Explore "Dwellers in the Mirage" by Abraham Merritt on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The drums of the sentinel dwarfs beat on softly, talking to one another along the miles of circling scarp. And suddenly I had a desperate longing for the Gobi. I don't know why, but its barren and burning, wind-swept and sand-swept body was more desirable than any woman's. It was like strong homesickness. I found it hard to shake it off. I spoke at last in sheer desperation. "You've been acting damned queer, Indian." "Tsi Tsa'lagi--I told you--I'm all Cherokee." "Tsantawu--It is I, Degata, who speaks to you now." I had dropped into the Cherokee; he answered: "What is it my brother desires to know?"
"What it was the voices of the dead whispered that night we slept beneath the spruces? What it was you knew to be truth by the three signs they gave you. I did not hear the voices, brother--yet by the blood rite they are my ancestors as they are yours; and I have the right to know their words."