(Continued from last month)

WHEN the sun was rising in opal-like splendor over the mountains, Mrs. Thompson brought her child. A tall, delicate boy with fine nervous hands and a brow that suggested the artist.

Neither of them spoke. The woman’s eyes were rich with power gathered while at prayer.

Bengal placed his hand upon the boy’s head. “Look at me Beris,” he said, authoritatively.

The child started at his touch, as if an electric current had gone through him, then, with that quick intuition, which often atones for lack of outward sight, he stretched out his arms to Bengal.

“Put your hand on my head again,” he said, “I love it. It makes me feel—oh, I don’t know—.” He stopped and tears took the expression of the words he could not find.

“A particularly sensitive nature,” said Bengal, more to himself than to his mother. Then aloud he continued: “You have kept your eyes closed a long time, my boy, and there are many beautiful things in the world to see. We all come here to learn something, and you have yet to learn to see these beautiful things. Will you let me teach you?”

The boy clung to him like a drowning mariner would have clung to the rock which meant salvation.

“I’ll let you teach me anything,” he said, “I want to find the light.”

“Shekinah,” Bengal said, turning to the child who stood beside him. “Take the boy’s mother to the place where the healing flowers grow, just where the sunrise dips between the trees. Sit there with her in silence, till the call comes to go home.”

Shekinah instantly obeyed, and without turning or waiting for a word, the woman followed her. Then Bengal took the boy into the Temple.

There was no sound to disturb the stillness. The breath of early morning stole in softly through the open windows carrying the scent of herbs and grass and outdoor things and flowers, which gave their lives in healing. Music, which seemed but the whisper of a breeze, was passing through the air. The boy was quick to sense it. The change in his expression showed he had heard, that he was listening. The inner radio was tuned.

“Another sign that he is ready,” Bengal said. “Now tell me, boy, what do you sense?”

Beris reached out his hands and walked towards the picture facing them. He stopped in front of it to feel the radiation in his soul.

“Tell me, what do you see?” said Bengal.

“I don’t see anything. I feel it here, something so warm and beautiful, like fingers on my eyes. This must be the light, it touches everywhere,” and his body quivered like a delicate flower swayed by an unexpected breeze.

“The second test,” said Bengal. “Come now to the healing room, and look into the pool of oil. If the third is satisfactory, then I shall know the way is clear.”

The boy walked naturally, scarcely feeling his way. They entered the room together, and he stopped at the edge of the golden pool, his sightless eyes resting tranquilly on the quiet, silky surface. A star-shaped light shone in the center. Its golden rays, like tiny searchlights, fell on either side. His hands reached towards it. Bengal could feel him drawing from the concentrated power, like the bright flame was drawing from the oil for light.

“What do you see?” he asked again.

“A feeling, not a sight,” said Beris. “I can’t describe it, but maybe if I think you will see.”

As he spoke, the light in the center changed its rays. A flame of fire shot upwards, crossed by another, bright and dazzling to his eyes.

“The cross,” said Bengal. “It is finished, we look now for the resurrection.”

He placed the boy beneath the rainbow arch, where the colors of LOVE might fall upon him. Then laying his hands on the fountain of oil, he laid them on him and looked upwards.

“God All Powerful and Almighty!” he cried, clear away the mists of the unseen. Let the forces descend upon this child, as Thou sendest Thy sunlight upon the earth to kiss Thy rainfall in torrents upon a thirsty ground; as Thou sendest Thy moon to control the tides, Thy stars to direct our paths—send now the highest upon this child; open the closed eyes to the earthly visions as Thou hast opened the eyes of my soul to Thee.”

He stood and waited, with one hand laid upon the closed lids, and the other upraised to Heaven. The child lay passive beneath his touch—silent, with limbs outstretched. The minutes passed, the quiet of the house was broken by the striking of the clock, and a sudden gust of wind through the pines.

Bengal felt the approaching of a mighty power, and he took the boy’s hand between his own. The limbs were shaking now. The force was coming with a violence that threatened to wreck the sensitive body. Beating it off with one hand, Bengal kept his eyes upon the boy.

“Spirit of healing. Spirit of love,” he cried aloud, “descend upon this child with blessing. I have asked for the doors of the Unseen to be flung back, so that the forces might descend, but remember that the frame of the child is weak, and that the sensitive flower is mangled by too great element. Deal with him gently yet strongly. Raise him up to perfect life, so that he may see with open eyes.”

The child breathed deeply—uttered a cry—tried to raise himself—stretched out his arms to Bengal—then fell back motionless. The light in the room had grown more dazzling. It shone above their heads like a great sun. Where in rainbow colors the word LOVE was written, the letters melted into one great flame, through which looked a face so radiant, so surpassingly beautiful, that Bengal fell on his knees in reverence, and his great frame shook with the power. He bowed his head and shaded his eyes from the brightness, as through the radiant colors of LOVE, that figure advanced, and laid his healing hands upon the child. The air was filled with sudden fragrance—the perfume of an Unseen world. A holy calm fell over Bengal; a still sweet sleep through which he heard the many voices ascending in exultation, and almost unconsciously he felt himself joining in their shout of praise. Slowly the light faded and all was still.

Bengal remained on his knees in silent prayer, unwilling to break the peace of this glorious benediction. For many hours he remained so, with his hands resting on that of the sleeping boy. Then rising slowly, he laved his face, ran his fingers through his hair, and squeezing the juice of an herb into a glass of water, he drank and lay down to sleep.

Morning came—the sun was shining, and the light through the colored glass streamed in like flags of victory. There was a delicate sweetness, like lilies and hyacinths upon the air.

The child still slept, and Bengal moving noiselessly, stepped from the room and entered the silence of the pine wood. He searched for a while among the grasses, then stopping suddenly, plucked the thing he needed. Filling his glass with water at the creek, he held it for a moment in the sunlight, and murmuring a prayer, dropped in the secret weed; it seethed to the top in a green serpent-like fluid, then quickly congealed until it became still as wax. He carried it to the house and bending over the child, rubbed it upon his eyes.

“Beris Thompson,” he said slowly, “you are free! Free from the bondage which long has held you; free as the air you breathe, as the perfume of the flowers and the stars in space. The mist which clouded your eyes will return no more. God has forgotten and forgiven the thought that held you from perfection, and in His Name you are free, free, free.”

The eyelids quivered sensitively and opened. The light of vision had dawned in the eyes. He looked at Bengal—looked around the room. It was the look of a mortal stepping into Heaven.

“Tell me, what do you see?” asked Bengal.

He pressed his hands upon his eyes, then opened them again and looked around.

“What do you see?”

“Light, light—lovely light!”

“How do you know that it is light?”

“I know because I’ve seen it here,” and he placed his hand upon the center of his forehead. “I’ve seen it inwardly, more beautiful than this, perhaps.” Again he closed his eyes.

“Have you seen other things as well as light?”

“Things that belong to light—things just like that—” and he pointed to the sunbeams breaking in a prism on the wall. He paused a moment, and then he asked, “But now that I can see this outer light, the light which you have led me into, shall I not see the light within?”

“The outer light is the material world, my boy, but the inner light is the light which leads you, and with its consciousness, you cannot stumble. The light which the people who sit in darkness, see. It is the light of the soul illumined, which clothes us in its garments like the sun, which shining outward from within, is our protection—a lamp which lights our path and shows the way.”

“I see it all about you now,” said Beris.

“Pray God that you may always keep this vision. Keep it unblurred by the world’s material sight. That you may walk in that white light, just as the Master walked in it, though His disciples, who walked with Him, were too blind to see. When we are conscious of this light, we shall need no sun or moon to lighten us, for the Lord our God shall give us that continual light and never more shall we walk in darkness.”

Shekinah was seated on the grass beside the boy’s mother. All day and night they had remained outside, for neither had the desire to eat or to go indoors. The presence of the child had soothed the fever of suspense, when at times it seemed too hard to bear. Again and again a little soothing hand, cool as a dew-splashed flower, would steal into the hand of the mother, and the healing love would calm her fear. Yet, it had been a wonderful night to both of them—a night in which they had scarcely spoken, but waited with expectancy, even as the shepherds must have waited for the song which followed the breaking of light in the Eastern sky. The atmosphere was not cold, and sitting on the fallen leaves beneath the trees, they were protected from the wind. A soft full moon floated in the sky. They had sat there through the heat of the noon, and had watched the shadows of evening gather and fall, and now they waited for the dawn.

It came at last—beautiful dawn of pearly grey, opening the door of sunrise. Shafts of light began to fall like golden rain between the trees. Grasses and flowers quivered their responsive love, and as the light broke upon the blind eyes of the boy, it broke into the mother’s soul. Out of the darkness of the desert, the voice spoke even as it spoke to Hagar,—“Fear not, God has heard the voice of the lad and will raise him up and make him a great nation.” It came with an assurance that broke up doubt. The clouds of night dispersed and the sun looked forth from its bed of gold—she knew the answer to her prayer of years had come. Shekinah turned to her, her face illumined, transformed with beauty.

“The boy has got his sight,” she said.

A laugh rang through the air. It was a child’s laugh, joyous, free. The mother heard it and started to her feet. Through the trees the boy came rushing towards her. Her sense of joy was mingled with a sudden fear. He had never seen her with the outward eyes. Perhaps in his ideal inner world, he had built a glorious vision of her—what would he think when he saw eye to eye, now that the veil of darkness was torn aside. He had visualized her, maybe, as beautiful, and whatever she had been in days gone by, time had not touched her lightly in its flight. She was bent with the sorrow of years—the color of her youth was gone, and the gold of her hair which once had been his father’s pride, was faded into grey. Would he be disappointed in her when he saw her face? It would not be the radiant face of youth. When he saw her hard-worked knotted hands, he would no longer call them beautiful, as he had done when she let them rest within his own, and placed them many times upon his eyes. Would it lessen his love for her—this sudden awakening from the ideal to the real? Would this be the answer to the selfless prayer of years? Her soul grew sick at the thought of it. Yet, all this she would have suffered, yes, even if she had seen repulsion on his face, so big was her mother’s heart.

It was a great moment for them both, so great that neither spoke. Perhaps in that moment the boy read, as he had never read, even in his mightiest moments of silence, all that the woman facing him, had passed through.

His arms went out to her, like the arms of a lover—“My Mother!” he said. He looked into the eyes which had wept for him. “My Mother!” He took in his own hands the hands which had toiled for him. “My Mother!” He kissed the lips which had prayed for his healing. “My Mother!”—and then he held her at arm’s length, and gazed at her long and tenderly—“My beautiful Mother!”

The above is the concluding one of the two chapters from the book of the same title reviewed on page 19 of the Advertising Section herein. It gives the reader a concept of the high quality of the story and of the deep spiritual understanding of the Author.—The EDITOR.

WHEN we have truly learned to live In Consciousness, To move and have our being there— No foes oppress, And though the world may never see, We walk the freest of the free!

We talk with unseen friends beside The Secret Way, While words to those around, in flesh, No thought convey. And in this strange remoteness wist How heavy is the mortal mist.

How Light the Spirit Consciousness In which we move! And Love! How great Thy wondrous Power! That we may prove The Temple, built not with hands, Is everywhere that Life demands.

In darkness must the seed take root And then the sunshine draws the shoot Up, up, up! So it is through sorrow’s night We must let Love’s Living Light Fill our empty cup.

As the babe within the womb, So God’s Temple in the tomb.

—S. B.

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