when the caravans, saying farewell to zandara, set out across the waste northwards towards einandhu, they follow the desert track for seven days before they come to water where shubah onath rises black out of the waste, with a well at its foot and herbage on its summit. on this rock a prophet hath his temple and is called the prophet of journeys, and hath carven in a southern window smiling along the camel track all gods that are benignant to caravans.
there a traveller may learn by prophecy whether he shall accomplish the ten days' journey thence across the desert and so come to the white city of einandhu, or whether his bones shall lie with the bones of old along the desert track.
no name hath the prophet of journeys, for none is needed in that desert where no man calls nor ever a man answers.
thus spake the prophet of journeys standing before the king:
"the journey of the king shall be an old journey pushed on apace.
"many a year before the making of the moon thou camest down with dream camels from the city without a name that stands beyond all the stars. and then began thy journey over the waste of nought, and thy dream camel bore thee well when those of certain of thy fellow travellers fell down in the waste and were covered over by the silence and were turned again to nought; and those travellers when their dream camels fell, having nothing to carry them further over the waste, were lost beyond and never found the earth. these are those men that might have been but were not. and all about thee fluttered the myriad hours travelling in great swarms across the waste of nought.
"how many centuries passed across the cities while thou wast making thy journey none may reckon, for there is no time in the waste of nought, but only the hours fluttering earthwards from beyond to do the work of time. at last the dream-borne travellers saw far off a green place gleaming and made haste towards it and so came to earth. and there, o king, ye rest for a little while, thou and those that came with thee, making an encampment upon earth before journeying on. there the swarming hours alight, settling on every blade of grass and tree, and spreading over your tents and devouring all things, and at last bending your very tent poles with their weight and wearying you.
"behind the encampment in the shadow of the tents lurks a dark figure with a nimble sword, having the name of time. this is he that hath called the hours from beyond and he it is that is their master, and it is his work that the hours do as they devour all green things upon the earth and tatter the tents and weary all the travellers. as each of the hours does the work of time, time smites him with his nimble sword as soon as his work is done, and the hour falls severed to the dust with his bright wings scattered, as a locust cut asunder by the scimitar of a skillful swordsman.
"one by one, o king, with a stir in the camp, and the folding up of the tents one by one, the travellers shall push on again on the journey begun so long before out of the city without a name to the place where dream camels go, striding free through the waste. so into the waste, o king, thou shalt set forth ere long, perhaps to renew friendships begun during thy short encampment upon earth.
"other green places thou shalt meet in the waste and thereon shalt encamp again until driven thence by the hours. what prophet shall relate how many journeys thou shalt make or how many encampments? but at last thou shalt come to the place of the resting of camels, and there shall gleaming cliffs that are named the ending of journeys lift up out of the waste of nought, nought at their feet, nought laying wide before them, with only the glint of worlds far off to illumine the waste. one by one, on tired dream camels, the travellers shall come in, and going up the pathway through the cliff in that land of the resting of camels shall come on the city of ceasing. there, the dream-wrought pinnacles and the spires that are builded of men's hopes shall rise up real before thee, seen only hitherto as a mirage in the waste.
"so far the swarming hours may not come, and far away among the tents shall stand the dark figure with the nimble sword. but in the scintillant streets, under the song-built abodes of the last of cities, thy journey, o king, shall end."
