The Golden Fruit: chapter 7 of The Story of Aphelos

 

And so Ingos took the Messenger to every part of the enchanted realm of Aphelos. Their journey lasted a whole month, and at the end they returned to the spot where Ingos liked best to sleep — a small grassy mound, on which there was an outcrop of bare rock.

‘This is my home,’ he said to the Messenger. ‘It reminds me of the bare rock on to which I was cast when first I came here on the flood. And now that my memory is restored, it puts me in mind of a place I loved in Thrâyeldim of old.’

‘Here, then, make the seat of your rule,’ said the Messenger. ‘Let us fetch a golden apple from your cave, and leave it on the rock to grow.’

Together they went up the great mountain, passing the stone column which stood on a spur of rock above the trees, and following the stream, until at last they came to Ingos’s old home, the cave. There inside were the Twelve Trees with their golden fruit. They went inside the cave, and Ingos picked a fruit.

‘It seems a shame to leave their number diminished,’ he said. ‘But they never grow again.’

‘Not of themselves,’ replied the white-robed Messenger. ‘But touch the place whence the apple came with the end of your staff.’

Ingos did as he was bidden, and at once a new golden fruit was swelling where the old one had been.

After that Ingos and the Messenger returned to Ingos’s hill. They placed the golden apple on the rock there. On the next day a tree was growing there, just like those in the cave, but greater, already nigh on ten feet high. Ingos was seven feet tall but could not reach the top with his hands.

‘Those trees are wondrous,’ said Ingos to the Messenger. ‘Can you tell me how they grow?’

‘I can tell you but little, for their mystery is great. They belong to the immortal world, which is your home too, Lord Ingos. They will grow here, but only in rock, for that alone is hard and material enough for them. This earth would look to you spectral and insubstantial by comparison with the undying world, and so it seems to the roots of these trees.’

‘And how is it that they vanish when all their fruit has been picked?’

‘When they have fulfilled their purpose they return to the deathless world. They seem to you to vanish; but rather they become too visible, too tangible, for you on this earth to see or feel. So is it with the immortals of this world. It is their destiny to become too material for this passing world to hold them.’

‘This is indeed a marvel!’ exclaimed the Lord Ingos. ‘But with my staff I restored fruit to a bare branch. How is that?’

‘The touch of a fruitless branch restores the fruit. And your staff, you remember, is a branch of one of those two great trees that are now the doorposts of your cave. That staff of yours is not dead, Lord Ingos, however it may seem to be. It is full of virtues.’

‘These trees are wonderful and worthy inhabitants of the deathless world,’ said Ingos. ‘But you tell me they will grow only in rock. Yet the seeds from those golden apples became all this —’ and he pointed to the forests around them.

‘You are right. All this grew from the seeds. For the seeds in the cores of those fruits are the seeds of every tree and plant of this world. This tree, growing above our heads, here, is at once all plants and no plant. All plants, because it produces the seeds of all plants; no plant, because it belongs not to earthly nature at all, but to over-nature. And so it is called Oyarúi, Everytree, and Engworrúya, Undying Tree. It is the tree of the undying world. From its fruit the Entellári first sowed the known earth, just as you have sown this hidden land.’

The First Life of Ingos, Father of Peoples: chapter 6 of The Story of Aphelos

‘Before your times, O Ingos, the earth was watched over by the long-living ones, the Doitherúna. They were the Guardians. They were charged with preparing the earth for the coming of the Hyûvandri, mortal men and women. Many and various were their kinds but among them were the Gangri, the mighty ones, builders; the Kabdath, the skilled ones, the makers; the Thendâ, the lovers of beasts and husbandry, the riders; the Silúna, shapers of waterways, whom are now named the Fâwiengri, the mariners; and the Entellári, the fair ones, lovers of everything that lives and grows, the blessed ones. They laboured to build a world for the Hyûvandri to inhabit and to rule. But in their number was Melyúnas, the seeker of knowledge, who named himself Negobith. 

‘You ask about the nature of Negobith. Negobith was a Doitherân but a corrupted one. His nature was such that his body and spirit could be parted by someone with sufficient power and authority, but his spirit could incarnate itself again. 

‘When he heard of the felicity planned  for the Hyûvandri, he became envious. He desired rule for himself. He took counsel to bring the world of the Hyûvandri under his own lordship. His first act was to tempt others of the Doitherúna to harbour the same desire. Then he sowed strife between the Doitherúna. Negobith’s greatest deception fell upon the Gangri, who warred among themselves. Negobith won over the Falakkazri whom men call Kúmi Netári, for they fear them. He sent some of them to serve the Gangri in their wars. He made his dwelling deep under the earth, in Ombros, for he needed no light but continually desired Night.

‘At that time began the First Circle of Time, when you came alone, Lord Ingos. It was said: Othaller Ingos milenale-ruvot erderofesta: “Ingos walked upon the face of the earth before all men”! That Age was Thallut’ Ingos, the journeying of Ingos: you were Ingos, the Long-lived: you were granted years of life far beyond the span of the men and women who came after you, so that you might fulfil your tasks. Indeed you faithfully fulfilled the tasks that were for that time. And you walked the earth, and held converse with the faithful Doitherúna, especially the Entellári. And then came the Hyûvandri, men and women in their families and tribes, at first few in number. You were their father and guide.

‘You settled the Hyûvandri in places that were far from the strifes of the Gangri and the Falakkazri. Nonetheless, some of them wandered into the clutches of Negobith, and there arose the Valkari, the witchfolk of Nanôr. The greatest of them was Murnag ta-Valka, who became the consort of Negobith himself and bore him Prámiz and Groiznath. And Prámiz went about to steal star-fire and brought it down to the land of Nanôr. But the Entellári bound him on a mountaintop in the East. Groiznath assaulted the stronghold of the Gangri, but was overcome and cast into the form of a wood-demon. Finally the peoples of the Midworld confined Negobith within Ombros by the Great Runes of Binding so that he could no longer exercise his power. And so the Midworld had peace and you travelled its length and breadth among your people.’

‘At the close of the Giants’ Wars, Dreygan the last of the Frostgiants forged the Blade, Gantzor, from the ice spittle of Firungwáfi, the coldworm which he had captured and imprisoned in his cavern beneath Kapgar-Kûm. At the death of Dreygan, Gantzor was lost. But Negobith knew of it, and desired to obtain it so as to achieve the power of cold-death over others, and foremost over you, Ingos.

‘After a search by his servant, Negobith obtained Gantzor. He lured you, Ingos, into a meeting, and made to slay you with the Blade of Dreygan; but in his folly he only cast a spell of frozen sleep upon you. Thus it was that you fell into that Age-long sleep. But Negobith did not know of Dreygan’s curse, that Gantzor should be the bane of anyone who struck with it but he himself. Negobith did not die, but destroyed his body, so that his anya became houseless.’

With that, memory that had long slept awoke in the heart of Ingos, and he cried out: “Yes, I reasoned with him on the mountain top, but he came to smite me, and a darkness fell. But Master, it was that Drumster of the Deep, Slungandi, who restored Gantzor to Negobith. Yet in the former age he helped us to overthrow Negobith, and without him we could not have prevailed. He is a Doitherân: where is he now?’

‘He fell at length to the same blade as you did, Lord Ingos, and lay in ice-sleep on the same Isle; but if the Flood awoke him or bore him away is not revealed.

‘And after the Dolorous Stroke that bound you, Lord Ingos, there followed the Age of Imlonyat’ Ingos, the Sleep of Ingos, when many hundreds of human years passed by. While you lay in ice-sleep, the angûthégri of Nanór, by abominable arts, housed again the anya of Negobith in the body of Dreygan, that he might wield Gantzor with the hand of Dreygan. By the power of Negobith, his one surviving son Prámiz compelled many Hyûvandri and Kabadri to receive the Yoke of Negobith and to go to dwell in his evil city of Magéraz Urlan-fên in the land of Fíbor. There arose more strife in Thrâyeldim.

‘The Doitherúna built Dúmiel as a place of safety from Negobith for Hyûvandri. That realm endured for five hundred years, guarded by the enchanted encircling forest, the Berufarána. But the Wingworm Kervandwáfi, with his fiery breath, laid waste the heart of the Greenmarch, making a path by which the hosts of Fíbor entered Dúmiel, and caused a great flood that destroyed Tídris.

‘The flood awoke you from that long sleep and sent you here to bring this enchanted land into being, as a haven for your people. This is the Age of Klíst’ Ingos, the Island Realm of Ingos, which will not end.

But you will learn more of that charge in time to come, my friend! For now, Lord Ingos, make me your guest, and let me see the fairness of this wondrous land.’

The Plain and The Messenger: chapters 4 and 5 of The Story of Aphelos

 

It took the man longer than a day to reach the plains. He took the journey at his leisure. Lower down the mountain the woods began. They were full of beautiful trees, their bark a much lighter gold or silver colour than ordinary terrestrial trees. Countless green leaves of every shade hung thick upon them. Small bright flowers grew among their roots. In the clearings there were grassy swards. The forest was still except for the rustle of leaves in the breeze and the bubbling of the brook. And this had been first a sea bed and then a desert!

The man spent days and weeks wandering on the plains and hills and valleys of this new land. He bathed in the brooks and slept on the daisy-strewn lawns. He wondered if animals and birds would come to the woods; the sight of several insects gave him hope that they would.

The days were long and warm. It may have been summer, but it seemed to last and last — much longer than summer should. The man watched his friend the Moon at night: he waxed and waned five times, and then one morning, the man saw some small specks approaching from the west, high in the sky. They were a flock of birds. They passed overhead and disappeared into the forest.

The next morning the air was full of the chirping of grasshoppers, and the next, the buzzing of bees was added. On the third morning, as he awoke early, the man heard a single birdsong in the stillness; then, suddenly, the whole forest came alive with singing. So, at last, the land was full of life. There were rabbits and mice and hedgehogs and badgers, foxes, lizards, toads, frogs, and moles. The rivers, lakes, and streams abounded with fish and deep in the forest there were deer, bears, cats, and boars.

The man was happy. He watched the moon and stars and notched the passage of time on his silver staff, yet time seemed to stand still. Death never touched that land; truly it was a golden and enchanted place.

Yet there were no people. The fruits that grew on the branches and fell and grew again were the food of the animals. The man did not eat. He realised, too, that he had not spoken for a long time and had forgotten his skill in framing sentences and naming things. Here in this land things had no names. 

He thought about his own name. What was it? He could not remember it. And yet this did not trouble him. He was the only human being here, after all. And what had been his life before the flood? How had he come to be floating on the face of the water? What had been his occupation, who were his people, before he was set adrift? The past was dark. Life in this reborn land was all he knew. 

The Messenger

One day the man wandered far to the West, farther than he had been before. He came at last to the seashore. Here there was golden sand and here the Western Sea moved gently against the beaches. As he walked along the shore looking out on the blue Sea which, they say, reaches to the end of the earth, he saw far away a figure approaching along the beach. His heart leapt when he saw that it was another man. The stranger was very tall: in truth, taller by far than an ordinary human; seemingly a giant, yet not daunting to look on like the Gangri. He had long white hair and a beard. He was robed in white also and, in the bright sunlight, was dazzling to look at.

The man ran towards him, and as he did so, the stranger stopped and watched him. He held his arms wide and smiled. The man dropped on to his knees in front of the stranger, bowing his head.

‘Welcome, master,’ he said. He offered him his silver-hued staff. ‘Let my staff be yours. It is all I have to give.’

The stranger took the staff. ‘Welcome my dear friend,’ he replied. ‘I thank you for your gift; it is indeed a kingly one. But take it back, for it is your sceptre.’ And he returned the staff. ‘Do not kneel to me, my friend,’ said the stranger, ‘for I am only a messenger, while you are the Lord of this land.’

‘I?’ Asked the man, as he got to his feet.

‘Yes. You, Ingos, are the Lord and steward of the land.’

The man stood still in thought. ‘Ingos,’ he said, slowly, ‘yes, that was my name: Ingos.’

The Messenger replied: ‘You have forgotten much, Lord Ingos. All that occurred before you were brought here on the great flood. But fear not, your memory shall be restored. That is one of the purposes with which I have come. But first, know that this Land is set apart from the mortal world; and so, as Lord of this land, you are Ingos the Immortal, for Immortals do not fully belong to the plain Earth.’

‘I an immortal?’ said Ingos with a gasp.

‘Yes, for you have tasted the golden fruit of the Immortals, and are transformed. He that tastes is set free from mortal human wants, from hunger, thirst, pain, longing, fear, and death. This land of Aphelos, which you have planted with the seeds of the golden fruit, is deathless too. It is liberated from time.’

‘The honour is great,’ said Ingos, amazed.

‘As great as is the charge,’ said the messenger. ‘This land is not fenced from the world; anything, good or ill, may enter it. But for now it is in its season of perfection and free from care.’

‘But master, I would know what befell in the between time. I remember nothing of how I came to be adrift on the flood.’

‘Let us find a shady place and be at ease,’ said the Messenger. ‘And there I will tell you the story of your former self. For though you have forgotten your past, you should know that you have merited the privilege of this Land through your deeds and calling of old. And, Ingos, the guardianship of this Land will not be the last of your deeds. You are still appointed to fulfil what was said at the beginning: thótaressi Ingos veithi folúmedor a-tautazar “Ingos was to live until he had completed his task”.’ 

When they had seated themselves beneath a fair spreading tree, the Messenger began to tell the tale of the first life of Ingos: 

The Trees: chapter 3 of The Story of Aphelos

 

He continued in this mood for several days. Sometimes he looked out on the country far below him, but always it was bleak and unfriendly. And then one day as he looked out of the cave he saw far off a small golden object. The Sun glinted on it. As he strained his eyes to look at it, he realised that it was another of the wondrous trees, bearing fruit. He guessed that one of the cores which he had thrown away must have taken root under the waters. The sight warmed his heart.

Then he knew what he should do. He would plant the whole landscape with the golden fruit. If they flourished in rock, they might grow in the desert. He remembered that the kernel of the fruit was full of seeds. He decided to break them open and scatter the seeds into the air.

And so, one day, when a hot wind was blowing from the east over the desert, the man went up to the highest peak of the mountain with three of the golden fruit. He broke them open. Inside each there was a large quantity of seeds. But all seemed to differ in shape and size and texture. He was quite perplexed by this, seeing that the trees were so similar. But nevertheless he took them in his hand and scattered them in the air.

He waited to see what result this would have. The next morning nothing was visible on the land, or the next, or the one after that. His plan seemed at first to have failed. Then, one morning, he woke and looked out of the cave. Great trees were growing in the desert below. They were more than he could count; they seem to be of every shape and size. Their bark was of every kind, or so it seemed from far above. There were no leaves, and as far as he could tell, no fruit.

The next day there was a strong wind from the north. He scattered four handfuls of the light seeds in the air, and waited. Not long afterwards there were trees on the south side of the mountain. The trees on the west seem to have grown more numerous. A few weeks later he planted trees on the north side. Green leaves unfolded in a mass on the older trees. There was grass, too, and even flowers, growing in the spaces between the trees.

One day there came a wind out of the west. It was cool and fragrant, and smelt of the western sea. The man stood once more on the mountaintop. The wind blew steady and strong all around him. He threw seeds into the air. Then it began to rain.

It was the only rain which the man had seen since his first night on the rock. It continued for a week. He watched it from inside the cavern, a silver curtain between him and the green woods which he had planted.

The second tree had disappeared; he had used the seeds of its fruits to sow the desert: three for the north, three for the south, three for the east, three for the west. But he had planted the flesh of those twelve fruits, which he could not possibly eat, still with some seeds inside, and now in the cavern there were twelve small trees, all the same, bearing golden fruits, twelve times twelve, on their silver branches.

Watered by the rain out of the west, the three trees which the man had planted outside the cave had grown huge, but their shape remained the same. On the sixth day of rain the branches with their fruit vanished, and in their places came great buds borne on short stalks. The man had, however, picked one fruit, the one which had caught fire as he threw it into the water. The bare branch from which it had hung did not vanish, but dropped off. It was by now about six feet long. So the man took it and it became his staff. Wherever he went thereafter, he took the staff with him.

On the seventh day of rain the buds of the three trees burst suddenly into brilliant blue flowers as big as cart wheels. Each had seven huge petals. Each petal was curiously folded. The scent of the flowers was overpowering. It made the man drowsy, and he lay down and slept.

When he awoke it was near evening. The rain was lessening, and a great rainbow stood in the sky, which faded slowly. As it diminished the flowers began to bow their faces towards the ground. And then the petals fell gently from them, and lay all about the cave door like shining blue robes. The man was moved by their beauty. He did not want them to be lost; he gathered them up to bring them into the cave. Their texture was smooth, and as he grasped them, he found to his surprise that he could neither tear nor crush them. They were indeed like robes, with a wide opening at one end and a narrow one at the other. Joyfully the man took one and pulled it over his head; it hung round his body as if it had been meant for a garment. And that was how the man clothed himself. 

As he looked again at the two trees by the doorway, he saw a grey colour spreading from the ground up the bare trunks of the trees: the silver colour vanished. The trees looked rigid. The rain ceased. The man went to the two trees and touched them: they had become stone. So now the two door posts of the cave were stone pillars. He looked down the mountain to where the third tree was and saw that a great stone obelisk stood in its place.

Then he caught his breath. The great desert was no more. Before him, and all around the rock, stretched a fertile land of green hills and valleys. There were woods and meadows in every direction, and the rushing of streams and rivers could be heard. His heart swelled as he breathed the fresh cool air. 

He ran to the mountaintop. The view was alike in every direction. The mountain itself was clothed with woods and tufts of grass and moss on the stones. Returning to the cave, he found that a spring had burst out of the ground in the spot where the first silver tree had stood. It was trickling over the threshold of the cave and flowing down the mountainside. He looked at the other trees: they were unchanged, each with twelve round golden fruit. 

Then he took his wooden staff and sought a way down the mountainside.

It was not as hard as it looked from above. The man followed the course of the stream which flowed over the threshold of his cave. After a few steps he turned and looked back. He could just see the strange silver and gold trees in the shady interior. He looked at the great stone columns which had once been trees and now framed the entrance to the cave. He said a grateful farewell to the place that had so long been his home.

The desert: chapter 2 of The Story of Aphelos

The man’s appetite had in no way increased during his whole stay on the rock. He resolved to eat no more fruit until he felt hungry again.

During these sixty-six days the weather had never changed. The Sun shone brightly every day, and there was an occasional breeze. It struck the man sometimes that his was an ideal existence, suspended in time and free from every want. His health was perfect, he slept well, and he never had to exert himself unduly. Moreover his hair never grew longer; it was as if he had become ageless.

The heat of the Sun gradually increased. One day, as he was bathing, he noticed how warm the water was. After a few days steam rose from it, and the water level fell. It became too hot to sit outside the cave, and one morning, in venturing his hand out of the shadow, he was burnt as if by fire. The heat rose from the rocks and they cracked, while over the water the ever-thickening steam formed clouds. Strangely the two silver trees outside the cave showed no signs of withering. The man felt that he was stifling in the cave, and to quench his thirst, picked a fruit and ate it. He threw the core into the water, and as it fell it smouldered and crackled. A hot wind arose and blew strongly from the East, so that the thick mist outside swirled past the cave mouth for day after day.

At last one morning there was no more mist, and stranger still, no more water. The man stood in the cave mouth and looked all around. A broad, barren desert stretched away from the foot of the mountain several leagues below. It was as featureless as the water had been. Nothing grew and nothing moved in the land: it was wholly grey.

For the first time since he had come to the mountain, the man’s heart sank within him. The nearness of the warm, empty waters had been a comfort to him; the distant grey waste of dust was chilling. He knew that his own life, with all his needs provided for, would continue as pleasantly as before. But to look at the unfertile land below made him sad. 

The coming: chapter 1 of The Story of Aphelos

Once upon a time there was a great flood, which swept every living thing away and covered all the land.

Now when the flood had subsided, there came a great drought, which baked the mud left behind by the flood-waters until it was as hard as rock. The whole land became a desert, bleak and empty: nothing whatever grew in it.

It happened that when the waters of the Great Flood were at their highest, they covered everything but a tall mountain which stood in the middle of the land. The peak of the mountain showed above the waters, and one stormy night there came to the mountain a man, floating on a log, the only creature alive on the surface of the waters. When he reached the great rock he clung to it and dragged himself on to it, pulling himself a few feet above the level of the water. Then he fainted from weariness.

He lay sleeping on the ledge of the rock for many hours, and when he awoke it was night once more. The Moon was shining brightly, however, looking at his reflection in the water, and by his light the man noticed an opening higher up the rock face. He climbed up to it, and found that it led into a large round cavern whose walls were smooth and whose floor was flat: it was as if it had been carved out by giants’ hands.

The Moon, who shone his beams full into the cave, lit up a strange plant that grew from the rocky floor. The man had never seen such a plant; it was shaped like a small tree, and had thin branches from each of which hung a single round fruit of the size of an apple. There was nothing else. The man was very hungry, and went to the tree, picked a fruit, and ate it. It had almost no taste, but satisfied his hunger entirely.  He needed to eat only one. 

The fruit had a core, inside which, he could hear, by shaking it, a quantity of seeds. He threw the core into a corner of the cave and lay down on the floor to sleep, for he was still most weary.

He was awoken by the warm rays of the Sun on his face. They were coming, not from the mouth of the cave, but from a small opening like a window in the far wall of the cave, which he had not seen in the night. He looked at the tree in the centre of the cave. It was not green or brown, but a bright, silver-grey, while the fruits were gold.

Every branch bore a fruit at its end, except for that from which he had taken a fruit the previous night.

Then the man caught his breath. There was another tree in the cave. The second one was growing on the far side of the cave, just where the core which he had thrown away must have fallen.

It seemed beyond belief that a plant could spring out of solid rock within a few hours, and flourish without soil or water. He walked over to the new tree. It was identical in colour and form to the first one. He reached out his hand to take another fruit, but knew, suddenly, that he was not yet hungry, or, indeed, thirsty. He looked through the opening in the cave wall. There was nothing to be seen but green water to the horizon and blue sky. It did not seem that there was anywhere to go to, even if he could contrive to escape from the rock. Yet on the rock there was enough to keep him alive: a single fruit would sustain him for a long time, and its core would provide a new tree. He noticed that the trees each had twelve fruits and twelve branches.

That evening he ate another fruit. He still did not feel hungry, but thought it prudent to eat once more. He at once felt sleepy. He left the core of the fruit outside the cave, on a level patch of rock, since he did not want the cave to fill with trees.

The next morning a tree was growing outside the cave, as he had expected, with twelve fruits on it. He thought that it would be wise to throw some of the cores into the sea, as it seemed that every spent tree  would engender twelve new ones, and thus the rock would become crowded with trees.

The man wondered how he was to occupy the empty days. Nothing ever appeared on the horizon, and there was no reason to suppose that there was any other person or beast floating alive on the water. But somehow he did not become lonely or bored. He had a feeling of calmness without any particular happiness, joy, or satisfaction attending it. He felt no anxiety about the future. Time itself seemed suspended.

That day he climbed about on the rock. It was not great in size and in shape like a cone. The height of the peak above the water was hardly fifty feet. The man stood on the peak and looked all around. As usual, nothing at all was visible, though the sight of the sunlight sparkling on the very gentle ripples of the flood was quite pleasant.

When the Sun sank down beyond the waters, casting a red glow upon them, he found once again that he had no desire to eat, and resolved to try what would befall if he should eat nothing for the space of two days. Sleep came swiftly upon him.

The following day the man bethought himself to bathe in the waters; this thought had not come to him before. He stood on a flat stone by the water’s edge and looked down.

The water was very still and clear, and his reflection was visible. He knelt down to examine his face. It looked wonderfully healthy. His beard had not grown at all. The silence and stillness were so absolute that he did not like to break them by plunging into the water or kicking with his legs, so he lowered himself gently into the water and floated.

That evening he still felt no hunger. He ate his third fruit from the first tree and flung it far out into the flood. With a splash it fell and sank. It was a geat wonder that so little food could sustain him for so long. He resolved to discover how long he might be sustained by a single fruit, by eating at increasing intervals: three days before the next fruit, four before the fifth, and so on. He marked the passage of the days with a chalky stone on the wall of the cave. Between the eleventh and the last fruits of the first tree there passed eleven days: still he felt no hunger.

The man was enchanted by the three trees and their strange fruit, and felt an affection for them, as his only living companions on the rock. On the sixty-sixth day after his coming to the cave, the man ate the last fruit from the first tree. But he did not throw its core into the water as he had done with the other nine. He planted it outside the cave, over against the other tree, so that (he hoped) they would make a pair of living silver gate-posts. The first tree was now quite bare of fruit.

That night he lay down and slept as usual. In the morning the bare tree was no longer there. It had not merely withered and died, it had vanished without a trace; once its usefulness was ended, it seemed. But going to the cave mouth he found, as he had expected, another silver tree, over against the first one that he had planted. By now the man had seen so many marvels that he scarcely wondered any more.