The little men in the valley far below beheld a great storm, and at the end of it they said: “Look, the moon is dead.” The cry went to and fro on the earth: “The moon is dead!”

The Strong Man went to the home of the moon. She, the sought one, lay upon a cloud, and her little foot dangled over the side of it. The Strong Man took this little foot in his two hands and kissed it. “Ah, beloved!” he moaned, “I would rather this little foot was upon my dead neck than that moon should ever have the privilege of seeing it.”

She leaned over the edge of the cloud and gazed at him. “How dusty you are. Why do you puff so? Veritably, you are an ordinary person. Why did I ever find you interesting?”

The Strong Man flung his knife into the air and turned back toward the earth. “If the young philosopher had been at my elbow,” he reflected, bitterly, “I would doubtless have gone at the matter in another way. What does my strength avail me in this contest?”

The battered moon, limping homeward, replied to the Strong Man from the Hills: “Aye, surely. My weakness is in this thing as strong as your strength. I am victor with ugliness, my age, my stoutness, my laziness, my good-for-nothingness. Woman is woman. Men are equal in everything save good fortune. I envy you not.”

 
 
 

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