Welsh Journals

VOYAGE WITHOUT END CELIA Buckmaster WE halted by the cross roads in the shadow of the rocks. The animals were exhausted after the long journey, and even the wild horses roped two and two with iron chains no longer strained for freedom on that plain. The camels, over loaded with much baggage, stood there sucking in the evening and grunting with a calm despair. Only the elephant refused his burden, and laying down the blocks of cedar wood he carried, turned about and faced the valley down behind our road. Not thinking of the time and distance that would check our laughter, we had started on this journey full of courage. Undismayed we listened to the old man's story of the vultures, and chasing stranger birds than these we made good headway in the first months of our journey. Then came the storm, and blinded by the lightning on the hills we chased this way and that with maddened horses straining at the harness of our baggage. Still laughing after that we watched the clouds and listened to the beat of swan's wings in the distance. Days filled with peace and sanctity of rushing waters, we soon passed that sheltered valley, and leaving the plumed birds and the waterfalls, we turned our footsteps to the mountain range ahead. There was no looking back on that valley, for when once we started climbing the mist hung like a barrier behind, and now eyes dazzled by eternal snows our thoughts leapt upwards to the summit. Having marched for many days the warrior broke faith; saying I am no captain of this army,' he took away the steel strength of our ammunition and left us with one thousand useless guns. Mocking, he turned the corner on the ridge, and as he fell our hopes were haunted with his laughter. How long we wandered on that mountain range I cannot tell, but what the old man told about the snow was truth; we never reached that snow. Too proud to turn, we crossed the mountain by a downward path that lead us to another pleasant valley. Unconscious of our doom in time we passed so many thoughtless days in sowing corn and telling stories to the children, that when we started on our journey once again our joints were stiff with too much luxury. Night burned us with a memory of dreams and crimson birds that flew among the branches sang and sported in the day. Then for