The sun
himself--they thought of him as a glorious and life-giving being, who
every morning fought his way up the sky, scattering the dark clouds
with his golden arrows, and reigning for a-while in heaven, pouring
down heat and growth and life: but he too must die. The dark clouds
of evening must cover him. The red glare upon them was his dying
blood. The twilight, which lingered after the sun was gone, was his
bride, the dawn, come to soothe his dying hour. True, he had come to
life again, often and often, morning after morning: but would it be
so for ever? Would not a night come at last, after which he would
never rise again? Would not he be worn out at last, and slain, in
his long daily battle with the kingdom of darkness, which lay below
the world; or with the dragon who tried to devour him, when the
thunder clouds hid him from the sight, or the eclipse seemed to
swallow him up before their eyes?
So, too, they felt about the seasons of the year. The winter came.
The sun grew low and weak. Would he not die? The days grew short
and dark. Would they not cease to be, and eternal night come on the
earth? They had heard dimly of the dark northern land, where it was
always winter, and the night was six months long. Why should it not
be so in their own land in some evil time? Every autumn the rains
and frost came on; the leaves fell; the flowers withered; the birds
fled southward, or died of hunger and cold; the cattle starved in the
field; the very men had much ado to live.
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