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Page 2
You know the story of the Three Wise Men of the East, and how they
traveled from far away to offer their gifts at the manger-cradle in
Bethlehem. But have you ever heard the story of the Other Wise Man, who
also saw the star in its rising, and set out to follow it, yet did not
arrive with his brethren in the presence of the young child Jesus? Of
the great desire of this fourth pilgrim, and how it was denied, yet
accomplished in the denial; of his many wanderings and the probations
of his soul; of the long way of his seeking, and the strange way of his
finding, the One whom he sought--I would tell the tale as I have heard
fragments of it in the Hall of Dreams, in the palace of the Heart of
Man.
THE SIGN IN THE SKY
In the days when Augustus Caesar was master of many kings and Herod
reigned in Jerusalem, there lived in the city of Ecbatana, among the
mountains of Persia, a certain man named Artaban, the Median. His house
stood close to the outermost of the seven walls which encircled the
royal treasury. From his roof he could look over the rising battlements
of black and white and crimson and blue and red and silver and gold, to
the hill where the summer palace of the Parthian emperors glittered
like a jewel in a sevenfold crown.
Around the dwelling of Artaban spread a fair garden, a tangle of
flowers and fruit trees, watered by a score of streams descending from
the slopes of Mount Orontes, and made musical by innumerable birds. But
all color was lost in the soft and odorous darkness of the late
September night, and all sounds were hushed in the deep charm of its
silence, save the plashing of the water, like a voice half sobbing and
half laughing under the shadows. High above the trees a dim glow of
light shone through the curtained arches of the upper chamber, where
the master of the house was holding council with his friends.
He stood by the doorway to greet his guests--a tall, dark man of about
forty years, with brilliant eyes set near together under his broad
brow, and firm lines graven around his fine, thin lips; the brow of a
dreamer and the mouth of soldier, a man of sensitive feeling but
inflexible will--one of those who, in whatever age they may live, are
born for inward conflict and a life of quest.
His robe was of pure white wool, thrown over a tunic of silk; and a
white, pointed cap, with long lapels at the sides, rested on his
flowing black hair. It was the dress of the ancient priesthood of the
Magi, called the fire-worshippers.
"Welcome!" he said, in his low, pleasant voice, as one after another
entered the room--"welcome, Abdus; peace be with you, Rhodaspes and
Tigranes, and with you my father, Abgarus. You are all welcome, and
this house grows bright with the joy of your presence."
There were nine of the men, differing widely in age, but alike in the
richness of their dress of many-colored silks, and in the massive
golden collars around their necks, marking them as Parthian nobles, and
in the winged circles of gold resting upon their breasts, the sign of
the followers of Zoroaster.
They took their places around a small black altar at the end of the
room, where a tiny flame was burning. Artaban, standing beside it, and
waving a barsom of thin tamarisk branches above the fire, fed it with
dry sticks of pine and fragrant oils. Then he began the ancient chant
of the Yasna, and the voices of his companions joined in the beautiful
hymn to Ahura-Mazda:
We worship the Spirit Divine,
all wisdom and goodness possessing,
Surrounded by Holy Immortals,
the givers of bounty and blessing,
We joy in the works of His hands,
His truth and His power confessing.
We praise all the things that are pure,
for these are His only Creation;
The thoughts that are true,
and the words and deeds that have won approbation;
These are supported by Him
and for these we make adoration.
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