there are things that are known only to the long porter of tong tong tarrup as he sits and mumbles memories to himself in the little bastion gateway.

he remembers the war there was in the halls of the gnomes; and how the fairies came for the opals once, which tong tong tarrup has; and the way that the giants went through the fields below, he watching from his gateway: he remembers quests that are even yet a wonder to the gods. who dwells in those frozen houses on the high bare brink of the world not even he has told me, and he is held to be garrulous. among the elves, the only living things ever seen moving at that awful altitude where they quarry turquoise on earth's highest crag, his name is a byword for loquacity wherewith they mock the talkative.

his favourite story if you offer him bash—the drug of which he is fondest, and for which he will give his service in war to the elves against the goblins, or vice-versa if the goblins bring him more—his favourite story, when bodily soothed by the drug and mentally fiercely excited, tells of a quest undertaken ever so long ago for nothing more marketable than an old woman's song.

picture him telling it. an old man, lean and bearded, and almost monstrously long, that lolled in a city's gateway on a crag perhaps ten miles high; the houses for the most part facing eastward, lit by the sun and moon and the constellations we know, but one house on the pinnacle looking over the edge of the world and lit by the glimmer of those unearthly spaces where one long evening wears away the stars: my little offering of bash; a long forefinger that nipped it at once on a stained and greedy thumb—all these are in the foreground of the picture. in the background, the mystery of those silent houses and of not knowing who their denizens were, or what service they had at the hands of the long porter and what payment he had in return, and whether he was mortal.

picture him in the gateway of this incredible town, having swallowed my bash in silence, stretch his great length, lean back, and begin to speak.

it seems that one clear morning a hundred years ago, a visitor to tong tong tarrup was climbing up from the world. he had already passed above the snow and had set his foot on a step of the earthward stairway that goes down from tong tong tarrup on to the rocks, when the long porter saw him. and so painfully did he climb those easy steps that the grizzled man on watch had long to wonder whether or not the stranger brought him bash, the drug that gives a meaning to the stars and seems to explain the twilight. and in the end there was not a scrap of bash, and the stranger had nothing better to offer that grizzled man than his mere story only.

it seems that the stranger's name was gerald jones, and he always lived in london; but once as a child he had been on a northern moor. it was so long ago that he did not remember how, only somehow or other he walked alone on the moor, and all the ling was in flower. there was nothing in sight but ling and heather and bracken, except, far off near the sunset, on indistinct hills, there were little vague patches that looked like the fields of men. with evening a mist crept up and hid the hills, and still he went walking on over the moor. and then he came to the valley, a tiny valley in the midst of the moor, whose sides were incredibly steep. he lay down and looked at it through the roots of the ling. and a long, long way below him, in a garden by a cottage, with hollyhocks all round her that were taller than herself, there sat an old woman on a wooden chair, singing in the evening. and the man had taken a fancy to the song and remembered it after in london, and whenever it came to his mind it made him think of evenings—the kind you don't get in london—and he heard a soft wind going idly over the moor and the bumble-bees in a hurry, and forgot the noise of the traffic. and always, whenever he heard men speak of time, he grudged to time most this song. once afterwards he went to that northern moor again and found the tiny valley, but there was no old woman in the garden, and no one was singing a song. and either regret for the song that the old woman had sung, on a summer evening twenty years away and daily receding, troubled his mind, or else the wearisome work that he did in london, for he worked for a great firm that was perfectly useless; and he grew old early, as men do in cities. and at last, when melancholy brought only regret and the uselessness of his work gained round him with age, he decided to consult a magician. so to a magician he went and told him his troubles, and particularly he told him how he had heard the song. "and now," he said, "it is nowhere in the world."

"of course it is not in the world," the magician said, "but over the edge of the world you may easily find it." and he told the man that he was suffering from flux of time and recommended a day at the edge of the world. jones asked what part of the edge of the world he should go to, and the magician had heard tong tong tarrup well spoken of; so he paid him, as is usual, in opals, and started at once on the journey. the ways to that town are winding; he took the ticket at victoria station that they only give if they know you: he went past bleth: he went along the hills of neol-hungar and came to the gap of poy. all these are in that part of the world that pertains to the fields we know; but beyond the gap of poy on those ordinary plains, that so closely resemble sussex, one first meets the unlikely. a line of common grey hills, the hills of sneg, may be seen at the edge of the plain from the gap of poy; it is there that the incredible begins, infrequently at first, but happening more and more as you go up the hills. for instance, descending once into poy plains, the first thing that i saw was an ordinary shepherd watching a flock of ordinary sheep. i looked at them for some time and nothing happened, when, without a word, one of the sheep walked up to the shepherd and borrowed his pipe and smoked it—an incident that struck me as unlikely; but in the hills of sneg i met an honest politician. over these plains went jones and over the hills of sneg, meeting at first unlikely things, and then incredible things, till he came to the long slope beyond the hills that leads up to the edge of the world, and where, as all guidebooks tell, anything may happen. you might at the foot of this slope see here and there things that could conceivably occur in the fields we know; but soon these disappeared, and the traveller saw nothing but fabulous beasts, browsing on flowers as astounding as themselves, and rocks so distorted that their shapes had clearly a meaning, being too startling to be accidental. even the trees were shockingly unfamiliar, they had so much to say, and they leant over to one another whenever they spoke and struck grotesque attitudes and leered. jones saw two fir-trees fighting. the effect of these scenes on his nerves was very severe; still he climbed on, and was much cheered at last by the sight of a primrose, the only familiar thing he had seen for hours, but it whistled and skipped away. he saw the unicorns in their secret valley. then night in a sinister way slipped over the sky, and there shone not only the stars, but lesser and greater moons, and he heard dragons rattling in the dark.

with dawn there appeared above him among its amazing crags the town of tong tong tarrup, with the light on its frozen stairs, a tiny cluster of houses far up in the sky. he was on the steep mountain now: great mists were leaving it slowly, and revealing, as they trailed away, more and more astonishing things. before the mist had all gone he heard quite near him, on what he had thought was bare mountain, the sound of a heavy galloping on turf. he had come to the plateau of the centaurs. and all at once he saw them in the mist: there they were, the children of fable, five enormous centaurs. had he paused on account of any astonishment he had not come so far: he strode on over the plateau, and came quite near to the centaurs. it is never the centaurs' wont to notice men; they pawed the ground and shouted to one another in greek, but they said no word to him. nevertheless they turned and stared at him when he left them, and when he had crossed the plateau and still went on, all five of them cantered after to the edge of their green land; for above the high green plateau of the centaurs is nothing but naked mountains, and the last green thing that is seen by the mountaineer as he travels to tong tong tarrup is the grass that the centaurs trample. he came into the snow fields that the mountain wears like a cape, its head being bare above it, and still climbed on. the centaurs watched him with increasing wonder.

not even fabulous beasts were near him now, nor strange demoniac trees—nothing but snow and the clean bare crag above it on which was tong tong tarrup. all day he climbed and evening found him above the snow-line; and soon he came to the stairway cut in the rock and in sight of that grizzled man, the long porter of tong tong tarrup, sitting mumbling amazing memories to himself and expecting in vain from the stranger a gift of bash.

it seems that as soon as the stranger arrived at the bastion gateway, tired though he was, he demanded lodgings at once that commanded a good view of the edge of the world. but the long porter, that grizzled man, disappointed of his bash, demanded the stranger's story to add to his memories before he would show him the way. and this is the story, if the long porter has told me the truth and if his memory is still what it was. and when the story was told, the grizzled man arose, and, dangling his musical keys, went up through door after door and by many stairs and led the stranger to the top-most house, the highest roof in the world, and in its parlour showed him the parlour window. there the tired stranger sat down in a chair and gazed out of the window sheer over the edge of the world. the window was shut, and in its glittering panes the twilight of the world's edge blazed and danced, partly like glow-worms' lamps and partly like the sea; it went by rippling, full of wonderful moons. but the traveller did not look at the wonderful moons. for from the abyss there grew with their roots in far constellations a row of hollyhocks, and amongst them a small green garden quivered and trembled as scenes tremble in water; higher up, ling in bloom was floating upon the twilight, more and more floated up till all the twilight was purple; the little green garden low down was hung in the midst of it. and the garden down below, and the ling all round it, seemed all to be trembling and drifting on a song. for the twilight was full of a song that sang and rang along the edges of the world, and the green garden and the ling seemed to flicker and ripple with it as the song rose and fell, and an old woman was singing it down in the garden. a bumble-bee sailed across from over the edge of the world. and the song that was lapping there against the coasts of the world, and to which the stars were dancing, was the same that he had heard the old woman sing long since down in the valley in the midst of the northern moor.

but that grizzled man, the long porter, would not let the stranger stay, because he brought him no bash, and impatiently he shouldered him away, himself not troubling to glance through the world's outermost window, for the lands that time afflicts and the spaces that time knows not are all one to that grizzled man, and the bash that he eats more profoundly astounds his mind than anything man can show him either in the world we know or over the edge. and, bitterly protesting, the traveller went back and down again to the world.

*****

accustomed as i am to the incredible from knowing the edge of the world, the story presents difficulties to me. yet it may be that the devastation wrought by time is merely local, and that outside the scope of his destruction old songs are still being sung by those that we deem dead. i try to hope so. and yet the more i investigate the story that the long porter told me in the town of tong tong tarrup the more plausible the alternative theory appears—that that grizzled man is a liar.