 Section 4 of Under the Sunset by Bram Stoker. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Shadow Builder. The Lonely Shadow Builder watches ever in his lonely abode. The walls are of cloud, and round and through them changing ever as they come, past the dim shades of all the things that have been. This endless shadowy, wheeling, moving circle is called the procession of the dead past. In it everything is just as it has been in the great world. There is no change in any part. For each moment, as it passes, sends its shade into this dim procession. Here there are moving people and events, cares, thoughts, follies, crimes, joys, sorrows, places, scenes, hopes, and fears, and all that make the sum of life with all its lights and shadows. Every picture in nature where shadow dwells, and that is everyone, has here its dim phantom. Here are all the pictures that are most fair and most sad to see. The passing gloom over a sunny cornfield, when, with the breeze, comes the dark sway of the full years as they bend and rise. The ripple on the glassy surface of a summer sea, the dark expanse that lies beyond and without the broad track of moonlight on the water, the lacework of glare and gloom that flickers over the road, as one passes in autumn when the moonlight is falling through the naked branches of overhanging trees. The cool restful shade under the thick trees in summertime, when the sun is flaming down on the haymaker at work. The dark clouds that flit across the moon, hiding her light, which leaps out again hollily and coldly. The gloom of violet and black that rises on the horizon, when rain is near in summertime. The dark recesses and gloomy caverns, where the waterfall hurls itself shrieking into the pool below. All these shadow pictures and a thousand others that come by night and day circle in the procession among the things that have been. Here too, every act that any human being does, every thought, good and bad, every wish, every hope, everything that is secret is pictured and becomes a lasting record which cannot be blotted out. For at any time, the shadow builder may summon with his spectral hand anyone, sleeping or waking, to behold what is pictured of the dead past, in the dim, mysterious distance which encompasses his lonely abode. In this ever-moving procession of the dead past, there is but one place where the circling phantoms are not and where the cloudy walls are lost. There is here a great blackness, dense and deep and full of gloom, and behind which lies the great real world without. This blackness is called the Gate of Dread. The procession afar off takes from it its course and when passing on its way, it circles again towards the darkness. The shadowy phantoms melt again into the mysterious gloom. Sometimes the shadow builder passes through the vapoury walls of his abode and mingles in the ranks of the procession and sometimes a figure summoned by the wave of his spectral hand with silent footfall stalks out of the mist and pauses beside him. Sometimes from a sleeping body the shadow builder summons a dreaming soul, then for a time the quick and the dead stand face to face and men call it a dream of the past. When this happens, friend meets friend or foe meets foe and over the soul of the dreamer comes a happy memory long vanished or the troubled agony of remorse. But no specter passes through the misty wall, saved to the shadow builder alone and no human being even in a dream can enter the dimness where the procession moves along. So lives the lonely shadow builder amid his gloom and his habitation is peopled by a spectral past. His only people are of the past for though he creates shadows they dwell not with him. His children go out at once to their homes in the big world and he knows them no more till in the fullness of time they join the procession of the dead past and reach in turn the misty walls of his home. For the shadow builder there is not night nor day nor season of the year but forever round his lonely dwelling passes the silent procession of the dead past. Sometimes he sits amuses with eyes fixed and staring and seeing nothing and then out at sea there is a cloudless calm or the black gloom of night. Towards the far north or south for long months together he never looks and then the stillness of the arctic night reigns alone. When the dreamy eyes again become conscious the hard silence softens into the sounds of life and light. Sometimes with set frown on his face and a hard look in the eyes which flash and gleam dark lightnings the shadow builder sways resolute to his task and round the world the shadows troop thick and fast. Over the sea sweeps the blackness of the tempest the dim lights flicker in the cots away upon the lonely moors and even in the palaces of kings dark shadows pass and fly and glide over all things yay through the hearts of the kings themselves for the shadow builder is then dread to look upon. Now and again with long wiles between the shadow builder as he completes his task lingers over the work as though he loves it. His heart yearns to the children of his will and he feign would keep even one shadow to be a companion to him in his loneliness but the voice of the great present is ever ringing in his ears at such times and joining him to haste the giant voice booms out onwards, onwards. Whilst the words ring in the ears of the shadow builder the completed shadow fades from beneath his hands and passing unseen through the gate of dread mingles in the great world without in which it is to play its part. When in the fullness of time this shadow comes into the ranks of the procession of the dead past the shadow builder knows it and remembers it but in his dead heart there is no gleam of loving remembrance for he can only love the present that slips ever from his grasp and oh it is a lonely life which the shadow builder lives and in the weird, sad, solemn, mysterious, silent gloom which encompasses him he toils on ever at his lonely task but sometimes too the shadow builder has his joys baby shadows spring up and sunny pictures alight with sweetness and love glide from under his touch and are gone before the shadow builder at his task lies a space wherein is neither light nor darkness, neither joy nor gloom whatsoever touches it fades away a sand heaps melt before the incoming tide or like words writ on water in it all things lose their being and become part of the great is not and this terrible line of mystery is called the threshold whatsoever passes into it disappears and whatsoever emerges from it is complete as it comes and passes into the great world as a thing to run its course before the threshold the shadow builder himself is as nought and in its absorbing might there is that which he cannot sway or rule when at his task he summons and out of the impalpable nothingness of the threshold there comes the object of his will sometimes the shadow bursts full and freshly and is suddenly lost in the gloom of the gate of dread and sometimes it grows softly and faintly getting fuller as it comes and so melts away into the gloom the lonely shadow builder is working in his lonely abode around him beyond the vapory walls pressing onward as ever is the circling procession of the dead past storm and calm have each been summoned from the threshold and have gone and now in this calm, wistful moment the shadow builder pauses at his task and wishes and wishes till to his lonely longing wistfulness the nothingness of the threshold sends an answer forth from it grows the shadow of a baby's foot stepping with tottering gate out towards the world then follows the little round body and the big head and the baby shadow moves onwards swaying and balancing with uncertain step swift behind it comes the mother's hands stretched out in loving helpfulness lest it should fall one step two it totters and is falling but the mother's arms are swift and the gentle hands bear it firmly up the child turns and toddles again into its mother's arms again it strives to walk and again the mother's watchful hands are ready this time it needs not the help when the race is over the shadow child turns again lovingly to its mother's breast once again it strives and it walks boldly and firmly but the mother's hands quiver as they hang by her side whilst a tear sweeps down the cheek although that cheek is gladdened by a smile the baby shadow turns and goes a little way off then over the misty nothing on which the shadows fall flits the flickering shadow of a tiny hand waving and onward with firm tread the shadow of the little feet moves out into the misty gloom of the gate of dread and passes away but the mother's shadow moves not the hands are pressed to the heart the loving face is upturned in prayer and down the cheeks roll great tears then her head bows lower as the little feet pass beyond her ken and lower and lower bends the weeping mother till she lies prone even as he looks the shadow builder sees the shadows fade away away and the terrible nothingness of the threshold only is there then presently in the procession of the dead past circle round the misty walls the shadows that had been the mother and the child now from out the threshold steps a youth with brave and buoyant tread and as on the misty veil his shadow falls the dress and bearing proclaim him a sailor lad close to the shadow comes another the mother's older and thinner she is as if with watching but still the same the old loving hands array prettily the knotted kerchief hanging loosely on the open throat and the boy's hands reach out take the mother's face between them and draw it forward for a kiss the mother's arms fly round her son and in a close embrace they cling the mother kisses her boy again and again and together they stand as though to part were impossible suddenly the boy turns as though he heard a call the mother clings closer he seems to remonstrate tenderly but the loving arms hold tighter till with gentle force he tears himself away the mother takes a step forward and holds out the thin hands trembling in an agony of grief the boy stops to one knee he bends then dashing away his tears he waves his cap and hurries on once again the mother sinks to her knees and weeps and so slowly once again the shadows of the mother and the child grown greater in the fullness of time pass out through the gate of dread and circle among the phantoms in the procession of the dead past the mother following hard upon the speeding footsteps of her son in the long pause that follows the shadow builder watches all seems changed out from the threshold comes a mist such as hangs sometimes over the surface of a tropic sea by little and little the mist rolls away and forth advances black and great the prow of a mighty vessel the shadows of the great sails lie faintly in the cool depths of the sea as the sails flap idly in the breezeless air over the bulwark lean listless figures waiting for a wind to come the mist on the sea melts slowly away and by the dark shadows of men sheltering from the sunny glare and fanning themselves with their broad sailor hats it is plain that the heat is terrible now from far off behind the ship comes up over the horizon a black cloud no bigger than a man's hand but sweeping on with terrible speed also from far away before her course rises the edge of a coral reef scarcely seen above the glassy water but darkling the depths below those on board see neither of these things for they shelter under their awnings and sigh for cool breezes quicker and quicker comes the dark cloud sweeping faster and faster and growing blacker and blacker and faster and faster as it comes then those on board seem to know the danger hurried shadows fly along the decks up the shadows of the ladders hurried shadows of men the flapping of the great sails ceases as one by one the willing hands draw them in but quicker than the hands of men can work sweeps the tempest onward it rushes and terrible things come close behind black darkness towering waves that break in fury and fly aloft the spume of the sea swept heavenwards the great clouds wheeling in fury and in the centre of these flying whirling maddening shadows rocks the shadow of the ship as the black darkness of the heavens encompasses all the rush of shadowy storm sweeps through the gate of dread as he waits and looks and sees the cyclone whirling amongst the shadows in the procession of the dead past the shadow builder even in his dead heart feels a weight of pain for the brave sailor boy tossed on the deep and the anxious mother sitting lonely at home again from the threshold passes a shadow growing deeper as it comes but very very faint at first for here the sun is strong and there is but little room for shadows on the bear rock which seems to rise from the glare and the glitter of the sea deeps round on the lonely rock a sailor boy stands thin and gaunt he is and his clothing is but a few rags sheltering his eyes with his hand he looks out to sea where a far off the cloudless sky sinks to meet the burning sea but no speck over the horizon no distant glitter of a white sail gives him a ray of hope long long he peers till wearied out he sits down on the rock and bows his head as if in despair for a time as the sea falls he gathers from the rock the shellfish which has come during the tide so the day wears on and the night comes and in the tropic sky the stars hang like lamps in the cool silence of the night the forlorn sailor boy rests sleeps and dreams are of home of loving arms stretched out to meet him of banquet spread of green fields and waving branches and the sheltering happiness of his mother's love for in his sleep the shadow builder summons his dreaming soul and shows him all these blessings passing ceaselessly in the procession of the dead past and so comforts him to despair and die thus wear on many weary days the sailor boy lingers on the lonely rock a far off he can just see a hill that seems to rise over the water one morning when the blackening sky and the sultry air promise a storm the distant mountain seems nearer and he thinks that he will try to reach it by swimming whilst he is thus resolving the storm rushes up over the horizon and sweeps him from the lonely rock he swims with a bold heart but just as his strength is done he is cast by the fury of the storm on a beach of soft sand the storm passes on its way and the waves leave him high and dry he goes inland where in a cave in the rock he finds shelter and sinks to sleep the shadow builder as he sees all this happen in the shadows on the clouds and land and sea rejoices in his dead heart that the lonely mother perhaps will not wait in vain so time wears on and many many weary days pass the boy becomes a young man living in the lonely island his beard has grown and he is clothed in a dress of leaves all day long save when he is not working to get food to eat he watches from the mountain top for a ship to come as he stands looking out over the sea the sun casts his shadows down the hillside so that at evening as it sinks low in the waters the shadow of the lonely sailor grows longer and longer till at last it makes a dark streak down the hillside even to the water's edge the lonely man's heart grows heavier and heavier as he waits and watches whilst the weary time passes and the countless days and nights come and go time comes when he begins to get feebler and feebler as he grows sick to death and lingers longer dying then these shadows pass away out from the threshold grows the shadow of an old woman thin and worn sitting in a lonely cottage on a jutting cliff in the window a lamp burns in the night time to welcome the lost one should he ever return and to guide him to his mother's home by the lamp the mother watches till wearied out she sinks to sleep as she sleeps the shadow builder summons her sleeping soul with the wave of his spectral hand she stands beside him in the lonely abode whilst round them through the misty walls passes onwards the procession of the dead past as she looks the shadow builder lifts his spectral hand to point to the vision of her son but the mother's eyes are quicker than even the spectral hand that evokes all the shadows of the rushing storm and ere the hand is raised she sees her son among the shadows of the past the mother's heart is filled with unspeakable joy as she sees him alive and hail although a prisoner amongst the tropic seas but alas she knows not that in the dim procession pass only the things that have been and that although in the past the lonely sailor lived in the present even at the moment he may be dying or dead the mother stretches out her arms to her boy but even as she does her sleeping soul loses sight of the dim procession and vanishes from the shadow builders lonely abode for when she knows that her boy is alive there follows a great pain that he is lonely and waits and watches for help and the quick heart of the mother is overcome with grief and she wakes with a bitter cry then as she rises and looks past the dying lamp out into the dawn the mother feels that she has seen a vision of her son in sleep and that he lives and waits for help and her heart glows with a great resolve quickly then from the threshold float many shadows a lonely mother speeding with flying feet to a distant city grave men refusing but not unkindly a kneeling woman making an appeal with uplifted hands hard men spurning a praying mother from their doors a wild rabble of bad and thoughtless boys and girls hounding through the streets a hurrying woman a shadow of pain on a mother's heart the upcoming of a black cloud of despair but which hangs far off for it cannot advance into the bright sunlight the mother's resolve weary days with their own myriad shadows lonely nights black want cold hunger and pain and through all these darkening shadows the swift moving shadow of the mother's flying feet a long line of such pictures come ever an eye in the procession till the dead heart of the shadow builder grows icy and his burning eyes look out savagely on all who give pain and trial to the mother's faithful heart and so all these shadows float out into a black mist and are lost in the gloom of the gate of dread another shadow grows out of the mist an old man sits in his arm chair the firelight flickering throws his image quaintly dancing on the wall of the room he is old for the great shoulders are bowed and the grand strong face is lined with years there is another shadow in the room it is the mother's she is standing by the table and is telling her story her thin hands point away where in the distance she knows her son is a prisoner in the lonely seas the old man rises the enthusiasm of the mother's heart has touched him and back to his memory rush the old love and energy and valor of his youth the great hand rises closes and strikes the table with a mighty blow as though declaring a binding promise the mother sinks to her knees she seizes the great hand and kisses it and stands erect other men come in they receive orders they hurry out then come many shadows whose movement and swiftness and firm purpose mean life and hope at sunset when the mast make long shadows on the harbour water a big ship moves out on her journey to the tropic seas men's shadows quickly flit up and down the rigging and along the decks as the shadows wheel round the capstone bar the anchor rises and into the sunset passes the great vessel in the bow like a figure of hope stands the mother gazing with eager eyes on the far off horizon then this shadow fades a great ship sweeps along with white sails swelling to the breeze at the bow stands the mother gazing ever out into the distance before her storms come and the ship flies before the blast but she swerves not for the mother with outstretched hands points the way and the helmsman swaying beside his wheel obeys the hand so this shadow also passes the shadows of days and nights come on in quick succession and the mother seeks ever for her son so the records of the prosperous journey melt into a faint dim misty shadow through which one figure alone stands clear the watching mother at the vessel's prowl now from the threshold grow the shadows of the mountain island and of the ship drawing nigh in the prowl the mother kneels looking out and pointing a boat is lowered men spring on board with eager feet but before them all is the mother the boat nears the island the water shallows and on the hot white beach the men spring to land but in the boat's prowl still the mother sits in her long anxious hours of agony she has seen in her dreams her son standing a far off and watching she has seen him wave his arms with a great joy as the ship rises over the horizon's edge she has seen him standing on the beach waiting she has seen him rushing through the surf so that the first thing that the lonely sailor boy should touch would be his mother's loving hands but alas for her dreams no figure with joyous waving arms stands on the summit of the mountain no eager figure stands at the water's edge or dashes to meet her through the surf her heart grows cold and chill with fear has she indeed come too late? the men leave the boat comforting her as they go with shakings of the hand and kindly touches upon the shoulder she motions them to haste and remains kneeling the time goes on the men ascend the mountain they search but they find not the lost sailor boy and with slow halting feet they return to the boat the mother hears them coming afar and rises to meet them they hang their heads the mother's arms go up tossed her loft in the anguish of despair and she sinks swooning in the boat the shadow builder in an instant summons her spirit from her senseless clay and points to a figure passing without movement in the procession of the dead past then quicker than light the mother's soul flies back full of new found joy she rises from the boat she springs to land the men follow wondering she rushes along the shore with flying feet the sailors come close behind she stops opposite the entrance to a cave obscured with trailing brambles here without turning she motions to the men to wait they pause and she passes within for a few moments grim darkness pours from the threshold and then one sad sad vision grows and passes a dim dark cave a worn man lying prone and a mother in anguish bending over the cold clay on the icy breath she lays her hand but alas she cannot feel the beat of the heart she loves with a wild heart stricken gesture she flings herself upon the body of her son and holds it close close as though the clasp of a mother were stronger than the grasp of death the dead heart of the shadow builder is alive with pain as he turns away from the sad picture and with anxious eyes looks where from behind the gate of dread the mother and child must come to join the ever swelling ranks of the procession of the dead past slowly slowly comes the shadow of the clay cold mariner passing on but swifter than light come the mother's flying feet the arms so strong with love are stretched out and thin hands grasp the passing shadow of her son and tear him back beyond the gate of dread to life and liberty and love the lonely shadow builder knows now that the mother's arms are stronger than the grasp of death End of section 4