As Pombo hesitated, chilly with
fear, he heard those voices grow louder in Lonely House, and at that
he stealthily moved a few steps lower, and then rushed past the beast.
The beast intently watched Maharrion hurling up bubbles that are every
one a season of spring in unknown constellations, calling the swallows
home to unimagined fields, watched him without even turning to look at
Pombo, and saw him drop into the Linlunlarna, the river that rises at
the edge of the World, the golden pollen that sweetens the tide of the
river and is carried away from the World to be a joy to the Stars. And
there before Pombo was the little disreputable god who cares nothing
for etiquette and will answer prayers that are refused by all the
respectable idols. And whether the view of him, at last, excited
Pombo's eagerness, or whether his need was greater than he could bear
that it drove him so swiftly downstairs, or whether as is most likely,
he ran too fast past the beast, I do not know, and it does not matter
to Pombo; but at any rate he could not stop, as he had designed, in
attitude of prayer at the feet of Duth, but ran on past him down the
narrowing steps, clutching at smooth, bare rocks till he fell from the
World as, when our hearts miss a beat, we fall in dreams and wake up
with a dreadful jolt; but there was no waking up for Pombo, who still
fell on towards the incurious stars, and his fate is even one with the
fate of Slith.
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