# Afterglow/The Shepherdess

​THE SHEPHERDESS
​Eternal waters, beating upon this desolate land, sing to me of the happy isles, of the distant shores of Hellas. Soft wind of the sea, bring me the perfume of pines and of roses, an echo of the brooklets of Arcadia.
Where the meadows flow upon the low slopes of the hills; where the warm air murmurs with the distant song of summer; where the sunlight glows upon the wood-flowers among the trees . . .
When I leave this burning desert: when I can forget the dark aliens, the dusty cities, the clamorous roadstead: I will return to thee, Land of my Youth. An old man, I will return to thee; I will set my feet upon the track of the satyrs; I will cool my face in thy springs and lay my hand upon the quivering bosom of thy hills.
​Upon a warm and perfumed day of summer, on the Isle of Cyprus, where the meadows, rich with grain and flowers, smiled up toward the sky, Lysidice, herself slender and fair as a flower, stood before the image of Pan, in a little grove of trees.
"Lord of the Woods and Fields:" she said, "See, I have brought thee a coronal of the oleander which thou lovest, and a bowl of fresh milk from the goats. For thou art my friend, and a friend of the shepherds, and these gifts from my hand will please thee."
It pleased her, also to bring the offerings, because she believed in Pan. To him and to Demeter she owed thanks for all she had. Demeter was mysterious—almost unknown—inscrutable; but Pan was very real. So real indeed that, for all his kindness, one would not go alone into the grove at night, even when there was moonlight ​. . . Clio, who was married, had done it. She had returned, blushing; but would not tell what she had seen . . . But Pan had no secrets from the summer sun.
All about, the leaves and branches cast shadow tracings on the warm grass. The bees droned from flower to flower upon their endless tasks and, from a distance, over the fields, came the soft call of a shepherd's pipes.
Lysidice was very happy, for the smiling world was kind to her and she loved the trees and the flowers. She was no longer a child. Since the winter past, she had been a woman grown; and soon, perhaps, she would be a wife. Already the coronals were not wanting at her door; and Lacon, who was browned by the sun and smooth-limbed as Adonis, had offered to teach her how to play on his pipes. Her heart was full from the very joy of being alive, feeling about her the warm ​air and the wide world full of a thousand happy mysteries and promises.
When she had placed the coronal upon the image of the god, she moved slowly about under the trees, listening to the distant syrinx. The song of the pipes had been gentle as a breeze but, as she listened, the slender melody changed, grew louder, more vibrant and shrill. Lysidice did not know who played, but her light steps quickened to the hurrying notes and soon she danced over the grass, waving her arms and turning her sweet face up toward the green leaves murmuring overhead.
An old man, passing the edge of the grove, saw the bright, dancing figure.
"There was a time when I, also, danced," he murmured to himself as he moved away. "I danced, yes, and others with me. But those days are past. Now it is the young ones' turn . . . It is not for long that they ​dance alone; Pan and Aphrodite will take care of that."
After the old man, came laughter upon the path which led across the fields. Lysidice stopped dancing, suddenly. Looking out from among the trees, she saw a group of young men and girls. They were not dressed like the people she usually saw; their tunics were of gaily-colored cloth; she caught the gleam of jewels; and she knew they must be holiday-makers from Paphos. She did not want to meet them, for she was very timid. Beside—there were courtesans at Paphos who would go anywhere and do anything; perhaps these girls were like that. She would be afraid of them . . . She slipped away through the little grove.
But the bright eyes of young Archias had seen her, as she stood poised for an instant, like a shy hamadryad. He saw clearly that she was beautiful; far more so ​than any girl he had ever seen. He forgot his companions and, as these gathered about him, laughing and questioning, they were gross. Lysidice had disappeared and he would tell them nothing.
"Pan frightened him," they said. "See, there he stands, watching us from those trees. He is a shepherds' god and probably dislikes us."
They also heard the distant pipes which shrilled now, darting gleaming, mad notes across the fields; and, like Lysidice, they also danced among the trees, waving their arms and turning their faces upward toward the green leaves murmuring overhead. But they did not dance alone, for the notes of the pipes were notes of ecstacy and of union and of life.
Archias wished to dance also, but did not. He was thinking of the girl they had frightened away and, more than anything else, he wanted to see her again. He heard ​the melody of the syrinx, and the song seemed to speak directly to his heart of the flowers and the open sky and of strange things which, until then, he had never known. The pleasure trip with his companions was suddenly distasteful to him. He would prefer to see the shepherd girl again, if he could, without frightening her . . . he turned back, the way they had come; and when the others were weary of their dancing, they moved out from the trees, along the path, without Archias, whom they could not find.
A cicada shrilled, unseen among the grasses. A bird, deep in the blue sky, sang praises to the glory of the fields.
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Across the path, a shepherd gazed down at his limbs overhung with a finer cloak ​of purple than he had ever expected to own. Archias, covered with a rough goatskin, returned to the grove and sat down upon the grass near Pan to wait.
The flower-crowned image stared with unseeing eyes. But it is possible the lips curved in a slight smile when Lysidice returned, cautiously, through the grove.
Her wide eyes saw the stranger seated upon the grass, but she was not frightened, for she saw many others like him, each day among the fields. Yet, he was different . . . She hesitated, but his smile warmed her; and after a moment, at his bidding, she even consented to sit beside him.
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The day was passing. The shadows slowly deepened among the trees and the first faint breath of evening stirred the ​drowsy flowers. Far out on the fields, the syrinx awoke gently, with a song of twilight calling the scattered flocks.
Lysidice was going home; and with her was going, not Archias of Paphos, but Archias the lover, on whom Pan smiled . . .
The old man, returning by the grove, saw the two young figures.
"It is not for long that they dance alone," he murmured to himself. "There was a time when I, also . . ."