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Updated: June 26, 2025
"Muspel.... That's the name I've been trying to remember ever since I awoke." Dreamsinter suddenly turned his head sideways, and appeared to listen for something. He motioned with his hand to Maskull to keep quiet. "Is it the drumming?" "Hush! They come." He was looking toward the upper forest. The now familiar drum rhythm was heard this time accompanied by the tramp of marching feet.
Nightspore could no longer see his companion. The water lapped gently against the side of the island raft. "You say the night is past," said Nightspore. "But the night is still here. Am I dead, or alive?" "You are still in Crystalman's world, but you belong to it no more. We are approaching Muspel." Nightspore felt a strong, silent throbbing of the air a rhythmical pulsation, in four-four time.
"I am an ignorant man, stranger, so I can't say. Perhaps there are many others like you who would gladly know." "Where? I should like to meet them." "Do you think you were made of one stuff, and the rest of mankind of another stuff?" "I can't be so presumptuous. Possibly all men are reaching out toward Muspel, in most cases without being aware of it." "In the wrong direction," said Polecrab.
What had been fiery spirit but a moment ago was now a disgusting mass of crawling, wriggling individuals, each whirl of pleasure-seeking will having, as nucleus, a fragmentary spark of living green fire. Nightspore recollected the back rays of Starkness, and it flashed across him with the certainty of truth that the green sparks were the back rays, and the whirls the forward rays, of Muspel.
The sphere was still there, but between it and the Muspel-world in which he was standing he perceived a dim, vast shadow, without any distinguishable shape, but somehow throwing out a scent of disgusting sweetness. Nightspore knew that it was Crystalman. A flood of fierce light but it was not light, but passion was streaming all the time from Muspel to the Shadow, and through it.
Womanhood and love belong to life, while Muspel is above life." "I give you all other men," said Sullenbode. "Maskull is mine." "No. I am not here to help Maskull to a lover but to remind him of the existence of nobler things." "You are a good man. But you two alone will never strike the road to Adage." "Are you acquainted with it?" Again the woman gripped Maskull's arm.
A minute later the whole sky behind and above the long chain of stone posts on the crest of the hill began to be illuminated by a strange radiance. The moonlight in that quarter faded; the posts stood out black on a background of fire. It was the light of Muspel. As the moments passed, it grew more and more vivid, peculiar, and awful.
He pulled his body up, and stood expectantly on the stone-floored roof, looking round for his first glimpse of Muspel. There was nothing. He was standing upon the top of a tower, measuring not above fifteen feet each way. Darkness was all around him. He sat down on the stone parapet, with a sinking heart; a heavy foreboding possessed him.
They were not green, but he somehow saw them so. They were all striving in one direction toward himself, toward Muspel, but were too feeble and miniature to make any headway. Their action produced the marching rhythm he had previously felt, but this rhythm was not intrinsic in the corpuscles themselves, but was a consequence of the obstruction they met with.
Fire flashed in his heart.... Millions upon millions of grotesque, vulgar, ridiculous, sweetened individuals once Spirit were calling out from their degradation and agony for salvation from Muspel.... To answer that cry there was only himself... and Krag waiting below... and Surtur But where was Surtur? The truth forced itself on him in all its cold, brutal reality.
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