Page:Alien Souls by Achmed Abdullah (1922).djvu/219

beads of perspiration trickled slowly down his nose.

He bent forward; listened.

That noise. What was it?

Something from the outside world, the unreal world of facts, seemed to brush in on unclean, sardonic wings, to disturb the perfect peace of the house, to break and shiver the poppy-heavy air.

Cries of the street, in an uncouth, foreign language:

"Yer gotta travel the straight an' narrow if yer want me t' stick t' yer, get me?"

"Gee, kid! Listen t' me! I ain't never spoke a woid to th' guy, I tells yer honest!"

"Well—looka here. …"

The voices drifted away. Came other noises. The hooting of the Elevated, around the corner on Chatham Square. The steely roar of a motor exhaust.

Motor? Elevated? Chatham Square?

What was it, Yung asked himself? What did the words signify?

Streets—noises—foreigners—coarse-haired barbarians. …

No, no—by the Excellent Lord Buddha!

They were only the figments of his dreams; dreams which he had often, day after day; dreams which he hated and feared—

Dreams which he must kill!

With shaking fingers he reached for the opium jar. He kneaded the brown cube. He roasted it, filled his pipe, and smoked.

And, at once, the poppy ghosts drew swiftly down about him on silver-gray wings, building around him a wall of fragant, gossamer clouds, suffusing the soul within his soul with the wild loveliness of a forgotten existence.