 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The White Ship by H.P. Lovecraft I am Basel Elton, Keeper of the North Point Light, that my father and grandfather kept before me. Far from the shore stands the gray lighthouse, above sunken slimy rocks that are seen when the tide is low, but unseen when the tide is high. Past that beacon for a century have swept the majestic barks of the seven seas. In the days of my grandfather there were many. In the days of my father not so many. And now there are so few that I sometimes feel strangely alone, as though I were the last man on our planet. From far shores came those white-sailed argoses of old. From far eastern shores were warm suns shine and sweet odours linger about strange gardens and gay temples. The old captains of the sea came often to my grandfather, and told him of these things which in turn he told to my father. And my father told to me in the long autumn evenings when the wind howled eerily from the east. And I have read more of these things, and of many things besides, in the books men gave me when I was young and filled with wonder. But more wonderful than the lore of old men and the lore of books is the secret lore of ocean. Blue, green, gray, white or black. Smooth, ruffled or mountainous. That ocean is not silent. All my days have I watched it and listened to it. And I know it well. At first it told to me only the plain little tales of calm beaches and near ports. But with the years it grew more friendly and spoke of other things. Of things more strange and more distant in time and space. Sometimes at twilight the gray vapours of the horizon have parted to grant me glimpses of the ways beyond. And sometimes at night the deep waters of the sea have grown clear and phosphorescent to grant me glimpses of the ways beneath. And these glimpses have been as often of the ways that were and the ways that might be as of the ways that are. For ocean is more ancient than the mountains and freighted with the memories and the dreams of time. Out of the south it was that the white ship used to come when the moon was full and high in the heavens. Out of the south it would glide very smoothly and silently over the sea. And whether the sea was rough or calm and whether the wind was friendly or adverse, it would always glide smoothly and silently. It's sails distant and it's long strange tears of oars moving rhythmically. One night I aspired upon the deck a man bearded and robed. And he seemed to beckon me to embark for far unknown shores. Many times afterward I saw him under the full moon. And ever did he beckon me. Very brightly did the moon shine on the night I answered the call. And I walked out over the waters to the white ship on a bridge of moonbeams. The man who had beckoned now spoke a welcome to me in a soft language I seemed to know well. And the hours were filled with soft songs of the oarsmen as we glided away into a mysterious south. Golden with the glow of that full mellow moon. And when the day dawned, rosy and effulgent, I beheld the green shore of far lands bright and beautiful and to me unknown. Up from the sea rose lordly terraces of virtue, tree studded and showing here and there the gleaming white roofs and colonnades of strange temples. As we drew nearer the green shore the bearded man told me of that land, the land of Tsar, where dwell all the dreams and thoughts of beauty that come to men once and then are forgotten. And when I looked upon the terraces again I saw that what he said was true, for among the sights before me were many things I had once seen through the mists beyond the horizon and in the phosphorescent depths of ocean. There too were forms and fantasies more splendid than any I had ever known. The visions of young poets who died and want before the world could learn of what they had seen and dreamed. But we did not set foot upon the sloping meadows of Tsar, for it is told that he who treads them may never more return to his native shore. As the white ship sailed silently away from the temple terraces of Tsar we beheld on the distant horizon ahead the spires of a mighty city. And the bearded man said to me, This is the Larian, the city of a thousand wonders, wherein reside all those mysteries that man has striven in vain to fathom. And I looked again, at closer range, and saw that the city was greater than any city I had known or dreamed of before, into the sky the spires of its temples reached, so that no man might behold their peaks, and far back beyond the horizon stretch the grim grey walls, over which one might spy only a few roofs, weird and ominous. Yet adorned with rich freezes and alluring sculptures, I yearned mightily to enter this fascinating yet repellent city, and besought the bearded man to land me at the stone pier by the huge carbon gate, a cariel. But he gently denied my wish, saying, Into the Larian, the city of a thousand wonders many have passed but none returned, immense and mad things that are no longer men, and the streets are white with the unburied bones of those who have looked upon the idol on Lathi, that reigns over the city. So the white ship sailed on past the walls of the Larian, and followed for many days a southward flying bird, whose glossy plumage matched the sky out of which it had appeared. Then came way to a pleasant coast, gay with blossoms of every hue, where as far inland as we could see bast lovely groves and raging to arbours beneath a meridian sun. From bowers beyond our view came bursts of song and snatches of lyric harmony, interspersed with faint laughter, so delicious that I urged the rowers onward in my eagerness to reach the scene. And the bearded man spoke no word, but watched me as we approached the lily-lined shore. Suddenly a wind blowing from over the flowery meadows and leafy woods brought a scent at which I trembled. The wind grew stronger, and the air was filled with the lethal, charnel odour of plague-stricken towns and uncovered cemeteries. And as we sailed madly away from that damnable coast, the bearded man spoke at last, saying, This is Zura, the land of pleasures unattained. So once more the white ship followed the bird of heaven, over warm, blessed seas fanned by caressing aromatic breezes. Day after day and night after night did we sail, and when the moon was full we would listen to soft songs of the oarsmen. Sweet as on that distant night when we sailed away from my far native land, and it was by moonlight that we anchored at last in the harbour of Sonanil, which is guarded by twin headlands of crystal that rise from the sea and meet in a resplendent arch. This is the land of fancy, and we walked to the verdant shore upon a golden bridge of moonbeams. In the land of Sonanil there is neither time nor space, neither suffering nor death, and there I dwelt for many eons. Green are the groves and pastures, bright and fragrant the flowers, blue and musical the streams, clear and cool the fountains, and stately and gorgeous the temples, castles, and cities of Sonanil. Of that land there is no bound, for beyond each vista of beauty rises another more beautiful. Over the countryside and amidst the splendour of cities can move at will the happy folk, of whom all are gifted with unmarred grace and unalloyed happiness. For the eons I dwelt there I wandered blissfully through gardens where quaint pagodas peep from pleasing clumps of bushes, and where the white walks are bordered with delicate blossoms. I climbed gentle hills from whose summits I could see entrancing panoramas of loveliness, with steeple towns nestling in verdant valleys, and with the golden domes of gigantic cities glittering on the infinitely distant horizon, and I viewed by moonlight the sparkling sea, the crystal headlands, and the placid harbour, wherein lay anchored the white ship. It was against the full moon one night in the immemorial year of Tharp, that I saw outlined the beckoning form of the celestial bird, and felt the first stirrings of unrest. Then I spoke with the bearded man, and told him of my new yearnings to depart for remote Cathuria, which no man hath seen, but which all believed to lie beyond the basalt pillars of the West. It is the land of hope, and in it shine the perfect ideals of all that we know elsewhere, or at least so men relate. But the bearded man said to me, Beware of those perilous seas wherein men say Cathuria lies. In Sonan Hill there is no pain or death, but who can tell what lies beyond the basalt pillars of the West? Nevertheless, at the next full moon I boarded the white ship, and with the reluctant bearded man left the happy harbour for untraveled seas, and the bird of heaven flew before and led us toward the basalt pillars of the West. But this time the oarsmen sang no soft songs under the full moon. In my mind I would often picture the unknown land of Cathuria with its splendid groves and palaces, and would wonder what new delights there awaited me. Cathuria, I would say to myself, is the abode of gods and the land of unnumbered cities of gold, its forests are of aloe and sandalwood, even as the fragrant groves of Camorin, and among the trees flutter gay birds sweet with song. On the green and flowery mountains of Cathuria stand temples of pink marble with carven and painted glories, and having in their courtyards cool fountains of silver, where purr with ravishing music the scented waters that come from the grotto-born river Narg. And the cities of Cathuria are sinctured with golden walls, and their pavements also are of gold. In the gardens of these cities are strange orchids and perfumed lakes whose beds are of coral and amber. At night the streets and the gardens are lit with grey lanterns fashioned from the three-coloured shell of the tortoise, and here resound the soft notes of the singer and the lutenist. And the houses of the cities of Cathuria are all palaces, each built over a fragrant canal bearing the waters of the sacred Narg. Of marble and porphyry are the houses, and rooved with glittering gold that reflects the rays of the sun and enhances the splendour of the cities as blissful gods view them from the distant peaks. Ferris of all is the palace of the great monarch Dorip, whom some say to be a demigod and others a god. High is the palace of Dorip, and many are the turrets of marble upon its walls. In its wide halls many multitudes assemble, and here hang the trophies of the ages. And the roof is of pure gold, set upon tall pillars of ruby and azure, and having such carven figures of gods and heroes that he who looks up to those heights seems to gaze upon the living Olympus. And the floor of the palace is of glass, under which flow the cunningly lighted waters of the Narg, gay with gaudy fish not known beyond the bounds of lovely Cathuria. Thus would I speak to myself of Cathuria, but ever would the bearded man warn me to turn back to the happy shore of Sonaniel. For Sonaniel is known of men, while none hath ever beheld Cathuria, and on the thirty-first day that we followed the bird we beheld the basalt pillars of the west, shrouded in mist they were, so that no man might peer beyond them or see their summits, which indeed some say reach even to the heavens. And the bearded man again implored me to turn back, but I heeded him not. For from the mists beyond the basalt pillars I fancied there came the notes of singers and lutenists, sweeter than the sweetest songs of Sonaniel, and sounding mine own praises, the praises of me who had voyaged far from the full moon and dwelt in the land of fancy. So to the sound of melody the white ship sailed into the mist betwixt the basalt pillars of the west, and when the music ceased and the mist lifted, we beheld not the land of Cathuria, but a swift rushing restless sea over which our helpless bark was born toward some unknown goal. Soon to our ears came the distant thunder of falling waters, and to our eyes appeared on the far horizon ahead the titanic spray of a monstrous cataract, wherein the oceans of the world dropped down to abysmal nothingness. Then did the bearded man say to me, with tears on his cheek, We have rejected the beautiful land of Sonaniel, which we may never behold again. Gods are greater than men, and they have come. And I closed my eyes before the crash that I knew would come, shutting out the sight of the celestial bird which flapped its mocking blue wings over the brink of the torrent. Out of that crash came darkness, and I heard the shrieking of men, and of things which were not men. From the east, tempestuous winds arose and chilled me as I crouched on the slab of damp stone which had risen beneath my feet. Then, as I heard another crash, I opened my eyes, and beheld myself upon the platform of that lighthouse once I had sailed so many eons ago. In the darkness below there loomed the vast blurred outlines of a vessel, breaking up on the cruel rocks. And as I glanced out over the waist, I saw that the light had failed for the first time since my grandfather had assumed its care. And in the later watches of the night, when I went within the tower, I saw on the wall a calendar which still remained as when I had left it in the hour I sailed away. With the dawn I descended the tower and looked for wreckage upon the rocks. But what I found was only this, a strange dead bird whose hue was as of the azure sky, and a single shattered spar of a whiteness greater than that of the wavedips or of the mountain snow. And thereafter the ocean told me its secrets no more. And though many times since as the moon shone full and high in the heavens, the white ship from the south never came again, and the white ship by H.P. Lovecraft.