Richmond Hill High School - Archway / Dome Yearbook (Richmond Hill, NY)

Page 16 text:

- ' ef- .: J f Qi gd gi, ju JS: env?- Y 4 Q 'W ff- Q, QQ, P 4 s an a w A ,V , gf? . ,, ' y ' I. K WM 'fm .I,A X, .0 Q Y ' me A M K kf , Q , 'fit K t m,, In M ff A ...1 W ff E. 'A - I N ' ,g-ff it ff 5 4 V' ,, 1-.1 f M M I? D6 5. K iigkmfr' f . D ,A S , .gy . . , . i , X - L x K if K K M ,Ei fb 'W' 1 . 5V.' ' X 1, 5- A 3 . , . , W Y M 451 7 'M ' 'I W A '9- K +A , f 2 i i v l Q

Page 15 text:

-A A THE DOME TPLQQ 13 city will stand if men will but put the doom thought from their minds and cease to brood on punishments of unseen gods. The gods we have made bring the doom be' cause through all these crowding multitudes of years men have by their belief willed the Gods to willing the doom and their accumu' lated wills have now gathered into a real doomf Gott: Say no more, Montrore, hold thy peace. That any man should speak thus of the gods! Montrore: But if he be a true pro- phet ..... Gort: Silence, Montrore! Take not man's gods from him, for how can a come mon mortal live without his gods? Montrore: Nay, I think as I have often thought, that there is truth and wisdom and deep thought in this man's speeches. Gort: There is no truth in the mouth of a madman. Moiitrorez So sayeth Carnoe, the king's high priest now. Once, however, when the mad poet, Esnoth, prophecied a terrible dis' ease that should slowly rack the bones of the nobles, for that they would not listen to his mad melodies, then did Carnoe praise him and cry aloud on the platform before Yaguth that the god had inspired Esnoth's madness and in madness lay truth. And Carnoe prophecied fearful tortures that he should save them from, for only a little tithe to the gods. Only a little! A price' less sapphire armlet from this princeg a bowl of clear carved crystal from that oneg a blue and yellow enameled chest from the Lord of Aetilosg from the Duke of Celimais, a golden goblet with a diamond studded band around the rim. , That was all for the gods, of course. All to propitiate Yaguth and the little onyx god, Kitsan, and his agate hind, Sarnti Nolt of the angry eyes. Nay, Carnoe knoweth who drinks the wine of Gootoosh from the sacred diamond decorated cup, who eats candied violet and rose petal from the crysf tal bowl. Gort fshoclqed and frightened by this disrespect for age and ranlqj: Montrore, thou art mad, even as Esno-even as this new priest is mad. I knew thy father in his youth and he was ever falling a-dream with strange wild fancies. And thou wast ever an aloof mannered youth whose soul went questing among strange stars, forget' ting the common haunts of men. Thy poesy has turned thy soul. Come, think nomore of this mad priest, Zahorta. Come, the dawn will soon peer cautiously over those dark purple eastern mountains, Even now the stars begin to pale. Let us speak no longer of strange wierd gods and of the willings of men. Let us talk of pleasant remembered things: of how the sun shone on thy mother's ebon hair, where she stood all robed in violet among the yellow daffof dils that grow near the gate, to bid you god' speed on your way to soldiery, Dost thou recall the soft wave on her left temple and the tiny tear that never quite touched her eyelash? Or if that, perchance, should sadden thee, let us remember the times when thou wert a little child with questioning eyes who sat on my knee and eagerly fingered my huntf ing knife and thirsted after tales of dragon' slaughtering. Montrore fsadly and painfullyj: Oh, my friend Gort, I cannot think of old re- membered things for the words of Zahorta. I mind me of the things he spoke and I cannot forget that I have created my gods. By night, he ofttimes comes along the city walls and, in respect of his madness, they suffer him to pass unmolested. I have hoped that he would come here some night and talk long with me and make clear to me all the heavy doubts which choke my heart. Of this one thing am I certain, that if it be true that we can will the doom away, I shall do all in my power to make men will. Gort funhappilyj: Alas, lvlontrore, that thy father's son should ever find his soul so perplexed with futile questionings! CHC rubs his hand over his forehead., Ah, the air is heavy in the hush. It is a menacing quiet. Montrore fsoberlyj: It is fraught with doom thoughts! QA. noise is heard off right and suddenly a tall dark young man enters from that di' rection. He wears a long flowing white robe and his feet and head are bare. His long black curls hang over his shoulders. Brilliant blue eyes gleam beneath heavy, beetling brows and he carries his head high, as a man with a mission. He advances to Montrore and Gort. 'It is Zahorta, the young rnad priest. Montrore cannot take his eyes from his facej ' Zahorta: The dawn comes soon, oh captain, and yet methinks the air is too heavily fraught with the doom thoughts of the people and their gods. Gort f-making a gesture of repugnancej: Oh, Zahorta, why speakest thou thus to all the people, destroying mans innerafaith

Page 17 text:

THE DOME Page 1? in his gods? See, here is Montrore, already deep in doubt, in a slough from which I cannot draw him. I pray thee, Zahorta, repent of thy sins, secret and whatever they may be, that the gods may forgive thee and restore to thee thy reason. Zahorta fgentlyj: Nay, captain, I have but recently restored myself to reason. I wish not to destroy man's inner faith. I try to teach him to build his own faith in himself. Gort falmost pityingly at the sight of so handsome a youthj: Thou art mad, mad with a madness beyond human understand' mg. i Montrore: Thou art not mad, Zahorta, or if thou art, then so am I, for I think I understand thee. Thy words have a sound as of silver and rippling fountains in my ears. Tell me more, oh priest. Whence came thy knowledge, inspired one? Zahorta: It came not but was engen- dered within me, by mine own soul, young sentinel. Montrore: My name is Montrore, pro' phetf' Zahorta: Montrore, in thine eyes I dis' cern a longing for that which thou knowest not. Montrore: Oh priest, my soul is troubled with stormy thoughts. I love my golden city, Noone, and its people and its fair green gardens. I love the palaces of onyx and chalcedonyg I love its little humble houses of oak and marble, and their dark mahogany doors. I love even the desert that laps hungrily at the far eastern edges of the high white walls. I would not have it pass away as a dream that one dreams in the night and, waking, remembers only faintly and as in a mist. Gort: Oh, they are mad ideas that he would tell thee, Montrore. Heed not his words, they cannot be true. Zahorta: Alas, Gort, I have striven hard to make thee and all like thee perceive the truth and yet ye believe not in me. fSudf denly in the dawn that has been struggling over the purple eastern mountains and now stands with upfstretched arms on the highest peak, his face glows bright and goldenj Yea: Noone shall fall and soon, and not of gods' willing but of men's fear. Oh, this I tell thee, that men shall never be free till they have thrown off the shackles of their godfwillingf' Gort: A man must believe in something. Zahorta: Then will man believe in him' self for in himself alone is there divine power and fire. When the day shall come that men believe in men and cease to worf ship idols, then the gods that slumber in their hearts shall rise and men then shall be gods and this world grown too small for them. Then shall they wander off to the far stars and the only one true godfheadf' Gort fshockedj: He is mad! He is mad! Montrore fin ecstasyj: Oh glorious inf spiration! Gort: Blasphemy! Blasphemyln Montrore: Oh, godffire, arise in my heart! Qzahorta watches them with a soft slow smile in his eyes. Suddenly faint cries are heard in the city. The three look over the city. Zahorta unhappily, and Gort and Montrore stunned., Zahorta fwhisbersj: It is vanishing in a mist and only I shall remain to keep the name of Noone from oblivion. fThe wall begins to crumble and with a terrible cry, Gort topples overj Zahorta: It is gone. fOnly a jagged bit of wall remains. Montf rore has fallen to his knees and gazes in agony at the spot where the city once was., Montrore fdullyj: It is gone like a morning mist. Zahorta fsadlyj: It was doomed of its own will. Montrore: Oh, my lovely city, where art thou now? Zahorta: Alas, they would not listen. Montrore: That little sparkle on the ground, there sinks the highest golden spire on Agonidan's jasper palace. Zahorta: They had saved themselves had they but realized. Montrore fmoaningj : My father's little green and golden garden, the daffodils and the green smilax - all gone - oh, my mother! Zahorta fkindly and sorrowful, as he lays his hand on Montrore's shoulderj: Cease thy weeping, Montrore, for there are yet others to be saved from selffwillcd doomsf' Montrore fshaking off the handj: Let them meet their fates. What matter to me who have lost the world? Zahorta: Wouldst thou have all man' kind suffer as thou? Montrore fweakening, or to speak more correctly, strengthening a littlej: L'Nay, but 'tis a fearsome thing. Oh, my father's little garden, gold sunlight and green smilax! My mother there among the daffodils!