Green Mansions by W. H. Hudson

Green Mansions: A Romance of the Tropical Forest by W. H. Hudson
FOREWORD
I take up pen for this foreword with the fear of one who knows
that he cannot do justice to his subject, and the trembling of
one who would not, for a good deal, set down words unpleasing to
the eye of him who wrote Green Mansions, The Purple Land, and all
those other books which have meant so much to me. For of all
living authors--now that Tolstoi has gone I could least dispense
with W. H. Hudson. Why do I love his writing so? I think
because he is, of living writers that I read, the rarest spirit,
and has the clearest gift of conveying to me the nature of that
spirit. Writers are to their readers little new worlds to be
explored; and each traveller in the realms of literature must
needs have a favourite hunting-ground, which, in his good
will--or perhaps merely in his egoism--he would wish others to
share with him.
The great and abiding misfortunes of most of us writers are
twofold: We are, as worlds, rather common tramping-ground for our
readers, rather tame territory; and as guides and dragomans
thereto we are too superficial, lacking clear intimacy of
expression; in fact--like guide or dragoman--we cannot let folk
into the real secrets, or show them the spirit, of the land.
Now, Hudson, whether in a pure romance like this Green Mansions,
or in that romantic piece of realism The Purple Land, or in books
like Idle Days in Patagonia, Afoot in England, The Land's End,
Adventures among Birds, A Shepherd's Life, and all his other
nomadic records of communings with men, birds, beasts, and
Nature, has a supreme gift of disclosing not only the thing he
sees but the spirit of his vision. Without apparent effort he
takes you with him into a rare, free, natural world, and always
you are refreshed, stimulated, enlarged, by going there.
He is of course a distinguished naturalist, probably the most
acute, broad-minded, and understanding observer of Nature living.
And this, in an age of specialism, which loves to put men into
pigeonholes and label them, has been a misfortune to the reading
public, who seeing the label Naturalist, pass on, and take down
the nearest novel. Hudson has indeed the gifts and knowledge of
a Naturalist, but that is a mere fraction of his value and
interest. A really great writer such as this is no more to be
circumscribed by a single word than America by the part of it
called New York. The expert knowledge which Hudson has of Nature
gives to all his work backbone and surety of fibre, and to his
sense of beauty an intimate actuality. But his real eminence and
extraordinary attraction lie in his spirit and philosophy. We
feel from his writings that he is nearer to Nature than other
men, and yet more truly civilized. The competitive, towny
culture, the queer up-to-date commercial knowingness with which
we are so busy coating ourselves simply will not stick to him. A
passage in his Hampshire Days describes him better than I can:
"The blue sky, the brown soil beneath, the grass, the trees, the
animals, the wind, and rain, and stars are never strange to me;
for I am in and of and am one with them; and my flesh and the
soil are one, and the heat in my blood and in the sunshine are
one, and the winds and the tempests and my passions are one. I
feel the 'strangeness' only with regard to my fellow men,
especially in towns, where they exist in conditions unnatural to
me, but congenial to them.... In such moments we sometimes feel
a kinship with, and are strangely drawn to, the dead, who were
not as these; the long, long dead, the men who knew not life in
towns, and felt no strangeness in sun and wind and rain." This
unspoiled unity with Nature pervades all his writings; they are
remote from the fret and dust and pettiness of town life; they
are large, direct, free. It is not quite simplicity, for the
mind of this writer is subtle and fastidious, sensitive to each
motion of natural and human life; but his sensitiveness is
somehow different from, almost inimical to, that of us others,
who sit indoors and dip our pens in shades of feeling. Hudson's
fancy is akin to the flight of the birds that are his special
loves--it never seems to have entered a house, but since birth to
have been roaming the air, in rain and sun, or visiting the trees
and the grass. I not only disbelieve utterly, but intensely
dislike, the doctrine of metempsychosis, which, if I understand
it aright, seems the negation of the creative impulse, an
apotheosis of staleness--nothing quite new in the world, never
anything quite new--not even the soul of a baby; and so I am not
prepared to entertain the whim that a bird was one of his remote
incarnations; still, in sweep of wing, quickness of eye, and
natural sweet strength of song he is not unlike a
super-bird--which is a horrid image. And that reminds me: This,
after all, is a foreword to Greer: Mansions --the romance of the
bird-girl Rima--a story actual yet fantastic, which immortalizes,
I think, as passionate a love of all beautiful things as ever was
in the heart of man. Somewhere Hudson says: "The sense of the
beautiful is God's best gift to the human soul." So it is: and
to pass that gift on to others, in such measure as herein is
expressed, must surely have been happiness to him who wrote Green
Mansions. In form and spirit the book is unique, a simple
romantic narrative transmuted by sheer glow of beauty into a
prose poem. Without ever departing from its quality of a tale,
it symbolizes-the yearning of the human soul for the attainment
of perfect love and beauty in this life--that impossible
perfection which we must all learn to see fall from its high tree
and be consumed in the flames, as was Rima the bird-girl, but
whose fine white ashes we gather that they may be mingled at last
with our own, when we too have been refined by the fire of
death's resignation. The book is soaked through and through with
a strange beauty. I will not go on singing its praises, or
trying to make it understood, because I have other words to say
of its author.
Do we realize how far our town life and culture have got away
from things that really matter; how instead of making
civilization our handmaid to freedom we have set her heel on our
necks, and under it bite dust all the time? Hudson, whether he
knows it or not, is now the chief standard-bearer of another
faith. Thus he spake in The Purple Land: "Ah, yes, we are all
vainly seeking after happiness in the wrong way. It was with us
once and ours, but we despised it, for it was only the old common
happiness which Nature gives to all her children, and we went
away from it in search of another grander kind of happiness which
some dreamer--Bacon or another--assured us we should find. We
had only to conquer Nature, find out her secrets, make her our
obedient slave, then the Earth would be Eden, and every man Adam
and every woman Eve. We are still marching bravely on,
conquering Nature, but how weary and sad we are getting! The old
joy in life and gaiety of heart have vanished, though we do
sometimes pause for a few moments in our long forced march to
watch the labours of some pale mechanician, seeking after
perpetual motion, and indulge in a little, dry, cackling laugh at
his expense." And again: "For here the religion that languishes
in crowded cities or steals shamefaced to hide itself in dim
churches flourishes greatly, filling the soul with a solemn joy.
Face to face with Nature on the vast hills at eventide, who does
not feel himself near to the Unseen?
"Out of his heart God shall not pass
His image stamped is on every grass."
All Hudson's books breathe this spirit of revolt against our new
enslavement by towns and machinery, and are true oases in an age
so dreadfully resigned to the "pale mechanician."
But Hudson is not, as Tolstoi was, a conscious prophet; his
spirit is freer, more willful, whimsical--almost perverse--and
far more steeped in love of beauty. If you called him a prophet
he would stamp his foot at you--as he will at me if he reads
these words; but his voice is prophetic, for all that, crying in
a wilderness, out of which, at the call, will spring up roses
here and there, and the sweet-smelling grass. I would that every
man, woman, and child in England were made to read him; and I
would that you in America would take him to heart. He is a
tonic, a deep refreshing drink, with a strange and wonderful
flavour; he is a mine of new interests, and ways of thought
instinctively right. As a simple narrator he is well-nigh
unsurpassed; as a stylist he has few, if any, living equals. And
in all his work there is an indefinable freedom from any thought
of after- benefit- -even from the desire that we should read him.
He puts down what he sees and feels, out of sheer love of the
thing seen, and the emotion felt; the smell of the lamp has not
touched a single page that he ever wrote. That alone is a marvel
to us who know that to write well, even to write clearly, is a
wound business, long to learn, hard to learn, and no gift of the
angels. Style should not obtrude between a writer and his
reader; it should be servant, not master. To use words so true
and simple that they oppose no obstacle to the flow of thought
and feeling from mind to mind, and yet by juxtaposition of
word-sounds set up in the recipient continuing emotion or
gratification--this is the essence of style; and Hudson's writing
has pre-eminently this double quality. From almost any page of
his books an example might be taken. Here is one no better than
a thousand others, a description of two little girls on a beach:
"They were dressed in black frocks and scarlet blouses, which set
off their beautiful small dark faces; their eyes sparkled like
black diamonds, and their loose hair was a wonder to see, a black
mist or cloud about their heads and necks composed of threads
fine as gossamer, blacker than jet and shining like spun
glass--hair that looked as if no comb or brush could ever tame
its beautiful wildness. And in spirit they were what they
seemed: such a wild, joyous, frolicsome spirit, with such grace
and fleetness, one does not look for in human beings, but only in
birds or in some small bird-like volatile mammal--a squirrel or a
spider-monkey of the tropical forest, or the chinchilla of the
desolate mountain slopes; the swiftest, wildest, loveliest, most
airy, and most vocal of small beauties." Or this, as the
quintessence of a sly remark: "After that Mantel got on to his
horse and rode away. It was black and rainy, but he had never
needed moon or lantern to find what he sought by night, whether
his own house, or a fat cow--also his own, perhaps." So one
might go on quoting felicity for ever from this writer. He seems
to touch every string with fresh and uninked fingers; and the
secret of his power lies, I suspect, in the fact that his words:
"Life being more than all else to me . . ." are so utterly
true.
I do not descant on his love for simple folk and simple things,
his championship of the weak, and the revolt against the cagings
and cruelties of life, whether to men or birds or beasts, that
springs out of him as if against his will; because, having spoken
of him as one with a vital philosophy or faith, I don't wish to
draw red herrings across the main trail of his worth to the
world. His work is a vision of natural beauty and of human life
as it might be, quickened and sweetened by the sun and the wind
and the rain, and by fellowship with all the other forms of life-
-the truest vision now being given to us, who are more in want of
it than any generation has ever been. A very great writer;
and--to my thinking--the most valuable our age possesses.
JOHN GALSWORTHY
September 1915 Manaton: Devon
Green Mansions by W. H. Hudson
PROLOGUE
It is a cause of very great regret to me that this task has taken
so much longer a time than I had expected for its completion. It
is now many months--over a year, in fact--since I wrote to
Georgetown announcing my intention of publishing, IN A VERY FEW
MONTHS, the whole truth about Mr. Abel. Hardly less could have
been looked for from his nearest friend, and I had hoped that the
discussion in the newspapers would have ceased, at all events,
until the appearance of the promised book. It has not been so;
and at this distance from Guiana I was not aware of how much
conjectural matter was being printed week by week in the local
press, some of which must have been painful reading to Mr. Abel's
friends. A darkened chamber, the existence of which had never
been suspected in that familiar house in Main Street, furnished
only with an ebony stand on which stood a cinerary urn, its
surface ornamented with flower and leaf and thorn, and winding
through it all the figure of a serpent; an inscription, too, of
seven short words which no one could understand or rightly
interpret; and finally the disposal of the mysterious ashes--that
was all there was relating to an untold chapter in a man's life
for imagination to work on. Let us hope that now, at last, the
romance-weaving will come to an end. It was, however, but
natural that the keenest curiosity should have been excited; not
only because of that peculiar and indescribable charm of the man,
which all recognized and which won all hearts, but also because
of that hidden chapter--that sojourn in the desert, about which
he preserved silence. It was felt in a vague way by his
intimates that he had met with unusual experiences which had
profoundly affected him and changed the course of his life. To
me alone was the truth known, and I must now tell, briefly as
possible, how my great friendship and close intimacy with him
came about.
When, in 1887, I arrived in Georgetown to take up an appointment
in a public office, I found Mr. Abel an old resident there, a man
of means and a favourite in society. Yet he was an alien, a
Venezuelan, one of that turbulent people on our border whom the
colonists have always looked on as their natural enemies. The
story told to me was that about twelve years before that time he
had arrived at Georgetown from some remote district in the
interior; that he had journeyed alone on foot across half the
continent to the coast, and had first appeared among them, a
young stranger, penniless, in rags, wasted almost to a skeleton
by fever and misery of all kinds, his face blackened by long
exposure to sun and wind. Friendless, with but little English,
it was a hard struggle for him to live; but he managed somehow,
and eventually letters from Caracas informed him that a
considerable property of which he had been deprived was once more
his own, and he was also invited to return to his country to take
his part in the government of the Republic. But Mr. Abel, though
young, had already outlived political passions and aspirations,
and, apparently, even the love of his country; at all events, he
elected to stay where he was--his enemies, he would say
smilingly, were his best friends--and one of the first uses he
made of his fortune was to buy that house in Main Street which
was afterwards like a home to me.
I must state here that my friend's full name was Abel Guevez de
Argensola, but in his early days in Georgetown he was called by
his Christian name only, and later he wished to be known simply
as "Mr. Abel."
I had no sooner made his acquaintance than I ceased to wonder at
the esteem and even affection with which he, a Venezuelan, was
regarded in this British colony. All knew and liked him, and the
reason of it was the personal charm of the man, his kindly
disposition, his manner with women, which pleased them and
excited no man's jealousy--not even the old hot-tempered
planter's, with a very young and pretty and light-headed
wife--his love of little children, of all wild creatures, of
nature, and of whatsoever was furthest removed from the common
material interests and concerns of a purely commercial community.
The things which excited other men--politics, sport, and the
price of crystals--were outside of his thoughts; and when men had
done with them for a season, when like the tempest they had
"blown their fill" in office and club-room and house and wanted a
change, it was a relief to turn to Mr. Abel and get him to
discourse of his world--the world of nature and of the spirit.
It was, all felt, a good thing to have a Mr. Abel in Georgetown.
That it was indeed good for me I quickly discovered. I had
certainly not expected to meet in such a place with any person to
share my tastes--that love of poetry which has been the chief
passion and delight of my life; but such a one I had found in Mr.
Abel. It surprised me that he, suckled on the literature of
Spain, and a reader of only ten or twelve years of English
literature, possessed a knowledge of our modern poetry as
intimate as my own, and a love of it equally great. This feeling
brought us together and made us two--the nervous olive-skinned
Hispano-American of the tropics and the phlegmatic blue-eyed
Saxon of the cold north--one in spirit and more than brothers.
Many were the daylight hours we spent together and "tired the sun
with talking"; many, past counting, the precious evenings in that
restful house of his where I was an almost daily guest. I had
not looked for such happiness; nor, he often said, had he. A
result of this intimacy was that the vague idea concerning his
hidden past, that some unusual experience had profoundly affected
him and perhaps changed the whole course of his life, did not
diminish, but, on the contrary, became accentuated, and was often
in my mind. The change in him was almost painful to witness
whenever our wandering talk touched on the subject of the
aborigines, and of the knowledge he had acquired of their
character and languages when living or travelling among them; all
that made his conversation most engaging--the lively, curious
mind, the wit, the gaiety of spirit tinged with a tender
melancholy--appeared to fade out of it; even the expression of
his face would change, becoming hard and set, and he would deal
you out facts in a dry mechanical way as if reading them in a
book. It grieved me to note this, but I dropped no hint of such
a feeling, and would never have spoken about it but for a quarrel
which came at last to make the one brief solitary break in that
close friendship of years. I got into a bad state of health, and
Abel was not only much concerned about it, but annoyed, as if I
had not treated him well by being ill, and he would even say that
I could get well if I wished to. I did not take this seriously,
but one morning, when calling to see me at the office, he
attacked me in a way that made me downright angry with him. He
told me that indolence and the use of stimulants was the cause of
my bad health. He spoke in a mocking way, with a presence of not
quite meaning it, but the feeling could not be wholly disguised.
Stung by his reproaches, I blurted out that he had no right to
talk to me, even in fun, in such a way. Yes, he said, getting
serious, he had the best right--that of our friendship. He would
be no true friend if he kept his peace about such a matter.
Then, in my haste, I retorted that to me the friendship between
us did not seem so perfect and complete as it did to him. One
condition of friendship is that the partners in it should be
known to each other. He had had my whole life and mind open to
him, to read it as in a book. HIS life was a closed and clasped
volume to me.
His face darkened, and after a few moments' silent reflection he
got up and left me with a cold good-bye, and without that
hand-grasp which had been customary between us.
After his departure I had the feeling that a great loss, a great
calamity, had befallen me, but I was still smarting at his too
candid criticism, all the more because in my heart I acknowledged
its truth. And that night, lying awake, I repented of the cruel
retort I had made, and resolved to ask his forgiveness and leave
it to him to determine the question of our future relations. But
he was beforehand with me, and with the morning came a letter
begging my forgiveness and asking me to go that evening to dine
with him.
We were alone, and during dinner and afterwards, when we sat
smoking and sipping black coffee in the veranda, we were
unusually quiet, even to gravity, which caused the two white-clad
servants that waited on us--the brown-faced subtle-eyed old Hindu
butler and an almost blue-black young Guiana Negro--to direct
many furtive glances at their master's face. They were
accustomed to see him in a more genial mood when he had a friend
to dine. To me the change in his manner was not surprising: from
the moment of seeing him I had divined that he had determined to
open the shut and clasped volume of which I had spoken--that the
time had now come for him to speak.
CHAPTER I
Now that we are cool, he said, and regret that we hurt each
other, I am not sorry that it happened. I deserved your
reproach: a hundred times I have wished to tell you the whole
story of my travels and adventures among the savages, and one of
the reasons which prevented me was the fear that it would have an
unfortunate effect on our friendship. That was precious, and I
desired above everything to keep it. But I must think no more
about that now. I must think only of how I am to tell you my
story. I will begin at a time when I was twenty-three. It was
early in life to be in the thick of politics, and in trouble to
the extent of having to fly my country to save my liberty,
perhaps my life.
Every nation, someone remarks, has the government it deserves,
and Venezuela certainly has the one it deserves and that suits it
best. We call it a republic, not only because it is not one, but
also because a thing must have a name; and to have a good name,
or a fine name, is very convenient--especially when you want to
borrow money. If the Venezuelans, thinly distributed over an
area of half a million square miles, mostly illiterate peasants,
half-breeds, and indigenes, were educated, intelligent men,
zealous only for the public weal, it would be possible for them
to have a real republic. They have instead a government by
cliques, tempered by revolution; and a very good government it
is, in harmony with the physical conditions of the country and
the national temperament. Now, it happens that the educated men,
representing your higher classes, are so few that there are not
many persons unconnected by ties of blood or marriage with
prominent members of the political groups to which they belong.
By this you will see how easy and almost inevitable it is that we
should become accustomed to look on conspiracy and revolt against
the regnant party--the men of another clique--as only in the
natural order of things. In the event of failure such outbreaks
are punished, but they are not regarded as immoral. On the
contrary, men of the highest intelligence and virtue among us are
seen taking a leading part in these adventures. Whether such a
condition of things is intrinsically wrong or not, or would be
wrong in some circumstances and is not wrong, because inevitable,
in others, I cannot pretend to decide; and all this tiresome
profusion is only to enable you to understand how I--a young man
of unblemished character, not a soldier by profession, not
ambitious of political distinction, wealthy for that country,
popular in society, a lover of social pleasures, of books, of
nature actuated, as I believed, by the highest motives, allowed
myself to be drawn very readily by friends and relations into a
conspiracy to overthrow the government of the moment, with the
object of replacing it by more worthy men ourselves, to wit.
Our adventure failed because the authorities got wind of the
affair and matters were precipitated. Our leaders at the moment
happened to be scattered over the country--some were abroad; and
a few hotheaded men of the party, who were in Caracas just then
and probably feared arrest, struck a rash blow: the President was
attacked in the street and wounded. But the attackers were
seized, and some of them shot on the following day. When the
news reached me I was at a distance from the capital, staying
with a friend on an estate he owned on the River Quebrada Honda,
in the State of Guarico, some fifteen to twenty miles from the
town of Zaraza. My friend, an officer in the army, was a leader
in the conspiracy; and as I was the only son of a man who had
been greatly hated by the Minister of War, it became necessary
for us both to fly for our lives. In the circumstances we could
not look to be pardoned, even on the score of youth.
Our first decision was to escape to the sea-coast; but as the
risk of a journey to La Guayra, or any other port of embarkation
on the north side of the country, seemed too great, we made our
way in a contrary direction to the Orinoco, and downstream to
Angostura. Now, when we had reached this comparatively safe
breathing-place--safe, at all events, for the moment--I changed
my mind about leaving or attempting to leave the country. Since
boyhood I had taken a very peculiar interest in that vast and
almost unexplored territory we possess south of the Orinoco, with
its countless unmapped rivers and trackless forests; and in its
savage inhabitants, with their ancient customs and character,
unadulterated by contact with Europeans. To visit this primitive
wilderness had been a cherished dream; and I had to some extent
even prepared myself for such an adventure by mastering more than
one of the Indian dialects of the northern states of Venezuela.
And now, finding myself on the south side of our great river,
with unlimited time at my disposal, I determined to gratify this
wish. My companion took his departure towards the coast, while I
set about making preparations and hunting up information from
those who had travelled in the interior to trade with the
savages. I decided eventually to go back upstream and penetrate
to the interior in the western part of Guayana, and the Amazonian
territory bordering on Colombia and Brazil, and to return to
Angostura in about six months' time. I had no fear of being
arrested in the semi-independent and in most part savage region,
as the Guayana authorities concerned themselves little enough
about the political upheavals at Caracas.
The first five or six months I spent in Guayana, after leaving
the city of refuge, were eventful enough to satisfy a moderately
adventurous spirit. A complaisant government employee at
Angostura had provided me with a passport, in which it was set
down (for few to read) that my object in visiting the interior
was to collect information concerning the native tribes, the
vegetable products of the country, and other knowledge which
would be of advantage to the Republic; and the authorities were
requested to afford me protection and assist me in my pursuits.
I ascended the Orinoco, making occasional expeditions to the
small Christian settlements in the neighbourhood of the right
bank, also to the Indian villages; and travelling in this way,
seeing and learning much, in about three months I reached the
River Metal During this period I amused myself by keeping a
journal, a record of personal adventures, impressions of the
country and people, both semi-civilized and savage; and as my
journal grew, I began to think that on my return at some future
time to Caracas, it might prove useful and interesting to the
public, and also procure me fame; which thought proved
pleasurable and a great incentive, so that I began to observe
things more narrowly and to study expression. But the book was
not to be.
From the mouth of the Meta I journeyed on, intending to visit the
settlement of Atahapo, where the great River Guaviare, with other
rivers, empties itself into the Orinoco. But I was not destined
to reach it, for at the small settlement of Manapuri I fell ill
of a low fever; and here ended the first half-year of my
wanderings, about which no more need be told.
A more miserable place than Manapuri for a man to be ill of a low
fever in could not well be imagined. The settlement, composed of
mean hovels, with a few large structures of mud, or plastered
wattle, thatched with palm leaves, was surrounded by water,
marsh, and forest, the breeding-place of myriads of croaking
frogs and of clouds of mosquitoes; even to one in perfect health
existence in such a place would have been a burden. The
inhabitants mustered about eighty or ninety, mostly Indians of
that degenerate class frequently to be met with in small trading
outposts. The savages of Guayana are great drinkers, but not
drunkards in our sense, since their fermented liquors contain so
little alcohol that inordinate quantities must be swallowed to
produce intoxication; in the settlements they prefer the white
man's more potent poisons, with the result that in a small place
like Manapuri one can see enacted, as on a stage, the last act in
the great American tragedy. To be succeeded, doubtless, by other
and possibly greater tragedies. My thoughts at that period of
suffering were pessimistic in the extreme. Sometimes, when the
almost continuous rain held up for half a day, I would manage to
creep out a short distance; but I was almost past making any
exertion, scarcely caring to live, and taking absolutely no
interest in the news from Caracas, which reached me at long
intervals. At the end of two months, feeling a slight
improvement in my health, and with it a returning interest in
life and its affairs, it occurred to me to get out my diary and
write a brief account of my sojourn at Manapuri. I had placed it
for safety in a small deal box, lent to me for the purpose by a
Venezuelan trader, an old resident at the settlement, by name
Pantaleon--called by all Don Panta--one who openly kept half a
dozen Indian wives in his house, and was noted for his dishonesty
and greed, but who had proved himself a good friend to me. The
box was in a corner of the wretched palm-thatched hovel I
inhabited; but on taking it out I discovered that for several
weeks the rain had been dripping on it, and that the manuscript
was reduced to a sodden pulp. I flung it upon the floor with a
curse and threw myself back on my bed with a groan.
In that desponding state I was found by my friend Panta, who was
constant in his visits at all hours; and when in answer to his
anxious inquiries I pointed to the pulpy mass on the mud floor,
he turned it over with his foot, and then, bursting into a loud
laugh, kicked it out, remarking that he had mistaken the object
for some unknown reptile that had crawled in out of the rain. He
affected to be astonished that I should regret its loss. It was
all a true narrative, he exclaimed; if I wished to write a book
for the stay-at-homes to read, I could easily invent a thousand
lies far more entertaining than any real experiences. He had
come to me, he said, to propose something. He had lived twenty
years at that place, and had got accustomed to the climate, but
it would not do for me to remain any longer if I wished to live.
I must go away at once to a different country--to the mountains,
where it was open and dry. "And if you want quinine when you are
there," he concluded, "smell the wind when it blows from the
south-west, and you will inhale it into your system, fresh from
the forest." When I remarked despondingly that in my condition
it would be impossible to quit Manapuri, he went on to say that a
small party of Indians was now in the settlement; that they had
come, not only to trade, but to visit one of their own tribe, who
was his wife, purchased some years ago from her father. "And the
money she cost me I have never regretted to this day," said he,
"for she is a good wife not jealous," he added, with a curse on
all the others. These Indians came all the way from the
Queneveta mountains, and were of the Maquiritari tribe. He,
Panta, and, better still, his good wife would interest them on my
behalf, and for a suitable reward they would take me by slow,
easy stages to their own country, where I would be treated well
and recover my health.
This proposal, after I had considered it well, produced so good
an effect on me that I not only gave a glad consent, but, on the
following day, I was able to get about and begin the preparations
for my journey with some spirit.
In about eight days I bade good-bye to my generous friend Panta,
whom I regarded, after having seen much of him, as a kind of
savage beast that had sprung on me, not to rend, but to rescue
from death; for we know that even cruel savage brutes and evil
men have at times sweet, beneficent impulses, during which they
act in a way contrary to their natures, like passive agents of
some higher power. It was a continual pain to travel in my weak
condition, and the patience of my Indians was severely taxed; but
they did not forsake me; and at last the entire distance, which I
conjectured to be about sixty-five leagues, was accomplished; and
at the end I was actually stronger and better in every way than
at the start. From this time my progress towards complete
recovery was rapid. The air, with or without any medicinal
virtue blown from the cinchona trees in the far-off Andean
forest, was tonic; and when I took my walks on the hillside above
the Indian village, or later when able to climb to the summits,
the world as seen from those wild Queneveta mountains had a
largeness and varied glory of scenery peculiarly refreshing and
delightful to the soul.
With the Maquiritari tribe I passed some weeks, and the sweet
sensations of returning health made me happy for a time; but such
sensations seldom outlast convalescence. I was no sooner well
again than I began to feel a restless spirit stirring in me. The
monotony of savage life in this place became intolerable. After
my long listless period the reaction had come, and I wished only
for action, adventure--no matter how dangerous; and for new
scenes, new faces, new dialects. In the end I conceived the idea
of going on to the Casiquiare river, where I would find a few
small settlements, and perhaps obtain help from the authorities
there which would enable me to reach the Rio Negro. For it was
now in my mind to follow that river to the Amazons, and so down
to Para and the Atlantic coast.
Leaving the Queneveta range, I started with two of the Indians as
guides and travelling companions; but their journey ended only
half-way to the river I wished to reach; and they left me with
some friendly savages living on the Chunapay, a tributary of the
Cunucumana, which flows to the Orinoco. Here I had no choice but
to wait until an opportunity of attaching myself to some party of
travelling Indians going south-west should arrive; for by this
time I had expended the whole of my small capital in ornaments
and calico brought from Manapuri, so that I could no longer
purchase any man's service. And perhaps it will be as well to
state at this point just what I possessed. For some time I had
worn nothing but sandals to protect my feet; my garments
consisted of a single suit, and one flannel shirt, which I washed
frequently, going shirtless while it was drying. Fortunately I
had an excellent blue cloth cloak, durable and handsome, given to
me by a friend at Angostura, whose prophecy on presenting it,
that it would outlast ME, very nearly came true. It served as a
covering by night, and to keep a man warm and comfortable when
travelling in cold and wet weather no better garment was ever
made. I had a revolver and metal cartridge-box in my broad
leather belt, also a good hunting-knife with strong buckhorn
handle and a heavy blade about nine inches long. In the pocket
of my cloak I had a pretty silver tinder-box, and a match-box--to
be mentioned again in this narrative
and one or two other trifling objects; these I was determined to
keep until they could be kept no longer.
During the tedious interval of waiting on the Chunapay I was told
a flattering tale by the village Indians, which eventually caused
me to abandon the proposed journey to the Rio Negro. These
Indians wore necklets, like nearly all the Guayana savages; but
one, I observed, possessed a necklet unlike that of the others,
which greatly aroused my curiosity. It was made of thirteen gold
plates, irregular in form, about as broad as a man's thumb-nail,
and linked together with fibres. I was allowed to examine it,
and had no doubt that the pieces were of pure gold, beaten flat
by the savages. When questioned about it, they said it was
originally obtained from the Indians of Parahuari, and Parahuari,
they further said, was a mountainous country west of the Orinoco.
Every man and woman in that place, they assured me, had such a
necklet. This report inflamed my mind to such a degree that I
could not rest by night or day for dreaming golden dreams, and
considering how to get to that rich district, unknown to
civilized men. The Indians gravely shook their heads when I
tried to persuade them to take me. They were far enough from the
Orinoco, and Parahuari was ten, perhaps fifteen, days' journey
further on--a country unknown to them, where they had no
relations.
In spite of difficulties and delays, however, and not without
pain and some perilous adventures, I succeeded at last in
reaching the upper Orinoco, and, eventually, in crossing to the
other side. With my life in my hand I struggled on westward
through an unknown difficult country, from Indian village to
village, where at any moment I might have been murdered with
impunity for the sake of my few belongings. It is hard for me to
speak a good word for the Guayana savages; but I must now say
this of them, that they not only did me no harm when I was at
their mercy during this long journey, but they gave me shelter in
their villages, and fed me when I was hungry, and helped me on my
way when I could make no return. You must not, however, run away
with the idea that there is any sweetness in their disposition,
any humane or benevolent instincts such as are found among the
civilized nations: far from it. I regard them now, and,
fortunately for me, I regarded them then, when, as I have said, I
was at their mercy, as beasts of prey, plus a cunning or low kind
of intelligence vastly greater than that of the brute; and, for
only morality, that respect for the rights of other members of
the same family, or tribe, without which even the rudest
communities cannot hold together. How, then, could I do this
thing, and dwell and travel freely, without receiving harm, among
tribes that have no peace with and no kindly feelings towards the
stranger, in a district where the white man is rarely or never
seen? Because I knew them so well. Without that knowledge,
always available, and an extreme facility in acquiring new
dialects, which had increased by practice until it was almost
like intuition, I should have fared badly after leaving the
Maquiritari tribe. As it was, I had two or three very narrow
escapes.
To return from this digression. I looked at last on the famous
Parahuari mountains, which, I was greatly surprised to find, were
after all nothing but hills, and not very high ones. This,
however, did not impress me. The very fact that Parahuari
possessed no imposing feature in its scenery seemed rather to
prove that it must be rich in gold: how else could its name and
the fame of its treasures be familiar to people dwelling so far
away as the Cunucumana?
But there was no gold. I searched through the whole range, which
was about seven leagues long, and visited the villages, where I
talked much with the Indians, interrogating them, and they had no
necklets of gold, nor gold in any form; nor had they ever heard
of its presence in Parahuari or in any other place known to them.
The very last village where I spoke on the subject of my quest,
albeit now without hope, was about a league from the western
extremity of the range, in the midst of a high broken country of
forest and savannah and many swift streams; near one of these,
called the Curicay, the village stood, among low scattered trees-
-a large building, in which all the people, numbering eighteen,
passed most of their time when not hunting, with two smaller
buildings attached to it. The head, or chief, Runi by name, was
about fifty years old, a taciturn, finely formed, and somewhat
dignified savage, who was either of a sullen disposition or not
well pleased at the intrusion of a white man. And for a time I
made no attempt to conciliate him. What profit was there in it
at all? Even that light mask, which I had worn so long and with
such good effect, incommoded me now: I would cast it aside and be
myself--silent and sullen as my barbarous host. If any malignant
purpose was taking form in his mind, let it, and let him do his
worst; for when failure first stares a man in the face, it has so
dark and repellent a look that not anything that can be added can
make him more miserable; nor has he any apprehension. For weeks
I had been searching with eager, feverish eyes in every village,
in every rocky crevice, in every noisy mountain streamlet, for
the glittering yellow dust I had travelled so far to find. And
now all my beautiful dreams--all the pleasure and power to
be--had vanished like a mere mirage on the savannah at noon.
It was a day of despair which I spent in this place, sitting all
day indoors, for it was raining hard, immersed in my own gloomy
thoughts, pretending to doze in my seat, and out of the narrow
slits of my half-closed eyes seeing the others, also sitting or
moving about, like shadows or people in a dream; and I cared
nothing about them, and wished not to seem friendly, even for the
sake of the food they might offer me by and by.
Towards evening the rain ceased; and rising up I went out a short
distance to the neighbouring stream, where I sat on a stone and,
casting off my sandals, raved my bruised feet in the cool running
water. The western half of the sky was blue again with that
tender lucid blue seen after rain, but the leaves still glittered
with water, and the wet trunks looked almost black under the
green foliage. The rare loveliness of the scene touched and
lightened my heart. Away back in the east the hills of
Parahuari, with the level sun full on them, loomed with a strange
glory against the grey rainy clouds drawing off on that side, and
their new mystic beauty almost made me forget how these same
hills had wearied, and hurt, and mocked me. On that side, also
to the north and south, there was open forest, but to the west a
different prospect met the eye. Beyond the stream and the strip
of verdure that fringed it, and the few scattered dwarf trees
growing near its banks, spread a brown savannah sloping upwards
to a long, low, rocky ridge, beyond which rose a great solitary
hill, or rather mountain, conical in form, and clothed in forest
almost to the summit. This was the mountain Ytaioa, the chief
landmark in that district. As the sun went down over the ridge,
beyond the savannah, the whole western sky changed to a delicate
rose colour that had the appearance of rose-coloured smoke blown
there by some far off-wind, and left suspended--a thin, brilliant
veil showing through it the distant sky beyond, blue and
ethereal. Flocks of birds, a kind of troupial, were flying past
me overhead, flock succeeding flock, on their way to their
roosting-place, uttering as they flew a clear, bell-like chirp;
and there was something ethereal too in those drops of melodious
sound, which fell into my heart like raindrops falling into a
pool to mix their fresh heavenly water with the water of earth.
Doubtless into the turbid tarn of my heart some sacred drops had
fallen--from the passing birds, from that crimson disk which had
now dropped below the horizon, the darkening hills, the rose and
blue of infinite heaven, from the whole visible circle; and I
felt purified and had a strange sense and apprehension of a
secret innocence and spirituality in nature--a prescience of some
bourn, incalculably distant perhaps, to which we are all moving;
of a time when the heavenly rain shall have washed us clean from
all spot and blemish. This unexpected peace which I had found
now seemed to me of infinitely greater value than that yellow
metal I had missed finding, with all its possibilities. My wish
now was to rest for a season at this spot, so remote and lovely
and peaceful, where I had experienced such unusual feelings and
such a blessed disillusionment.
This was the end of my second period in Guayana: the first had
been filled with that dream of a book to win me fame in my
country, perhaps even in Europe; the second, from the time of
leaving the Queneveta mountains, with the dream of boundless
wealth--the old dream of gold in this region that has drawn so
many minds since the days of Francisco Pizarro. But to remain I
must propitiate Runi, sitting silent with gloomy brows over there
indoors; and he did not appear to me like one that might be won
with words, however flattering. It was clear to me that the time
had come to part with my one remaining valuable trinket--the
tinder-box of chased silver.
I returned to the house and, going in, seated myself on a log by
the fire, just opposite to my grim host, who was smoking and
appeared not to have moved since I left him. I made myself a
cigarette, then drew out the tinder-box, with its flint and steel
attached to it by means of two small silver chains. His eyes
brightened a little as they curiously watched my movements, and
he pointed without speaking to the glowing coals of fire at my
feet. I shook my head, and striking the steel, sent out a
brilliant spray of sparks, then blew on the tinder and lit my
cigarette.
This done, instead of returning the box to my pocket I passed the
chain through the buttonhole of my cloak and let it dangle on my
breast as an ornament. When the cigarette was smoked, I cleared
my throat in the orthodox manner and fixed my eyes on Runi, who,
on his part, made a slight movement to indicate that he was ready
to listen to what I had to say.
My speech was long, lasting at least half an hour, delivered in a
profound silence; it was chiefly occupied with an account of my
wanderings in Guayana; and being little more than a catalogue of
names of all the places I had visited, and the tribes and chief
or head men with whom I had come in contact, I was able to speak
continuously, and so to hide my ignorance of a dialect which was
still new to me. The Guayana savage judges a man for his staying
powers. To stand as motionless as a bronze statue for one or two
hours watching for a bird; to sit or lie still for half a day; to
endure pain, not seldom self-inflicted, without wincing; and when
delivering a speech to pour it out in a copious stream, without
pausing to take breath or hesitating over a word--to be able to
do all this is to prove yourself a man, an equal, one to be
respected and even made a friend of. What I really wished to say
to him was put in a few words at the conclusion of my well-nigh
meaningless oration. Everywhere, I said, I had been the Indian's
friend, and I wished to be his friend, to live with him at
Parahuari, even as I had lived with other chiefs and heads of
villages and families; to be looked on by him, as these others
had looked on me, not as a stranger or a white man, but as a
friend, a brother, an Indian.
I ceased speaking, and there was a slight murmurous sound in the
room, as of wind long pent up in many lungs suddenly exhaled;
while Runi, still unmoved, emitted a low grunt. Then I rose, and
detaching the silver ornament from my cloak, presented it to him.
He accepted it; not very graciously, as a stranger to these
people might have imagined; but I was satisfied, feeling sure
that I had made a favourable impression. After a little he
handed the box to the person sitting next to him, who examined it
and passed it on to a third, and in this way it went round and
came back once more to Runi. Then he called for a drink. There
happened to be a store of casserie in the house; probably the
women had been busy for some days past in making it, little
thinking that it was destined to be prematurely consumed. A
large jarful was produced; Runi politely quaffed the first cup; I
followed; then the others; and the women drank also, a woman
taking about one cupful to a man's three. Runi and I, however,
drank the most, for we had our positions as the two principal
personages there to maintain. Tongues were loosened now; for the
alcohol, small as the quantity contained in this mild liquor is,
had begun to tell on our brains. I had not their pottle-shaped
stomach, made to hold unlimited quantities of meat and drink; but
I was determined on this most important occasion not to deserve
my host's contempt--to be compared, perhaps, to the small bird
that delicately picks up six drops of water in its bill and is
satisfied. I would measure my strength against his, and if
necessary drink myself into a state of insensibility.
At last I was scarcely able to stand on my legs. But even the
seasoned old savage was affected by this time. In vino veritas,
said the ancients; and the principle holds good where there is no
vinum, but only mild casserie. Runi now informed me that he had
once known a white man, that he was a bad man, which had caused
him to say that all white men were bad; even as David, still more
sweepingly, had proclaimed that all men were liars. Now he found
that it was not so, that I was a good man. His friendliness
increased with intoxication. He presented me with a curious
little tinder-box, made from the conical tail of an armadillo,
hollowed out, and provided with a wooden stopper--this to be used
in place of the box I had deprived myself of. He also furnished
me with a grass hammock, and had it hung up there and then, so
that I could lie down when inclined. There was nothing he would
not do for me. And at last, when many more cups had been
emptied, and a third or fourth jar brought out, he began to
unburthen his heart of its dark and dangerous secrets. He shed
tears--for the "man without at ear" dwells not in the woods of
Guayana: tears for those who had been treacherously slain long
years ago; for his father, who had been killed by Tripica, the
father of Managa, who was still above ground. But let him and
all his people beware of Runi. He had spilt their blood before,
he had fed the fox and vulture with their flesh, and would never
rest while Managa lived with his people at Uritay--the five hills
of Uritay, which were two days' journey from Parahuari. While
thus talking of his old enemy he lashed himself into a kind of
frenzy, smiting his chest and gnashing his teeth; and finally
seizing a spear, he buried its point deep into the clay floor,
only to wrench it out and strike it into the earth again and
again, to show how he would serve Managa, and any one of Managa's
people he might meet with--man, woman, or child. Then he
staggered out from the door to flourish his spear; and looking to
the north-west, he shouted aloud to Managa to come and slay his
people and burn down his house, as he had so often threatened to
do.
"Let him come! Let Managa come!" I cried, staggering out after
him. "I am your friend, your brother; I have no spear and no
arrows, but I have this--this!" And here I drew out and
flourished my revolver. "Where is Managa?" I continued. "Where
are the hills of Uritay?" He pointed to a star low down in the
south-west. "Then," I shouted, "let this bullet find Managa,
sitting by the fire among his people, and let him fall and pour
out his blood on the ground!" And with that I discharged my
pistol in the direction he had pointed to. A scream of terror
burst out from the women and children, while Runi at my side, in
an access of fierce delight and admiration, turned and embraced
me. It was the first and last embrace I ever suffered from a
naked male savage, and although this did not seem a time for
fastidious feelings, to be hugged to his sweltering body was an
unpleasant experience.
More cups of casserie followed this outburst; and at last, unable
to keep it up any longer, I staggered to my hammock; but being
unable to get into it, Runi, overflowing with kindness, came to
my assistance, whereupon we fell and rolled together on the
floor. Finally I was raised by the others and tumbled into my
swinging bed, and fell at once into a deep, dreamless sleep, from
which I did not awake until after sunrise on the following
morning.
CHAPTER II
It is fortunate that casserie is manufactured by an extremely
slow, laborious process, since the women, who are the
drink-makers, in the first place have to reduce the material
(cassava bread) to a pulp by means of their own molars, after
which it is watered down and put away in troughs to ferment.
Great is the diligence of these willing slaves; but, work how
they will, they can only satisfy their lords' love of a big drink
at long intervals. Such a function as that at which I had
assisted is therefore the result of much patient mastication and
silent fermentation--the delicate flower of a plant that has been
a long time growing.
Having now established myself as one of the family, at the cost
of some disagreeable sensations and a pang or two of
self-disgust, I resolved to let nothing further trouble me at
Parahuari, but to live the easy, careless life of the idle man,
joining in hunting and fishing expeditions when in the mood; at
other times enjoying existence in my own way, apart from my
fellows, conversing with wild nature in that solitary place.
Besides Runi, there were, in our little community, two oldish
men, his cousins I believe, who had wives and grown-up children.
Another family consisted of Piake, Runi's nephew, his brother
Kua-ko--about whom there will be much to say--and a sister
Oalava. Piake had a wife and two children; Kua-ko was unmarried
and about nineteen or twenty years old; Oalava was the youngest
of the three. Last of all, who should perhaps have been first,
was Runi's mother, called Cla-cla, probably in imitation of the
cry of some bird, for in these latitudes a person is rarely,
perhaps never, called by his or her real name, which is a secret
jealously preserved, even from near relations. I believe that
Cla-cla herself was the only living being who knew the name her
parents had bestowed on her at birth. She was a very old woman,
spare in figure, brown as old sun-baked leather, her face written
over with innumerable wrinkles, and her long coarse hair
perfectly white; yet she was exceedingly active, and seemed to do
more work than any other woman in the community; more than that,
when the day's toil was over and nothing remained for the others
to do, then Cla-cla's night work would begin; and this was to
talk all the others, or at all events all the men, to sleep. She
was like a self-regulating machine, and punctually every evening,
when the door was closed, and the night fire made up, and every
man in his hammock, she would set herself going, telling the most
interminable stories, until the last listener was fast asleep;
later in the night, if any man woke with a snort or grunt, off
she would go again, taking up the thread of the tale where she
had dropped it.
Old Cla-cla amused me very much, by night and day, and I seldom
tired of watching her owlish countenance as she sat by the fire,
never allowing it to sink low for want of fuel; always studying
he pot when it was on to simmer, and at the same time attending
to the movements of the others about her, ready at a moment's
notice to give assistance or to dart out on a stray chicken or
refractory child.
So much did she amuse me, although without intending it, that I
thought it would be only fair, in my turn, to do something for
her entertainment. I was engaged one day in shaping a wooden
foil with my knife, whistling and singing snatches of old
melodies at my work, when all at once I caught sight of the
ancient dame looking greatly delighted, chuckling internally,
nodding her head, and keeping time with her hands. Evidently she
was able to appreciate a style of music superior to that of the
aboriginals, and forthwith I abandoned my foils for the time and
set about the manufacture of a guitar, which cost me much labour
and brought out more ingenuity than I had ever thought myself
capable of. To reduce the wood to the right thinness, then to
bend and fasten it with wooden pegs and with gums, to add the
arm, frets, keys, and finally the catgut strings--those of
another kind being out of the question--kept me busy for some
days. When completed it was a rude instrument, scarcely tunable;
nevertheless when I smote the strings, playing lively music, or
accompanied myself in singing, I found that it was a great
success, and so was as much pleased with my own performance as if
I had had the most perfect guitar ever made in old Spain. I also
skipped about the floor, strum-strumming at the same time,
instructing them in the most lively dances of the whites, in
which the feet must be as nimble as the player's fingers. It is
true that these exhibitions were always witnessed by the adults
with a profound gravity, which would have disheartened a stranger
to their ways. They were a set of hollow bronze statues that
looked at me, but I knew that the living animals inside of them
were tickled at my singing, strumming, and pirouetting. Cla-cla
was, however, an exception, and encouraged me not infrequently by
emitting a sound, half cackle and half screech, by way of
laughter; for she had come to her second childhood, or, at all
events, had dropped the stolid mask which the young Guayana
savage, in imitation of his elders, adjusts to his face at about
the age of twelve, to wear it thereafter all his life long, or
only to drop it occasionally when very drunk. The youngsters also
openly manifested their pleasure, although, as a rule, they try
to restrain their feelings in the presence of grown-up people,
and with them I became a greet favourite.
By and by I returned to my foil-making, and gave them fencing
lessons, and sometimes invited two or three of the biggest boys
to attack me simultaneously, just to show how easily I could
disarm and kill them. This practice excited some interest in
Kua-ko, who had a little more of curiosity and geniality and less
of the put-on dignity of the others, and with him I became most
intimate. Fencing with Kua-ko was highly amusing: no sooner was
he in position, foil in hand, than all my instructions were
thrown to the winds, and he would charge and attack me in his own
barbarous manner, with the result that I would send his foil
spinning a dozen yards away, while he, struck motionless, would
gaze after it in open-mouthed astonishment.
Three weeks had passed by not unpleasantly when, one morning, I
took it into my head to walk by myself across that somewhat
sterile savannah west of the village and stream, which ended, as
I have said, in a long, low, stony ridge. From the village there
was nothing to attract the eye in that direction; but I wished to
get a better view of that great solitary hill or mountain of
Ytaioa, and of the cloud-like summits beyond it in the distance.
From the stream the ground rose in a gradual slope, and the
highest part of the ridge for which I made was about two miles
from the starting-point--a parched brown plain, with nothing
growing on it but scattered tussocks of sere hair-like grass.
When I reached the top and could see the country beyond, I was
agreeably disappointed at the discovery that the sterile ground
extended only about a mile and a quarter on the further side, and
was succeeded by a forest--a very inviting patch of woodland
covering five or six square miles, occupying a kind of oblong
basin, extending from the foot of Ytaioa on the north to a low
range of rocky hills on the south. From the wooded basin long
narrow strips of forest ran out in various directions like the
arms of an octopus, one pair embracing the slopes of Ytaioa,
another much broader belt extending along a valley which cut
through the ridge of hills on the south side at right angles and
was lost to sight beyond; far away in the west and south and
north distant mountains appeared, not in regular ranges, but in
groups or singly, or looking like blue banked-up clouds on the
horizon.
Glad at having discovered the existence of this forest so near
home, and wondering why my Indian friends had never taken me to
it nor ever went out on that side, I set forth with a light heart
to explore it for myself, regretting only that I was without a
proper weapon for procuring game. The walk from the ridge over
the savannah was easy, as the barren, stony ground sloped
downwards the whole way. The outer part of the wood on my side
was very open, composed in most part of dwarf trees that grow on
stony soil, and scattered thorny bushes bearing a yellow
pea-shaped blossom. Presently I came to thicker wood, where the
trees were much taller and in greater variety; and after this
came another sterile strip, like that on the edge of the wood
where stone cropped out from the ground and nothing grew except
the yellow-flowered thorn bushes. Passing this sterile ribbon,
which seemed to extend to a considerable distance north and
south, and was fifty to a hundred yards wide, the forest again
became dense and the trees large, with much undergrowth in places
obstructing the view and making progress difficult.
I spent several hours in this wild paradise, which was so much
more delightful than the extensive gloomier forests I had so
often penetrated in Guayana; for here, if the trees did not
attain to such majestic proportions, the variety of vegetable
forms was even greater; as far as I went it was nowhere dark
under the trees, and the number of lovely parasites everywhere
illustrated the kindly influence of light and air. Even where
the trees were largest the sunshine penetrated, subdued by the
foliage to exquisite greenish-golden tints, filling the wide
lower spaces with tender half-lights, and faint blue-and-gray
shadows. Lying on my back and gazing up, I felt reluctant to
rise and renew my ramble. For what a roof was that above my
head! Roof I call it, just as the poets in their poverty
sometimes describe the infinite ethereal sky by that word; but it
was no more roof-like and hindering to the soaring spirit than
the higher clouds that float in changing forms and tints, and
like the foliage chasten the intolerable noonday beams. How far
above me seemed that leafy cloudland into which I gazed! Nature,
we know, first taught the architect to produce by long colonnades
the illusion of distance; but the light-excluding roof prevents
him from getting the same effect above. Here Nature is
unapproachable with her green, airy canopy, a sun-impregnated
cloud--cloud above cloud; and though the highest may be unreached
by the eye, the beams yet filter through, illuming the wide
spaces beneath--chamber succeeded by chamber, each with its own
special lights and shadows. Far above me, but not nearly so far
as it seemed, the tender gloom of one such chamber or space is
traversed now by a golden shaft of light falling through some
break in the upper foliage, giving a strange glory to everything
it touches--projecting leaves, and beard-like tuft of moss, and
snaky bush-rope. And in the most open part of that most open
space, suspended on nothing to the eye, the shaft reveals a
tangle of shining silver threads--the web of some large
tree-spider. These seemingly distant yet distinctly visible
threads serve to remind me that the human artist is only able to
get his horizontal distance by a monotonous reduplication of
pillar and arch, placed at regular intervals, and that the least
departure from this order would destroy the effect. But Nature
produces her effects at random, and seems only to increase the
beautiful illusion by that infinite variety of decoration in
which she revels, binding tree to tree in a tangle of
anaconda-like lianas, and dwindling down from these huge cables
to airy webs and hair-like fibres that vibrate to the wind of the
passing insect's wing.
Thus in idleness, with such thoughts for company, I spent my
time, glad that no human being, savage or civilized, was with me.
It was better to be alone to listen to the monkeys that chattered
without offending; to watch them occupied with the unserious
business of their lives. With that luxuriant tropical nature,
its green clouds and illusive aerial spaces, full of mystery,
they harmonized well in language, appearance, and
motions--mountebank angels, living their fantastic lives far
above earth in a half-way heaven of their own.
I saw more monkeys on that morning than I usually saw in the
course of a week's rambling. And other animals were seen; I
particularly remember two accouries I startled, that after
rushing away a few yards stopped and stood peering back at me as
if not knowing whether to regard me as friend or enemy. Birds,
too, were strangely abundant; and altogether this struck me as
being the richest hunting-ground I had seen, and it astonished me
to think that the Indians of the village did not appear to visit
it.
On my return in the afternoon I gave an enthusiastic account of
my day's ramble, speaking not of the things that had moved my
soul, but only of those which move the Guayana Indian's soul--the
animal food he craves, and which, one would imagine, Nature would
prefer him to do without, so hard he finds it to wrest a
sufficiency from her. To my surprise they shook their heads and
looked troubled at what I said; and finally my host informed me
that the wood I had been in was a dangerous place; that if they
went there to hunt, a great injury would be done to them; and he
finished by advising me not to visit it again.
I began to understand from their looks and the old man's vague
words that their fear of the wood was superstitious. If
dangerous creatures had existed there tigers, or camoodis, or
solitary murderous savages--they would have said so; but when I
pressed them with questions they could only repeat that
"something bad" existed in the place, that animals were abundant
there because no Indian who valued his life dared venture into
it. I replied that unless they gave me some more definite
information I should certainly go again and put myself in the way
of the danger they feared.
My reckless courage, as they considered it, surprised them; but
they had already begun to find out that their superstitions had
no effect on me, that I listened to them as to stories invented
to amuse a child, and for the moment they made no further attempt
to dissuade me.
Next day I returned to the forest of evil report, which had now a
new and even greater charm--the fascination of the unknown and
the mysterious; still, the warning I had received made me
distrustful and cautious at first, for I could not help thinking
about it. When we consider how much of their life is passed in
the woods, which become as familiar to them as the streets of our
native town to us, it seems almost incredible that these savages
have a superstitious fear of all forests, fearing them as much,
even in the bright light of day, as a nervous child with memory
filled with ghost-stories fears a dark room. But, like the child
in the dark room, they fear the forest only when alone in it, and
for this reason always hunt in couples or parties. What, then,
prevented them from visiting this particular wood, which offered
so tempting a harvest? The question troubled me not a little; at
the same time I was ashamed of the feeling, and fought against
it; and in the end I made my way to the same sequestered spot
where I had rested so long on my previous visit.
In this place I witnessed a new thing and had a strange
experience. Sitting on the ground in the shade of a large tree,
I began to hear a confused noise as of a coming tempest of wind
mixed with shrill calls and cries. Nearer and nearer it came,
and at last a multitude of birds of many kinds, but mostly small,
appeared in sight swarming through the trees, some running on the
trunks and larger branches, others flitting through the foliage,
and many keeping on the wing, now hovering and now darting this
way or that. They were all busily searching for and pursuing the
insects, moving on at the same time, and in a very few minutes
they had finished examining the trees near me and were gone; but
not satisfied with what I had witnessed, I jumped up and rushed
after the flock to keep it in sight. All my caution and all
recollection of what the Indians had said was now forgot, so
great was my interest in this bird-army; but as they moved on
without pause, they quickly left me behind, and presently my
career was stopped by an impenetrable tangle of bushes, vines,
and roots of large trees extending like huge cables along the
ground. In the midst of this leafy labyrinth I sat down on a
projecting root to cool my blood before attempting to make my way
back to my former position. After that tempest of motion and
confused noises the silence of the forest seemed very profound;
but before I had been resting many moments it was broken by a low
strain of exquisite bird-melody, wonderfully pure and expressive,
unlike any musical sound I had ever heard before. It seemed to
issue from a thick cluster of broad leaves of a creeper only a
few yards from where I sat. With my eyes fixed on this green
hiding-place I waited with suspended breath for its repetition,
wondering whether any civilized being had ever listened to such a
strain before. Surely not, I thought, else the fame of so divine
a melody would long ago have been noised abroad. I thought of
the rialejo, the celebrated organbird or flute-bird, and of the
various ways in which hearers are affected by it. To some its
warbling is like the sound of a beautiful mysterious instrument,
while to others it seems like the singing of a blithe-hearted
child with a highly melodious voice. I had often heard and
listened with delight to the singing of the rialejo in the
Guayana forests, but this song, or musical phrase, was utterly
unlike it in character. It was pure, more expressive, softer--so
low that at a distance of forty yards I could hardly have heard
it. But its greatest charm was its resemblance to the human
voice--a voice purified and brightened to something almost
angelic.ne, then, my impatience as I sat there straining my
sense, my deep disappointment when it was not repeated! I rose
at length very reluctantly and slowly began making my way back;
but when I had progressed about thirty yards, again the sweet
voice sounded just behind me, and turning quickly, I stood still
and waited. The same voice, but not the same song--not the same
phrase; the notes were different, more varied and rapidly
enunciated, as if the singer had been more excited. The blood
rushed to my heart as I listened; my nerves tingled with a
strange new delight, the rapture produced by such music
heightened by a sense of mystery. Before many moments I heard it
again, not rapid now, but a soft warbling, lower than at first,
infinitely sweet and tender, sinking to lisping sounds that soon
ceased to be audible; the whole having lasted as long as it would
take me to repeat a sentence of a dozen words. This seemed the
singer's farewell to me, for I waited and listened in vain to
hear it repeated; and after getting back to the starting-point I
sat for upwards of an hour, still hoping to hear it once more!
The weltering sun at length compelled me to quit the wood, but
not before I had resolved to return the next morning and seek for
the spot where I had met with so enchanting an experience. After
crossing the sterile belt I have mentioned within the wood, and
just before I came to the open outer edge where the stunted trees
and bushes die away on the border of the savannah, what was my
delight and astonishment at hearing the mysterious melody once
more! It seemed to issue from a clump of bushes close by; but by
this time I had come to the conclusion that there was a
ventriloquism in this woodland voice which made it impossible for
me to determine its exact direction. Of one thing I was,
however, now quite convinced, and that was that the singer had
been following me all the time. Again and again as I stood there
listening it sounded, now so faint and apparently far off as to
be scarcely audible; then all at once it would ring out bright
and clear within a few yards of me, as if the shy little thing
had suddenly grown bold; but, far or near, the vocalist remained
invisible, and at length the tantalizing melody ceased
altogether.
CHAPTER III
I was not disappointed on my next visit to the forest, nor on
several succeeding visits; and this seemed to show that if I was
right in believing that these strange, melodious utterances
proceeded from one individual, then the bird or being, although
still refusing to show itself, was always on the watch for my
appearance and followed me wherever I went. This thought only
served to increase my curiosity; I was constantly pondering over
the subject, and at last concluded that it would be best to
induce one of the Indians to go with me to the wood on the chance
of his being able to explain the mystery.
One of the treasures I had managed to preserve in my sojourn with
these children of nature, who were always anxious to become
possessors of my belongings, was a small prettily fashioned metal
match-box, opening with a spring. Remembering that Kua-ko, among
others, had looked at this trifle with covetous eyes--the
covetous way in which they all looked at it had given it a
fictitious value in my own--I tried to bribe him with the offer
of it to accompany me to my favourite haunt. The brave young
hunter refused again and again; but on each occasion he offered
to perform some other service or to give me something in exchange
for the box. At last I told him that I would give it to the
first person who should accompany me, and fearing that someone
would be found valiant enough to win the prize, he at length
plucked up a spirit, and on the next day, seeing me going out for
a walk, he all at once offered to go with me. He cunningly tried
to get the box before starting--his cunning, poor youth, was not
very deep! I told him that the forest we were about to visit
abounded with plants and birds unlike any I had seen elsewhere,
that I wished to learn their names and everything about them, and
that when I had got the required information the box would be
his--not sooner. Finally we started, he, as usual, armed with
his zabatana, with which, I imagined, he would procure more game
than usually fell to his little poisoned arrows. When we reached
the wood I could see that he was ill at ease: nothing would
persuade him to go into the deeper parts; and even where it was
very open and light he was constantly gazing into bushes and
shadowy places, as if expecting to see some frightful creature
lying in wait for him. This behaviour might have had a
disquieting effect on me had I not been thoroughly convinced that
his fears were purely superstitious and that there could be no
dangerous animal in a spot I was accustomed to walk in every day.
My plan was to ramble about with an unconcerned air, occasionally
pointing out an uncommon tree or shrub or vine, or calling his
attention to a distant bird-cry and asking the bird's name, in
the hope that the mysterious voice would make itself heard and
that he would be able to give me some explanation of it. But for
upwards of two hours we moved about, hearing nothing except the
usual bird voices, and during all that time he never stirred a
yard from my side nor made an attempt to capture anything. At
length we sat down under a tree, in an open spot close to the
border of the wood. He sat down very reluctantly, and seemed
more troubled in his mind than ever, keeping his eyes continually
roving about, while he listened intently to every sound. The
sounds were not few, owing to the abundance of animal and
especially of bird life in this favoured spot. I began to
question my companion as to some of the cries we heard. There
were notes and cries familiar to me as the crowing of the
cock--parrot screams and yelping of toucans, the distant wailing
calls of maam and duraquara; and shrill laughter-like notes of
the large tree-climber as it passed from tree to tree; the quick
whistle of cotingas; and strange throbbing and thrilling sounds,
as of pygmies beating on metallic drums, of the skulking
pitta-thrushes; and with these mingled other notes less well
known. One came from the treetops, where it was perpetually
wandering amid the foliage a low note, repeated at intervals of a
few seconds, so thin and mournful and full of mystery that I half
expected to hear that it proceeded from the restless ghost of
some dead bird. But no; he only said it was uttered by a "little
bird"--too little presumably to have a name. From the foliage of
a neighbouring tree came a few tinkling chirps, as of a small
mandolin, two or three strings of which had been carelessly
struck by the player. He said that it came from a small green
frog that lived in trees; and in this way my rude Indian--vexed
perhaps at being asked such trivial questions--brushed away the
pretty fantasies my mind had woven in the woodland solitude. For
I often listened to this tinkling music, and it had suggested the
idea that the place was frequented by a tribe of fairy-like
troubadour monkeys, and that if I could only be quick-sighted
enough I might one day be able to detect the minstrel sitting, in
a green tunic perhaps, cross-legged on some high, swaying bough,
carelessly touching his mandolin, suspended from his neck by a
yellow ribbon.
By and by a bird came with low, swift flight, its great tail
spread open fan-wise, and perched itself on an exposed bough not
thirty yards from us. It was all of a chestnut-red colour,
long-bodied, in size like a big pigeon. Its actions showed that
its curiosity had been greatly excited, for it jerked from side
to side, eyeing us first with one eye, then the other, while its
long tail rose and fell in a measured way.
"Look, Kua-ko," I said in a whisper, "there is a bird for you to
kill."
But he only shook his head, still watchful.
"Give me the blow-pipe, then," I said, with a laugh, putting out
my hand to take it. But he refused to let me take it, knowing
that it would only be an arrow wasted if I attempted to shoot
anything.
As I persisted in telling him to kill the bird, he at last bent
his lips near me and said in a half-whisper, as if fearful of
being overheard: "I can kill nothing here. If I shot at the
bird, the daughter of the Didi would catch the dart in her hand
and throw it back and hit me here," touching his breast just over
his heart.
I laughed again, saying to myself, with some amusement, that
Kua-ko was not such a bad companion after all--that he was not
without imagination. But in spite of my laughter his words
roused my interest and suggested the idea that the voice I was
curious about had been heard by the Indians and was as great a
mystery to them as to me; since, not being like that of any
creature known to them, it would be attributed by their
superstitious minds to one of the numerous demons or semi-human
monsters inhabiting every forest, stream, and mountain; and fear
of it would drive them from the wood. In this case, judging from
my companion's words, they had varied the form of the
superstition somewhat, inventing a daughter of a water-spirit to
be afraid of. My thought was that if their keen, practiced eyes
had never been able to see this flitting woodland creature with a
musical soul, it was not likely that I would succeed in my quest.
I began to question him, but he now appeared less inclined to
talk and more frightened than ever, and each time I attempted to
speak he imposed silence, with a quick gesture of alarm, while he
continued to stare about him with dilated eyes. All at once he
sprang to his feet as if overcome with terror and started running
at full speed. His fear infected me, and, springing up, I
followed as fast as I could, but he was far ahead of me, running
for dear life; and before I had gone forty yards my feet were
caught in a creeper trailing along the surface, and I measured my
length on the ground. The sudden, violent shock almost took away
my senses for a moment, but when I jumped up and stared round to
see no unspeakable monster--Curupita or other--rushing on to slay
and devour me there and then, I began to feel ashamed of my
cowardice; and in the end I turned and walked back to the spot I
had just quitted and sat down once more. I even tried to hum a
tune, just to prove to myself that I had completely recovered
from the panic caught from the miserable Indian; but it is never
possible in such cases to get back one's serenity immediately,
and a vague suspicion continued to trouble me for a time. After
sitting there for half an hour or so, listening to distant
bird-sounds, I began to recover my old confidence, and even to
feel inclined to penetrate further into the wood. All at once,
making me almost jump, so sudden it was, so much nearer and
louder than I had ever heard it before, the mysterious melody
began. Unmistakably it was uttered by the same being heard on
former occasions; but today it was different in character. The
utterance was far more rapid, with fewer silent intervals, and it
had none of the usual tenderness in it, nor ever once sunk to
that low, whisper-like talking which had seemed to me as if the
spirit of the wind had breathed its low sighs in syllables and
speech. Now it was not only loud, rapid, and continuous, but,
while still musical, there was an incisiveness in it, a sharp
ring as of resentment, which made it strike painfully on the
sense.
The impression of an intelligent unhuman being addressing me in
anger took so firm a hold on my mind that the old fear returned,
and, rising, I began to walk rapidly away, intending to escape
from the wood. The voice continued violently rating me, as it
seemed to my mind, moving with me, which caused me to accelerate
my steps; and very soon I would have broken into a run, when its
character began to change again. There were pauses now,
intervals of silence, long or short, and after each one the voice
came to my ear with a more subdued and dulcet sound--more of that
melting, flute-like quality it had possessed at other times; and
this softness of tone, coupled with the talking-like form of
utterance, gave me the idea of a being no longer incensed,
addressing me now in a peaceable spirit, reasoning away my
unworthy tremors, and imploring me to remain with it in the wood.
Strange as this voice without a body was, and always productive
of a slightly uncomfortable feeling on account of its mystery, it
seemed impossible to doubt that it came to me now in a spirit of
pure friendliness; and when I had recovered my composure I found
a new delight in listening to it--all the greater because of the
fear so lately experienced, and of its seeming intelligence. For
the third time I reseated myself on the same spot, and at
intervals the voice talked to me there for some time and, to my
fancy, expressed satisfaction and pleasure at my presence. But
later, without losing its friendly tone, it changed again. It
seemed to move away and to be thrown back from a considerable
distance; and, at long intervals, it would approach me again with
a new sound, which I began to interpret as of command, or
entreaty. Was it, I asked myself, inviting me to follow? And if
I obeyed, to what delightful discoveries or frightful dangers
might it lead? My curiosity together with the belief that the
being--I called it being, not bird, now--was friendly to me,
overcame all timidity, and I rose and walked at random towards
the interior of the wood. Very soon I had no doubt left that the
being had desired me to follow; for there was now a new note of
gladness in its voice, and it continued near me as I walked, at
intervals approaching me so closely as to set me staring into the
surrounding shadowy places like poor scared Kua-ko.
On this occasion, too, I began to have a new fancy, for fancy or
illusion I was determined to regard it, that some swift-footed
being was treading the ground near me; that I occasionally caught
the faint rustle of a light footstep, and detected a motion in
leaves and fronds and thread-like stems of creepers hanging near
the surface, as if some passing body had touched and made them
tremble; and once or twice that I even had a glimpse of a grey,
misty object moving at no great distance in the deeper shadows.
Led by this wandering tricksy being, I came to a spot where the
trees were very large and the damp dark ground almost free from
undergrowth; and here the voice ceased to be heard. After
patiently waiting and listening for some time, I began to look
about me with a slight feeling of apprehension. It was still
about two hours before sunset; only in this place the shade of
the vast trees made a perpetual twilight: moreover, it was
strangely silent here, the few bird-cries that reached me coming
from a long distance. I had flattered myself that the voice had
become to some extent intelligible to me: its outburst of anger
caused no doubt by my cowardly flight after the Indian; then its
recovered friendliness, which had induced me to return; and
finally its desire to be followed. Now that it had led me to
this place of shadow and profound silence and had ceased to speak
and to lead, I could not help thinking that this was my goal,
that I had been brought to this spot with a purpose, that in this
wild and solitary retreat some tremendous adventure was about to
befall me.
As the silence continued unbroken, there was time to dwell on
this thought. I gazed before me and listened intently, scarcely
breathing, until the suspense became painful--too painful at
last, and I turned and took a step with the idea of going back to
the border of the wood, when close by, clear as a silver bell,
sounded the voice once more, but only for a moment--two or three
syllables in response to my movement, then it was silent again.
Once more I was standing still, as if in obedience to a command,
in the same state of suspense; and whether the change was real or
only imagined I know not, but the silence every minute grew more
profound and the gloom deeper. Imaginary terrors began to assail
me. Ancient fables of men allured by beautiful forms and
melodious voices to destruction all at once acquired a fearful
significance. I recalled some of the Indian beliefs, especially
that of the mis-shapen, man-devouring monster who is said to
beguile his victims into the dark forest by mimicking the human
voice--the voice sometimes of a woman in distress--or by singing
some strange and beautiful melody. I grew almost afraid to look
round lest I should catch sight of him stealing towards me on his
huge feet with toes pointing backwards, his mouth snarling
horribly to display his great green fangs. It was distressing to
have such fancies in this wild, solitary spot--hateful to feel
their power over me when I knew that they were nothing but
fancies and creations of the savage mind. But if these
supernatural beings had no existence, there were other monsters,
only too real, in these woods which it would be dreadful to
encounter alone and unarmed, since against such adversaries a
revolver would be as ineffectual as a popgun. Some huge camoodi,
able to crush my bones like brittle twigs in its constricting
coils, might lurk in these shadows, and approach me stealthily,
unseen in its dark colour on the dark ground. Or some jaguar or
black tiger might steal towards me. masked by a bush or
tree-trunk, to spring upon me unawares. Or, worse still, this
way might suddenly come a pack of those swift-footed, unspeakably
terrible hunting-leopards, from which every living thing in the
forest flies with shrieks of consternation or else falls
paralysed in their path to be instantly torn to pieces and
devoured.
A slight rustling sound in the foliage above me made me start and
cast up my eyes. High up, where a pale gleam of tempered
sunlight fell through the leaves, a grotesque human-like face,
black as ebony and adorned with a great red beard, appeared
staring down upon me. In another moment it was gone. It was
only a large araguato, or howling monkey, but I was so unnerved
that I could not get rid of the idea that it was something more
than a monkey. Once more I moved, and again) the instant I moved
my foot, clear, and keen, and imperative, sounded the voice! It
was no longer possible to doubt its meaning. It commanded me to
stand still--to wait--to watch--to listen! Had it cried "Listen!
Do not move!" I could not have understood it better. Trying as
the suspense was, I now felt powerless to escape. Something very
terrible, I felt convinced, was about to happen, either to
destroy or to release me from the spell that held me.
And while I stood thus rooted to the ground, the sweat standing
in large drops on my forehead, all at once close to me sounded a
cry, fine and clear at first, and rising at the end to a shriek
so loud, piercing, and unearthly in character that the blood
seemed to freeze in my veins, and a despairing cry to heaven
escaped my lips; then, before that long shriek expired, a mighty
chorus of thunderous voices burst forth around me; and in this
awful tempest of sound I trembled like a leaf; and the leaves on
the trees were agitated as if by a high wind, and the earth
itself seemed to shake beneath my feet. Indescribably horrible
were my sensations at that moment; I was deafened, and would
possibly have been maddened had I not, as by a miracle, chanced
to see a large araguato on a branch overhead, roaring with open
mouth and inflated throat and chest.
It was simply a concert of howling monkeys that had so terrified
me! But my extreme fear was not strange in the circumstances;
since everything that had led up to the display--the gloom and
silence, the period of suspense, and my heated imagination--had
raised my mind to the highest degree of excitement and
expectancy. I had rightly conjectured, no doubt, that my unseen
guide had led me to that spot for a purpose; and the purpose had
been to set me in the midst of a congregation of araguatos to
enable me for the first time fully to appreciate their
unparalleled vocal powers. I had always heard them at a
distance; here they were gathered in scores, possibly
hundreds--the whole araguato population of the forest, I should
think--close to me; and it may give some faint conception of the
tremendous power and awful character of the sound thus produced
by their combined voices when I say that this animal--miscalled
"howler" in English--would outroar the mightiest lion that ever
woke the echoes of an African wilderness.
This roaring concert, which lasted three or four minutes, having
ended, I lingered a few minutes longer on the spot, and not
hearing the voice again, went back to the edge of the wood, and
then started on my way back to the village.
CHAPTER IV
Perhaps I was not capable of thinking quite coherently on what
had just happened until I was once more fairly outside of the
forest shadows--out in that clear open daylight, where things
seem what they are, and imagination, like a juggler detected and
laughed at, hastily takes itself out of the way. As I walked
homewards I paused midway on the barren ridge to gaze back on the
scene I had left, and then the recent adventure began to take a
semi-ludicrous aspect in my mind. All that circumstance of
preparation, that mysterious prelude to something unheard of,
unimaginable, surpassing all fables ancient and modern, and all
tragedies--to end at last in a concert of howling monkeys!
Certainly the concert was very grand--indeed, one of the most
astounding in nature---but still--I sat down on a stone and
laughed freely.
The sun was sinking behind the forest, its broad red disk still
showing through the topmost leaves, and the higher part of the
foliage was of a luminous green, like green flame, throwing off
flakes of quivering, fiery light, but lower down the trees were
in profound shadow.
I felt very light-hearted while I gazed on this scene, for how
pleasant it was just now to think of the strange experience I had
passed through--to think that I had come safely out of it, that
no human eye had witnessed my weakness, and that the mystery
existed still to fascinate me! For, ludicrous as the denouement
now looked, the cause of all, the voice itself, was a thing to
marvel at more than ever. That it proceeded from an intelligent
being I was firmly convinced; and although too materialistic in
my way of thinking to admit for a moment that it was a
supernatural being, I still felt that there was something more
than I had at first imagined in Kua-ko's speech about a daughter
of the Didi. That the Indians knew a great deal about the
mysterious voice, and had held it in great fear, seemed evident.
But they were savages, with ways that were not mine; and however
friendly they might be towards one of a superior race, there was
always in their relations with him a low cunning, prompted partly
by suspicion, underlying their words and actions. For the white
man to put himself mentally on their level is not more impossible
than for these aborigines to be perfectly open, as children are,
towards the white. Whatever subject the stranger within their
gates exhibits an interest in, that they will be reticent about;
and their reticence, which conceals itself under easily invented
lies or an affected stupidity, invariably increases with his
desire for information. It was plain to them that some very
unusual interest took me to the wood; consequently I could not
expect that they would tell me anything they might know to
enlighten me about the matter; and I concluded that Kua-ko's
words about the daughter of the Didi, and what she would do if he
blew an arrow at a bird, had accidentally escaped him in a moment
of excitement. Nothing, therefore, was to be gained by
questioning them, or, at all events, by telling them how much the
subject attracted me. And I had nothing to fear; my independent
investigations had made this much clear to me; the voice might
proceed from a very frolicsome and tricksy creature, full of wild
fantastic humours, but nothing worse. It was friendly to me, I
felt sure; at the same time it might not be friendly towards the
Indians; for, on that day, it had made itself heard only after my
companion had taken flight; and it had then seemed incensed
against me, possibly because the savage had been in my company.
That was the result of my reflections on the day's events when I
returned to my entertainer's roof and sat down among my friends
to refresh myself with stewed fowl and fish from the household
pot, into which a hospitable woman invited me with a gesture to
dip my fingers.
Kua-ko was lying in his hammock, smoking, I think--certainly not
reading. When I entered he lifted his head and stared at me,
probably surprised to see me alive, unharmed, and in a placid
temper. I laughed at the look, and, somewhat disconcerted, he
dropped his head down again. After a minute or two I took the
metal match-box and tossed it on to his breast. He clutched it
and, starting up, stared at me in the utmost astonishment. He
could scarcely believe his good fortune; for he had failed to
carry out his part of the compact and had resigned himself to the
loss of the coveted prize. Jumping down to the floor, he held up
the box triumphantly, his joy overcoming the habitual stolid
look; while all the others gathered about him, each trying to get
the box into his own hands to admire it again, notwithstanding
that they had all seen it a dozen times before. But it was
Kua-ko's now and not the stranger's, and therefore more nearly
their own than formerly, and must look different, more beautiful,
with a brighter polish on the metal. And that wonderful
enamelled cock on the lid--figured in Paris probably, but just
like a cock in Guayana, the pet bird which they no more think of
killing and eating than we do our purring pussies and
lemon-coloured canaries--must now look more strikingly valiant
and cock-like than ever, with its crimson comb and wattles,
burnished red hackles, and dark green arching tail-plumes. But
Kua-ko, while willing enough to have it admired and praised,
would not let it out of his hands, and told them pompously that
it was not theirs for them to handle, but his--Kua-ko's--for all
time; that he had won it by accompanying me--valorous man that he
was!--to that evil wood into which they--timid, inferior
creatures that they were!--would never have ventured to set foot.
I am not translating his words, but that was what he gave them to
understand pretty plainly, to my great amusement.
After the excitement was over, Runi, who had maintained a
dignified calm, made some roundabout remarks, apparently with the
object of eliciting an account of what I had seen and heard in
the forest of evil fame. I replied carelessly that I had seen a
great many birds and monkeys--monkeys so tame that I might have
procured one if I had had a blow-pipe, in spite of my never
having practiced shooting with that weapon.
It interested them to hear about the abundance and tameness of
the monkeys, although it was scarcely news; but how tame they
must have been when I, the stranger not to the manner born--not
naked, brown-skinned, lynx-eyed, and noiseless as an owl in his
movements--had yet been able to look closely at them! Runi only
remarked, apropos of what I had told him, that they could not go
there to hunt; then he asked me if I feared nothing.
"Nothing," I replied carelessly. "The things you fear hurt not
the white man and are no more than this to me," saying which I
took up a little white wood-ash in my hand and blew it away with
my breath. "And against other enemies I have this," I added,
touching my revolver. A brave speech, just after that araguato
episode; but I did not make it without blushing--mentally.
- He shook his head, and said it was a poor weapon against some
enemies; also--truly enough--that it would procure no birds and
monkeys for the stew-pot.
Next morning my friend Kua-ko, taking his zabatana, invited me to
go out with him, and I consented with some misgivings, thinking
he had overcome his superstitious fears and, inflamed by my
account of the abundance of game in the forest, intended going
there with me. The previous day's experience had made me think
that it would be better in the future to go there alone. But I
was giving the poor youth more credit than he deserved: it was
far from his intention to face the terrible unknown again. We
went in a different direction, and tramped for hours through
woods where birds were scarce and only of the smaller kinds.
Then my guide surprised me a second time by offering to teach me
to use the zabatana. This, then, was to be my reward for giving
him the box! I readily consented, and with the long weapon,
awkward to carry, in my hand, and imitating the noiseless
movements and cautious, watchful manner of my companion, I tried
to imagine myself a simple Guayana savage, with no knowledge of
that artificial social state to which I had been born, dependent
on my skill and little roll of poison-darts for a livelihood. By
an effort of the will I emptied myself of my life experience and
knowledge--or as much of it as possible--and thought only of the
generations of my dead imaginary progenitors, who had ranged
these woods back to the dim forgotten years before Columbus; and
if the pleasure I had in the fancy was childish, it made the day
pass quickly enough. Kua-ko was constantly at my elbow to assist
and give advice; and many an arrow I blew from the long tube, and
hit no bird. Heaven knows what I hit, for the arrows flew away
on their wide and wild career to be seen no more, except a few
which my keen-eyed comrade marked to their destination and
managed to recover. The result of our day's hunting was a couple
of birds, which Kua-ko, not I, shot, and a small opossum his
sharp eyes detected high up a tree lying coiled up on an old
nest, over the side of which the animal had incautiously allowed
his snaky tail to dangle. The number of darts I wasted must have
been a rather serious loss to him, but he did not seem troubled
at it, and made no remark.
Next day, to my surprise, he volunteered to give me a second
lesson, and we went out again. On this occasion he had provided
himself with a large bundle of darts, but--wise man!--they were
not poisoned, and it therefore mattered little whether they were
wasted or not. I believe that on this day I made some little
progress; at all events, my teacher remarked that before long I
would be able to hit a bird. This made me smile and answer that
if he could place me within twenty yards of a bird not smaller
than a small man I might manage to touch it with an arrow.
This speech had a very unexpected and remarkable effect. He
stopped short in his walk, stared at me wildly, then grinned, and
finally burst into a roar of laughter, which was no bad imitation
of the howling monkey's performance, and smote his naked thighs
with tremendous energy. At length recovering himself, he asked
whether a small woman was not the same as a small man, and being
answered in the affirmative, went off into a second extravagant
roar of laughter.
Thinking it was easy to tickle him while he continued in this
mood, I began making any number of feeble jokes--feeble, but
quite as good as the one which had provoked such outrageous
merriment--for it amused me to see him acting in this unusual
way. But they all failed of their effect--there was no hitting
the bull's-eye a second time; he would only stare vacantly at me,
then grunt like a peccary--not appreciatively--and walk on.
Still, at intervals he would go back to what I had said about
hitting a very big bird, and roar again, as if this wonderful
joke was not easily exhausted.
Again on the third day we were out together practicing at the
birds--frightening if not killing them; but before noon, finding
that it was his intention to go to a distant spot where he
expected to meet with larger game, I left him and returned to the
village. The blow-pipe practice had lost its novelty, and I did
not care to go on all day and every day with it; more than that,
I was anxious after so long an interval to pay a visit to my
wood, as I began to call it, in the hope of hearing that
mysterious melody which I had grown to love and to miss when even
a single day passed without it.
CHAPTER V
After making a hasty meal at the house, I started, full of
pleasing anticipations, for the wood; for how pleasant a place it
was to be in! What a wild beauty and fragrance and melodiousness
it possessed above all forests, because of that mystery that drew
me to it! And it was mine, truly and absolutely--as much mine as
any portion of earth's surface could belong to any man--mine with
all its products: the precious woods and fruits and fragrant gums
that would never be trafficked away; its wild animals that man
would never persecute; nor would any jealous savage dispute my
ownership or pretend that it was part of his hunting-ground. As
I crossed the savannah I played with this fancy; but when I
reached the ridgy eminence, to look down once more on my new
domain, the fancy changed to a feeling so keen that it pierced to
my heart and was like pain in its intensity, causing tears to
rush to my eyes. And caring not in that solitude to disguise my
feelings from myself, and from the wide heaven that looked down
and saw me--for this is the sweetest thing that solitude has for
us, that we are free in it, and no convention holds us--I dropped
on my knees and kissed the stony ground, then casting up my eyes,
thanked the Author of my being for the gift of that wild forest,
those green mansions where I had found so great a happiness!
Elated with this strain of feeling, I reached the wood not long
after noon; but no melodious voice gave me familiar and expected
welcome; nor did my invisible companion make itself heard at all
on that day, or, at all events, not in its usual bird-like
warbling language. But on this day I met with a curious little
adventure and heard something very extraordinary, very
mysterious, which I could not avoid connecting in my mind with
the unseen warbler that so often followed me in my rambles.
It was an exceedingly bright day, without cloud, but windy, and
finding myself in a rather open part of the wood, near its
border, where the breeze could be felt, I sat down to rest on the
lower part of a large branch, which was half broken, but still
remained attached to the trunk of the tree, while resting its
terminal twigs on the ground. Just before me, where I sat, grew
a low, wide-spreading plant, covered with broad, round, polished
leaves; and the roundness, stiffness, and perfectly horizontal
position of the upper leaves made them look like a collection of
small platforms or round table-tops placed nearly on a level.
Through the leaves, to the height of a foot or more above them, a
slender dead stem protruded, and from a twig at its summit
depended a broken spider's web. A minute dead leaf had become
attached to one of the loose threads and threw its small but
distinct shadow on the platform leaves below; and as it trembled
and swayed in the current of air, the black spot trembled with it
or flew swiftly over the bright green surfaces, and was seldom at
rest. Now, as I sat looking down on the leaves and the small
dancing shadow, scarcely thinking of what I was looking at, I
noticed a small spider, with a flat body and short legs, creep
cautiously out on to the upper surface of a leaf. Its pale red
colour barred with velvet black first drew my attention to it,
for it was beautiful to the eye; and presently I discovered that
this was no web-spinning, sedentary spider, but a wandering
hunter, that captured its prey, like a cat, by stealing on it
concealed and making a rush or spring at the last. The moving
shadow had attracted it and, as the sequel showed, was mistaken
for a fly running about over the leaves and flitting from leaf to
leaf. Now began a series of wonderful manoeuvres on the spider's
part, with the object of circumventing the imaginary fly, which
seemed specially designed to meet this special case; for
certainly no insect had ever before behaved in quite so erratic a
manner. Each time the shadow flew past, the spider ran swiftly
in the same direction, hiding itself under the leaves, always
trying to get near without alarming its prey; and then the shadow
would go round and round in a small circle, and some new
strategic move on the part of the hunter would be called forth.
I became deeply interested in this curious scene; I began to wish
that the shadow would remain quiet for a moment or two, so as to
give the hunter a chance. And at last I had my wish: the shadow
was almost motionless, and the spider moving towards it, yet
seeming not to move, and as it crept closer I fancied that I
could almost see the little striped body quivering with
excitement. Then came the final scene: swift and straight as an
arrow the hunter shot himself on to the fly-like shadow, then
wiggled round and round, evidently trying to take hold of his
prey with fangs and claws; and finding nothing under him, he
raised the fore part of his body vertically, as if to stare about
him in search of the delusive fly; but the action may have simply
expressed astonishment. At this moment I was just on the point
of giving free and loud vent to the laughter which I had been
holding in when, just behind me, as if from some person who had
been watching the scene over my shoulder and was as much amused
as myself at its termination, sounded a clear trill of merry
laughter. I started up and looked hastily around, but no living
creature was there. The mass of loose foliage I stared into was
agitated, as if from a body having just pushed through it. In a
moment the leaves and fronds were motionless again; still, I
could not be sure that a slight gust of wind had not shaken them.
But I was so convinced that I had heard close to me a real human
laugh, or sound of some living creature that exactly simulated a
laugh, that I carefully searched the ground about me, expecting
to find a being of some kind. But I found nothing, and going
back to my seat on the hanging branch, I remained seated for a
considerable time, at first only listening, then pondering on the
mystery of that sweet trill of laughter; and finally I began to
wonder whether I, like the spider that chased the shadow, had
been deluded, and had seemed to hear a sound that was not a
sound.
On the following day I was in the wood again, and after a two or
three hours' ramble, during which I heard nothing, thinking it
useless to haunt the known spots any longer, I turned southwards
and penetrated into a denser part of the forest, where the
undergrowth made progress difficult. I was not afraid of losing
myself; the sun above and my sense of direction, which was always
good, would enable me to return to the starting-point.
In this direction I had been pushing resolutely on for over half
an hour, finding it no easy matter to make my way without
constantly deviating to this side or that from the course I
wished to keep, when I came to a much more open spot. The trees
were smaller and scantier here, owing to the rocky nature of the
ground, which sloped rather rapidly down; but it was moist and
overgrown with mosses, ferns, creepers, and low shrubs, all of
the liveliest green. I could not see many yards ahead owing to
the bushes and tall fern fronds; but presently I began to hear a
low, continuous sound, which, when I had advanced twenty or
thirty yards further, I made out to be the gurgling of running
water; and at the same moment I made the discovery that my throat
was parched and my palms tingling with heat. I hurried on,
promising myself a cool draught, when all at once, above the soft
dashing and gurgling of the water, I caught yet another sound--a
low, warbling note, or succession of notes, which might have been
emitted by a bird. But it startled me nevertheless--bird-like
warbling sounds had come to mean so much to me--and pausing, I
listened intently. It was not repeated, and finally, treading
with the utmost caution so as not to alarm the mysterious
vocalist, I crept on until, coming to a greenheart with a
quantity of feathery foliage of a shrub growing about its roots,
I saw that just beyond the tree the ground was more open still,
letting in the sunlight from above, and that the channel of the
stream I sought was in this open space, about twenty yards from
me, although the water was still hidden from sight. Something
else was there, which I did see; instantly my cautious advance
was arrested. I stood gazing with concentrated vision, scarcely
daring to breathe lest I should scare it away.
It was a human being--a girl form, reclining on the moss among
the ferns and herbage, near the roots of a small tree. One arm
was doubled behind her neck for her head to rest upon, while the
other arm was held extended before her, the hand raised towards a
small brown bird perched on a pendulous twig just beyond its
reach. She appeared to be playing with the bird, possibly
amusing herself by trying to entice it on to her hand; and the
hand appeared to tempt it greatly, for it persistently hopped up
and down, turning rapidly about this way and that, flirting its
wings and tail, and always appearing just on the point of
dropping on to her finger. From my position it was impossible to
see her distinctly, yet I dared not move. I could make out that
she was small, not above four feet six or seven inches in height,
in figure slim, with delicately shaped little hands and feet.
Her feet were bare, and her only garment was a slight
chemise-shaped dress reaching below her knees, of a whitish-gray
colour, with a faint lustre as of a silky material. Her hair was
very wonderful; it was loose and abundant, and seemed wavy or
curly, falling in a cloud on her shoulders and arms. Dark it
appeared, but the precise tint was indeterminable, as was that of
her skin, which looked neither brown nor white. All together,
near to me as she actually was, there was a kind of mistiness in
the figure which made it appear somewhat vague and distant, and a
greenish grey seemed the prevailing colour. This tint I
presently attributed to the effect of the sunlight falling on her
through the green foliage; for once, for a moment, she raised
herself to reach her finger nearer to the bird, and then a gleam
of unsubdued sunlight fell on her hair and arm, and the arm at
that moment appeared of a pearly whiteness, and the hair, just
where the light touched it, had a strange lustre and play of
iridescent colour.
I had not been watching her more than three seconds before the
bird, with a sharp, creaking little chirp, flew up and away in
sudden alarm; at the same moment she turned and saw me through
the light leafy screen. But although catching sight of me thus
suddenly, she did not exhibit alarm like the bird; only her eyes,
wide open, with a surprised look in them, remained immovably
fixed on my face. And then slowly, imperceptibly--for I did not
notice the actual movement, so gradual and smooth it was, like
the motion of a cloud of mist which changes its form and place,
yet to the eye seems not to have moved--she rose to her knees, to
her feet, retired, and with face still towards me, and eyes fixed
on mine, finally disappeared, going as if she had melted away
into the verdure. The leafage was there occupying the precise
spot where she had been a moment before--the feathery foliage of
an acacia shrub, and stems and broad, arrow-shaped leaves of an
aquatic plant, and slim, drooping fern fronds, and they were
motionless and seemed not to have been touched by something
passing through them. She had gone, yet I continued still, bent
almost double, gazing fixedly at the spot where I had last seen
her, my mind in a strange condition, possessed by sensations
which were keenly felt and yet contradictory. So vivid was the
image left on my brain that she still seemed to be actually
before my eyes; and she was not there, nor had been, for it was a
dream, an illusion, and no such being existed, or could exist, in
this gross world; and at the same time I knew that she had been
there--that imagination was powerless to conjure up a form so
exquisite.
With the mental image I had to be satisfied, for although I
remained for some hours at that spot, I saw her no more, nor did
I hear any familiar melodious sound. For I was now convinced
that in this wild solitary girl I had at length discovered the
mysterious warbler that so often followed me in the wood. At
length, seeing that it was growing late, I took a drink from the
stream and slowly and reluctantly made my way out of the forest
and went home.
Early next day I was back in the wood full of delightful
anticipations, and had no sooner got well among the trees than a
soft, warbling sound reached my ears; it was like that heard on
the previous day just before catching sight of the girl among the
ferns. So soon! thought I, elated, and with cautious steps I
proceeded to explore the ground, hoping again to catch her
unawares. But I saw nothing; and only after beginning to doubt
that I had heard anything unusual, and had sat down to rest on a
rock, the sound was repeated, soft and low as before, very near
and distinct. Nothing more was heard at this spot, but an hour
later, in another place, the same mysterious note sounded near
me. During my remaining time in the forest I was served many
times in the same way, and still nothing was seen, nor was there
any change in the voice.
Only when the day was near its end did I give up my quest,
feeling very keenly disappointed. It then struck me that the
cause of the elusive creature's behaviour was that she had been
piqued at my discovery of her in one of her most secret
hiding-places in the heart of the wood, and that it had pleased
her to pay me out in this manner.
On the next day there was no change; she was there again,
evidently following me, but always invisible, and varied not from
that one mocking note of yesterday, which seemed to challenge me
to find her a second time. In the end I was vexed, and resolved
to be even with her by not visiting the wood for some time. A
display of indifference on my part would, I hoped, result in
making her less coy in the future.
Next day, firm in my new resolution, I accompanied Kua-ko and two
others to a distant spot where they expected that the ripening
fruit on a cashew tree would attract a large number of birds.
The fruit, however, proved still green, so that we gathered none
and killed few birds. Returning together, Kua-ko kept at my
side, and by and by, falling behind our companions, he
complimented me on my good shooting, although, as usual, I had
only wasted the arrows I had blown.
"Soon you will be able to hit," he said; "hit a bird as big as a
small woman"; and he laughed once more immoderately at the old
joke. At last, growing confidential, he said that I would soon
possess a zabatana of my own, with arrows in plenty. He was
going to make the arrows himself, and his uncle Otawinki, who had
a straight eye, would make the tube. I treated it all as a joke,
but he solemnly assured me that he meant it.
Next morning he asked me if I was going to the forest of evil
fame, and when I replied in the negative, seemed surprised and,
very much to my surprise, evidently disappointed. He even tried
to persuade me to go, where before I had been earnestly
recommended not to go, until, finding that I would not, he took
me with him to hunt in the woods. By and by he returned to the
same subject: he could not understand why I would not go to that
wood, and asked me if I had begun to grow afraid.
"No, not afraid," I replied; "but I know the place well, and am
getting tired of it." I had seen everything in it--birds and
beasts--and had heard all its strange noises.
"Yes, heard," he said, nodding his head knowingly; "but you have
seen nothing strange; your eyes are not good enough yet."
I laughed contemptuously and answered that I had seen everything
strange the wood contained, including a strange young girl; and I
went on to describe her appearance, and finished by asking if he
thought a white man was frightened at the sight of a young girl.
What I said astonished him; then he seemed greatly pleased, and,
growing still more confidential and generous than on the previous
day, he said that I would soon be a most important personage
among them, and greatly distinguish myself. He did not like it
when I laughed at all this, and went on with great seriousness to
speak of the unmade blowpipe that would be mine--speaking of it
as if it had been something very great, equal to the gift of a
large tract of land, or the governorship of a province, north of
the Orinoco. And by and by he spoke of something else more
wonderful even than the promise of a blow-pipe, with arrows
galore, and this was that young sister of his, whose name was
Oalava, a maid of about sixteen, shy and silent and mild-eyed,
rather lean and dirty; not ugly, nor yet prepossessing. And this
copper-coloured little drab of the wilderness he proposed to
bestow in marriage on me! Anxious to pump him, I managed to
control my muscles and asked him what authority he--a young
nobody, who had not yet risen to the dignity of buying a wife for
himself--could have to dispose of a sister in this offhand way?
He replied that there would be no difficulty: that Runi would
give his consent, as would also Otawinki, Piake, and other
relations; and last, and LEAST, according to the matrimonial
customs of these latitudes, Oalava herself would be ready to
bestow her person--queyou, worn figleaf-wise, necklace of accouri
teeth, and all--on so worthy a suitor as myself. Finally, to
make the prospect still more inviting, he added that it would not
be necessary for me to subject myself to any voluntary tortures
to prove myself a man and fitted to enter into the purgatorial
state of matrimony. He was a great deal too considerate, I said,
and, with all the gravity I could command, asked him what kind of
torture he would recommend. For me--so valorous a person--"no
torture," he answered magnanimously. But he--Kua-ko--had made up
his mind as to the form of torture he meant to inflict some day
on his own person. He would prepare a large sack and into it put
fire-ants--"As many as that!" he exclaimed triumphantly,
stooping and filling his two hands with loose sand. He would put
them in the sack, and then get into it himself naked, and tie it
tightly round his neck, so as to show to all spectators that the
hellish pain of innumerable venomous stings in his flesh could be
endured without a groan and with an unmoved countenance. The
poor youth had not an original mind, since this was one of the
commonest forms of self-torture among the Guayana tribes. But
the sudden wonderful animation with which he spoke of it, the
fiendish joy that illumined his usually stolid countenance, sent
a sudden disgust and horror through me. But what a strange
inverted kind of fiendishness is this, which delights at the
anticipation of torture inflicted on oneself and not on an enemy!
And towards others these savages are mild and peaceable! No, I
could not believe in their mildness; that was only on the
surface, when nothing occurred to rouse their savage, cruel
instincts. I could have laughed at the whole matter, but the
exulting look on my companion's face had made me sick of the
subject, and I wished not to talk any more about it.
But he would talk still--this fellow whose words, as a rule, I
had to take out of his mouth with a fork, as we say; and still on
the same subject, he said that not one person in the village
would expect to see me torture myself; that after what I would do
for them all--after delivering them from a great evil--nothing
further would be expected of me.
I asked him to explain his meaning; for it now began to appear
plain that in everything he had said he had been leading up to
some very important matter. It would, of course, have been a
great mistake to suppose that my savage was offering me a
blow-pipe and a marketable virgin sister from purely
disinterested motives.
In reply he went back to that still unforgotten joke about my
being able eventually to hit a bird as big as a small woman with
an arrow. Out of it all came, when he went on to ask me if that
mysterious girl I had seen in the wood was not of a size to suit
me as a target when I had got my hand in with a little more
practice. That was the great work I was asked to do for
them--that shy, mysterious girl with the melodious wild-bird
voice was the evil being I was asked to slay with poisoned
arrows! This was why he now wished me to go often to the wood,
to become more and more familiar with her haunts and habits, to
overcome all shyness and suspicion in her; and at the proper
moment, when it would be impossible to miss my mark, to plant the
fatal arrow! The disgust he had inspired in me before, when
gloating over anticipated tortures, was a weak and transient
feeling to what I now experienced. I turned on him in a sudden
transport of rage, and in a moment would have shattered on his
head the blow-pipe I was carrying in my hand, but his astonished
look as he turned to face me made me pause and prevented me from
committing so fatal an indiscretion. I could only grind my teeth
and struggle to overcome an almost overpowering hatred and wrath.
Finally I flung the tube down and bade him take it, telling him
that I would not touch it again if he offered me all the sisters
of all the savages in Guayana for wives.
He continued gazing at me mute with astonishment, and prudence
suggested that it would be best to conceal as far as possible the
violent animosity I had conceived against him. I asked him
somewhat scornfully if he believed that I should ever be able to
hit anything--bird or human being--with an arrow. "No," I almost
shouted, so as to give vent to my feelings in some way, and
drawing my revolver, "this is the white man's weapon; but he
kills men with it--men who attempt to kill or injure him--but
neither with this nor any other weapon does he murder innocent
young girls treacherously." After that we went on in silence for
some time; at length he said that the being I had seen in the
wood and was not afraid of was no innocent young girl, but a
daughter of the Didi, an evil being; and that so long as she
continued to inhabit the wood they could not go there to hunt,
and even in other woods they constantly went in fear of meeting
her. Too much disgusted to talk with him, I went on in silence;
and when we reached the stream near the village, I threw off my
clothes and plunged into the water to cool my anger before going
in to the others.
CHAPTER VI
Thinking about the forest girl while lying awake that night, I
came to the conclusion that I had made it sufficiently plain to
her how little her capricious behaviour had been relished, and
had therefore no need to punish myself more by keeping any longer
out of my beloved green mansions. Accordingly, next day, after
the heavy rain that fell during the morning hours had ceased, I
set forth about noon to visit the wood. Overhead the sky was
clear again; but there was no motion in the heavy sultry
atmosphere, while dark blue masses of banked-up clouds on the
western horizon threatened a fresh downpour later in the day. My
mind was, however, now too greatly excited at the prospect of a
possible encounter with the forest nymph to allow me to pay any
heed to these ominous signs.
I had passed through the first strip of wood and was in the
succeeding stony sterile space when a gleam of brilliant colour
close by on the ground caught my sight. It was a snake lying on
the bare earth; had I kept on without noticing it, I should most
probably have trodden upon or dangerously near it. Viewing it
closely, I found that it was a coral snake, famed as much for its
beauty and singularity as for its deadly character. It was about
three feet long, and very slim; its ground colour a brilliant
vermilion, with broad jet-black rings at equal distances round
its body, each black ring or band divided by a narrow yellow
strip in the middle. The symmetrical pattern and vividly
contrasted colours would have given it the appearance of an
artificial snake made by some fanciful artist, but for the gleam
of life in its bright coils. Its fixed eyes, too, were living
gems, and from the point of its dangerous arrowy head the
glistening tongue flickered ceaselessly as I stood a few yards
away regarding it.
"I admire you greatly, Sir Serpent," I said, or thought, "but it
is dangerous, say the military authorities, to leave an enemy or
possible enemy in the rear; the person who does such a thing must
be either a bad strategist or a genius, and I am neither."
Retreating a few paces, I found and picked up a stone about as
big as a man's hand and hurled it at the dangerous-looking head
with the intention of crushing it; but the stone hit upon the
rocky ground a little on one side of the mark and, being soft,
flew into a hundred small fragments. This roused the creature's
anger, and in a moment with raised head he was gliding swiftly
towards me. Again I retreated, not so slowly on this occasion;
and finding another stone, I raised and was about to launch it
when a sharp, ringing cry issued from the bushes growing near,
and, quickly following the sound, forth stepped the forest girl;
no longer elusive and shy, vaguely seen in the shadowy wood, but
boldly challenging attention, exposed to the full power of the
meridian sun, which made her appear luminous and rich in colour
beyond example. Seeing her thus, all those emotions of fear and
abhorrence invariably excited in us by the sight of an active
venomous serpent in our path vanished instantly from my mind: I
could now only feel astonishment and admiration et the brilliant
being as she advanced with swift, easy, undulating motion towards
me; or rather towards the serpent, which was now between us,
moving more and more slowly as she came nearer. The cause of
this sudden wonderful boldness, so unlike her former habit, was
unmistakable. She had been watching my approach from some
hiding-place among the bushes, ready no doubt to lead me a dance
through the wood with her mocking voice, as on previous
occasions, when my attack on the serpent caused that outburst of
wrath. The torrent of ringing and to me inarticulate sounds in
that unknown tongue, her rapid gestures, and, above all, her
wide-open sparkling eyes and face aflame with colour made it
impossible to mistake the nature of her feeling.
In casting about for some term or figure of speech in which to
describe the impression produced on me at that moment, I think of
waspish, and, better still, avispada--literally the same word in
Spanish, not having precisely the same meaning nor ever applied
contemptuously--only to reject both after a moment's reflection.
Yet I go back to the image of an irritated wasp as perhaps
offering the best illustration; of some large tropical wasp
advancing angrily towards me, as I have witnessed a hundred
times, not exactly flying, but moving rapidly, half running and
half flying, over the ground, with loud and angry buzz, the
glistening wings open and agitated; beautiful beyond most
animated creatures in its sharp but graceful lines, polished
surface, and varied brilliant colouring, and that wrathfulness
that fits it so well and seems to give it additional lustre.
Wonder-struck at the sight of her strange beauty and passion, I
forgot the advancing snake until she came to a stop at about five
yards from me; then to my horror I saw that it was beside her
naked feet. Although no longer advancing, the head was still
raised high as if to strike; but presently the spirit of anger
appeared to die out of it; the lifted head, oscillating a little
from side to side, sunk down lower and lower to rest finally on
the girl's bare instep; and lying there motionless, the deadly
thing had the appearance of a gaily coloured silken garter just
dropped from her leg. It was plain to see that she had no fear
of it, that she was one of those exceptional persons, to be
found, it is said, in all countries, who possess some magnetic
quality which has a soothing effect on even the most venomous and
irritable reptiles.
Following the direction of my eyes, she too glanced down, but did
not move her foot; then she made her voice heard again, still
loud and sharp, but the anger was not now so pronounced.
"Do not fear, I shall not harm it," I said in the Indian tongue.
She took no notice of my speech and continued speaking with
increasing resentment.
I shook my head, replying that her language was unknown to me.
Then by means of signs I tried to make her understand that the
creature was safe from further molestation. She pointed
indignantly at the stone in my hand, which I had forgotten all
about. At once I threw it from me, and instantly there was a
change; the resentment had vanished, and a tender radiance lit
her face like a smile.
I advanced a little nearer, addressing her once more in the
Indian tongue; but my speech was evidently unintelligible to her,
as she stood now glancing at the snake lying at her feet, now at
me. Again I had recourse to signs and gestures; pointing to the
snake, then to the stone I had cast away, I endeavoured to convey
to her that in the future I would for her sake be a friend to all
venomous reptiles, and that I wished her to have the same kindly
feelings towards me as towards these creatures. Whether or not
she understood me, she showed no disposition to go into hiding
again, and continued silently regarding me with a look that
seemed to express pleasure at finding herself at last thus
suddenly brought face to face with me. Flattered at this, I
gradually drew nearer until at the last I was standing at her
side, gazing down with the utmost delight into that face which so
greatly surpassed in loveliness all human faces I had ever seen
or imagined.
And yet to you, my friend, it probably will not seem that she was
so beautiful, since I have, alas! only the words we all use to
paint commoner, coarser things, and no means to represent all the
exquisite details, all the delicate lights, and shades, and swift
changes of colour and expression. Moreover, is it not a fact
that the strange or unheard of can never appear beautiful in a
mere description, because that which is most novel in it attracts
too much attention and is given undue prominence in the picture,
and we miss that which would have taken away the effect of
strangeness--the perfect balance of the parts and harmony of the
whole? For instance, the blue eyes of the northerner would, when
first described to the black-eyed inhabitants of warm regions,
seem unbeautiful and a monstrosity, because they would vividly
see with the mental vision that unheard-of blueness, but not in
the same vivid way the accompanying flesh and hair tints with
which it harmonizes.
Think, then, less of the picture as I have to paint it in words
than of the feeling its original inspired in me when, looking
closely for the first time on that rare loveliness, trembling
with delight, I mentally cried: "Oh, why has Nature, maker of so
many types and of innumerable individuals of each, given to the
world but one being like this?"
Scarcely had the thought formed itself in my mind before I
dismissed it as utterly incredible. No, this exquisite being was
without doubt one of a distinct race which had existed in this
little-known corner of the continent for thousands of
generations, albeit now perhaps reduced to a small and dwindling
remnant.
Her figure and features were singularly delicate, but it was her
colour that struck me most, which indeed made her differ from all
other human beings. The colour of the skin would be almost
impossible to describe, so greatly did it vary with every change
of mood--and the moods were many and transient--and with the
angle on which the sunlight touched it, and the degree of light.
Beneath the trees, at a distance, it had seemed a somewhat dim
white or pale grey; near in the strong sunshine it was not white,
but alabastrian, semi-pellucid, showing an underlying rose
colour; and at any point where the rays fell direct this colour
was bright and luminous, as we see in our fingers when held
before a strong firelight. But that part of her skin that
remained in shadow appeared of a dimmer white, and the underlying
colour varied from dim, rosy purple to dim blue. With the skin
the colour of the eyes harmonized perfectly. At first, when lit
with anger, they had appeared flame-like; now the iris was of a
peculiar soft or dim and tender red, a shade sometimes seen in
flowers. But only when looked closely at could this delicate hue
be discerned, the pupils being large, as in some grey eyes, and
the long, dark, shading lashes at a short distance made the whole
eye appear dark. Think not, then, of the red flower, exposed to
the light and sun in conjunction with the vivid green of the
foliage; think only of such a hue in the half-hidden iris,
brilliant and moist with the eye's moisture, deep with the eye's
depth, glorified by the outward look of a bright, beautiful soul.
Most variable of all in colour was the hair, this being due to
its extreme fineness and glossiness, and to its elasticity, which
made it lie fleecy and loose on head, shoulders, and back; a
cloud with a brightness on its surface made by the freer outer
hairs, a fit setting and crown for a countenance of such rare
changeful loveliness. In the shade, viewed closely, the general
colour appeared a slate, deepening in places to purple; but even
in the shade the nimbus of free flossy hairs half veiled the
darker tints with a downy pallor; and at a distance of a few
yards it gave the whole hair a vague, misty appearance. In the
sunlight the colour varied more, looking now dark, sometimes
intensely black, now of a light uncertain hue, with a play of
iridescent colour on the loose surface, as we see on the glossed
plumage of some birds; and at a short distance, with the sun
shining full on her head, it sometimes looked white as a noonday
cloud. So changeful was it and ethereal in appearance with its
cloud colours that all other human hair, even of the most
beautiful golden shades, pale or red, seemed heavy and dull and
dead-looking by comparison.
But more than form and colour and that enchanting variability was
the look of intelligence, which at the same time seemed
complementary to and one with the all-seeing, all-hearing
alertness appearing in her face; the alertness one remarks in a
wild creature, even when in repose and fearing nothing; but
seldom in man, never perhaps in intellectual or studious man.
She was a wild, solitary girl of the woods, and did not
understand the language of the country in which I had addressed
her. What inner or mind life could such a one have more than
that of any wild animal existing in the same conditions? Yet
looking at her face it was not possible to doubt its
intelligence. This union in her of two opposite qualities,
which, with us, cannot or do not exist together, although so
novel, yet struck me as the girl's principal charm. Why had
Nature not done this before--why in all others does the
brightness of the mind dim that beautiful physical brightness
which the wild animals have? But enough for me that that which
no man had ever looked for or hoped to find existed here; that
through that unfamiliar lustre of the wild life shone the
spiritualizing light of mind that made us kin.
These thoughts passed swiftly through my brain as I stood
feasting my sight on her bright, piquant face; while she on her
part gazed back into my eyes, not only with fearless curiosity,
but with a look of recognition and pleasure at the encounter so
unmistakably friendly that, encouraged by it, I took her arm in
my hand, moving at the same time a little nearer to her. At that
moment a swift, startled expression came into her eyes; she
glanced down and up again into my face; her lips trembled and
slightly parted as she murmured some sorrowful sounds in a tone
so low as to be only just audible.
Thinking she had become alarmed and was on the point of escaping
out of my hands, and fearing, above all things, to lose sight of
her again so soon, I slipped my arm around her slender body to
detain her, moving one foot at the same time to balance myself;
and at that moment I felt a slight blow and a sharp burning
sensation shoot into my leg, so sudden and intense that I dropped
my arm, at the same time uttering a cry of pain, and recoiled one
or two paces from her. But she stirred not when I released her;
her eyes followed my movements; then she glanced down at her
feet. I followed her look, and figure to yourself my horror when
I saw there the serpent I had so completely forgotten, and which
even that sting of sharp pain had not brought back to
remembrance! There it lay, a coil of its own thrown round one of
her ankles, and its head, raised nearly a foot high, swaying
slowly from side to side, while the swift forked tongue flickered
continuously. Then--only then--I knew what had happened, and at
the same time I understood the reason of that sudden look of
alarm in her face, the murmuring sounds she had uttered, and the
downward startled glance. Her fears had been solely for my
safety, and she had warned me! Too late! too late! In moving I
had trodden on or touched the serpent with my foot, and it had
bitten me just above the ankle. In a few moments I began to
realize the horror of my position. "Must I die! must I die!
Oh, my God, is there nothing that can save me?" I cried in my
heart.
She was still standing motionless in the same place: her eyes
wandered back from me to the snake; gradually its swaying head
was lowered again, and the coil unwound from her ankle; then it
began to move away, slowly at first, and with the head a little
raised, then faster, and in the end it glided out of sight.
Gone!--but it had left its venom in my blood--O cursed reptile!
Back from watching its retreat, my eyes returned to her face, now
strangely clouded with trouble; her eyes dropped before mine,
while the palms of her hands were pressed together, and the
fingers clasped and unclasped alternately. How different she
seemed now; the brilliant face grown so pallid and vague-looking!
But not only because this tragic end to our meeting had pierced
her with pain: that cloud in the west had grown up and now
covered half the sky with vast lurid masses of vapour, blotting
out the sun, and a great gloom had fallen on the earth.
That sudden twilight and a long roll of approaching thunder,
reverberating from the hills, increased my anguish and
desperation. Death at that moment looked unutterably terrible.
The remembrance of all that made life dear pierced me to the
core--all that nature was to me, all the pleasures of sense and
intellect, the hopes I had cherished--all was revealed to me as
by a flash of lightning. Bitterest of all was the thought that I
must now bid everlasting farewell to this beautiful being I had
found in the solitude this lustrous daughter of the Didi--just
when I had won her from her shyness--that I must go away into the
cursed blackness of death and never know the mystery of her life!
It was that which utterly unnerved me, and made my legs tremble
under me, and brought great drops of sweat to my forehead, until
I thought that the venom was already doing its swift, fatal work
in my veins.
With uncertain steps I moved to a stone a yard or two away and
sat down upon it. As I did so the hope came to me that this
girl, so intimate with nature, might know of some antidote to
save me. Touching my leg, and using other signs, I addressed her
again in the Indian language.
"The snake has bitten me," I said. "What shall I do? Is there
no leaf, no root you know that would save me from death? Help
me! help me!" I cried in despair.
My signs she probably understood if not my words, but she made no
reply; and still she remained standing motionless, twisting and
untwisting her fingers, and regarding me with a look of ineffable
grief and compassion.
Alas! It was vain to appeal to her: she knew what had happened,
and what the result would most likely be, and pitied, but was
powerless to help me. Then it occurred to me that if I could
reach the Indian village before the venom overpowered me
something might be done to save me. Oh, why had I tarried so
long, losing so many precious minutes! Large drops of rain were
falling now, and the gloom was deeper, and the thunder almost
continuous. With a cry of anguish I started to my feet and was
about to rush away towards the village when a dazzling flash of
lightning made me pause for a moment. When it vanished I turned
a last look on the girl, and her face was deathly pale, and her
hair looked blacker than night; and as she looked she stretched
out her arms towards me and uttered a low, wailing cry.
"Good-bye for ever!" I murmured, and turning once more from her,
rushed away like one crazed into the wood. But in my confusion I
had probably taken the wrong direction, for instead of coming out
in a few minutes into the open border of the forest, and on to
the savannah, I found myself every moment getting deeper among
the trees. I stood still, perplexed, but could not shake off the
conviction that I had started in the right direction. Eventually
I resolved to keep on for a hundred yards or so and then, if no
opening appeared, to turn back and retrace my steps. But this
was no easy matter. I soon became entangled in a dense
undergrowth, which so confused me that at last I confessed
despairingly to myself that for the first time in this wood I was
hopelessly lost. And in what terrible circumstances! At
intervals a flash of lightning would throw a vivid blue glare
down into the interior of the wood and only serve to show that I
had lost myself in a place where even at noon in cloudless
weather progress would be most difficult; and now the light would
only last a moment, to be followed by thick gloom; and I could
only tear blindly on, bruising and lacerating my flesh at every
step, falling again and again, only to struggle up and on again,
now high above the surface, climbing over prostrate trees and
branches, now plunged to my middle in a pool or torrent of water.
Hopeless--utterly hopeless seemed all my mad efforts; and at each
pause, when I would stand exhausted, gasping for breath, my
throbbing heart almost suffocating me, a dull, continuous,
teasing pain in my bitten leg served to remind me that I had but
a little time left to exist--that by delaying at first I had
allowed my only chance of salvation to slip by.
How long a time I spent fighting my way through this dense black
wood I know not; perhaps two or three hours, only to me the hours
seemed like years of prolonged agony. At last, all at once, I
found that I was free of the close undergrowth and walking on
level ground; but it was darker here darker than the darkest
night; and at length, when the lightning came and flared down
through the dense roof of foliage overhead, I discovered that I
was in a spot that had a strange look, where the trees were very
large and grew wide apart, and with no undergrowth to impede
progress beneath them. Here, recovering breath, I began to run,
and after a while found that I had left the large trees behind
me, and was now in a more open place, with small trees and
bushes; and this made me hope for a while that I had at last
reached the border of the forest. But the hope proved vain; once
more I had to force my way through dense undergrowth, and finally
emerged on to a slope where it was open, and I could once more
see for some distance around me by such light as came through the
thick pall of clouds. Trudging on to the summit of the slope, I
saw that there was open savannah country beyond, and for a moment
rejoiced that I had got free from the forest. A few steps more,
and I was standing on the very edge of a bank, a precipice not
less than fifty feet deep. I had never seen that bank before,
and therefore knew that I could not be on the right side of the
forest. But now my only hope was to get completely away from the
trees and then to look for the village, and I began following the
bank in search of a descent. No break occurred, and presently I
was stopped by a dense thicket of bushes. I was about to retrace
my steps when I noticed that a tall slender tree growing at the
foot of the precipice, its green top not more than a couple of
yards below my feet, seemed to offer a means of escape. Nerving
myself with the thought that if I got crushed by the fall I
should probably escape a lingering and far more painful death, I
dropped into the cloud of foliage beneath me and clutched
desperately at the twigs as I fell. For a moment I felt myself
sustained; but branch after branch gave way beneath my weight,
and then I only remember, very dimly, a swift flight through the
air before losing consciousness.
CHAPTER VII
With the return of consciousness, I at first had a vague
impression that I was lying somewhere, injured, and incapable of
motion; that it was night, and necessary for me to keep my eyes
fast shut to prevent them from being blinded by almost continuous
vivid flashes of lightning. Injured, and sore all over, but warm
and dry--surely dry; nor was it lightning that dazzled, but
firelight. I began to notice things little by little. The fire
was burning on a clay floor a few feet from where I was lying.
Before it, on a log of wood, sat or crouched a human figure. An
old man, with chin on breast and hands clasped before his
drawn-up knees; only a small portion of his forehead and nose
visible to me. An Indian I took him to be, from his coarse,
lank, grey hair and dark brown skin. I was in a large hut,
falling at the sides to within two feet of the floor; but there
were no hammocks in it, nor bows and spears, and no skins, not
even under me, for I was lying on straw mats. I could hear the
storm still raging outside; the rush and splash of rain, and, at
intervals, the distant growl of thunder. There was wind, too; I
listened to it sobbing in the trees, and occasionally a puff
found its way in, and blew up the white ashes at the old man's
feet, and shook the yellow flames like a flag. I remembered now
how the storm began, the wild girl, the snake-bite, my violent
efforts to find a way out of the woods, and, finally, that leap
from the bank where recollection ended. That I had not been
killed by the venomous tooth, nor the subsequent fearful fall,
seemed like a miracle to me. And in that wild, solitary place,
lying insensible, in that awful storm and darkness, I had been
found by a fellow creature--a savage, doubtless, but a good
Samaritan all the same--who had rescued me from death! I was
bruised all over and did not attempt to move, fearing the pain it
would give me; and I had a racking headache; but these seemed
trifling discomforts after such adventures and such perils. I
felt that I had recovered or was recovering from that venomous
bite; that I would live and not die--live to return to my
country; and the thought filled my heart to overflowing, and
tears of gratitude and happiness rose to my eyes.
At such times a man experiences benevolent feelings, and would
willingly bestow some of that overplus of happiness on his
fellows to lighten other hearts; and this old man before me, who
was probably the instrument of my salvation, began greatly to
excite my interest and compassion. For he seemed so poor in his
old age and rags, so solitary and dejected as he sat there with
knees drawn up, his great, brown, bare feet looking almost black
by contrast with the white wood-ashes about them! What could I
do for him? What could I say to cheer his spirits in that Indian
language, which has few or no words to express kindly feelings?
Unable to think of anything better to say, I at length suddenly
cried aloud: "Smoke, old man! Why do you not smoke? It is good
to smoke."
He gave a mighty start and, turning, fixed his eyes on me. Then
I saw that he was not a pure Indian, for although as brown as old
leather, he wore a beard and moustache. A curious face had this
old man, which looked as if youth and age had made it a
battling-ground. His forehead was smooth except for two parallel
lines in the middle running its entire length, dividing it in
zones; his arched eyebrows were black as ink, and his small black
eyes were bright and cunning, like the eyes of some wild
carnivorous animal. In this part of his face youth had held its
own, especially in the eyes, which looked young and lively. But
lower down age had conquered, scribbling his skin all over with
wrinkles, while moustache and beard were white as thistledown.
"Aha, the dead man is alive again!" he exclaimed, with a
chuckling laugh. This in the Indian tongue; then in Spanish he
added: "But speak to me in the language you know best, senor; for
if you are not a Venezuelan call me an owl."
"And you, old man?" said I.
"Ah, I was right! Why sir what I am is plainly written on my
face.
Surely you do not take me for a pagan! I might be a black man
from Africa, or an Englishman, but an Indian--that, no! But a
minute ago you had the goodness to invite me to smoke. How, sir,
can a poor man smoke who is without tobacco?"
"Without tobacco--in Guayana!"
"Can you believe it? But, sir, do not blame me; if the beast
that came one night and destroyed my plants when ripe for cutting
had taken pumpkins and sweet potatoes instead, it would have been
better for him, if curses have any effect. And the plant grows
slowly, sir--it is not an evil weed to come to maturity in a
single day. And as for other leaves in the forest, I smoke them,
yes; but there is no comfort to the lungs in such smoke."
"My tobacco-pouch was full," I said. "You will find it in my
coat, if I did not lose it."
"The saints forbid!" he exclaimed. "Grandchild--Rima, have you
got a tobacco-pouch with the other things? Give it to me."
Then I first noticed that another person was in the hut, a slim
young girl, who had been seated against the wall on the other
side of the fire, partially hid by the shadows. She had my
leather belt, with the revolver in its case, and my hunting-knife
attached, and the few articles I had had in my pockets, on her
lap. Taking up the pouch, she handed it to him, and he clutched
it with a strange eagerness.
"I will give it back presently, Rima," he said. "Let me first
smoke a cigarette--and then another."
It seemed probable from this that the good old man had already
been casting covetous eyes on my property, and that his
granddaughter had taken care of it for me. But how the silent,
demure girl had kept it from him was a puzzle, so intensely did
he seem now to enjoy it, drawing the smoke vigorously into his
lungs and, after keeping it ten or fifteen seconds there, letting
it fly out again from mouth and nose in blue jets and clouds.
His face softened visibly, he became more and more genial and
loquacious, and asked me how I came to be in that solitary place.
I told him that I was staying with the Indian Runi, his
neighbour.
"But, senor," he said, "if it is not an impertinence, how is it
that a young man of so distinguished an appearance as yourself, a
Venezuelan, should be residing with these children of the devil?"
"You love not your neighbours, then?"
"I know them, sir--how should I love them?" He was rolling up
his second or third cigarette by this time, and I could not helD
noticing that he took a great deal more tobacco than he required
in his fingers, and that the surplus on each occasion was
conveyed to some secret receptacle among his rags. "Love them,
sir! They are infidels, and therefore the good Christian must
only hate them. They are thieves--they will steal from you before
your very face, so devoid are they of all shame. And also
murderers; gladly would they burn this poor thatch above my head,
and kill me and my poor grandchild, who shares this solitary life
with me, if they had the courage. But they are all arrant
cowards, and fear to approach me--fear even to come into this
wood. You would laugh to hear what they are afraid of--a child
would laugh to hear it!"
"What do they fear?" I said, for his words had excited my
interest in a great degree.
"Why, sir, would you believe it? They fear this child--my
granddaughter, seated there before you. A poor innocent girl of
seventeen summers, a Christian who knows her Catechism, and would
not harm the smallest thing that God has made--no, not a fly,
which is not regarded on account of its smallness. Why, sir, it
is due to her tender heart that you are safely sheltered here,
instead of being left out of doors in this tempestuous night."
"To her--to this girl?" I returned in astonishment. "Explain,
old man, for I do not know how I was saved."
"Today, senor, through your own heedlessness you were bitten by a
venomous snake."
"Yes, that is true, although I do not know how it came to your
knowledge. But why am I not a dead man, then--have you done
something to save me from the effects of the poison?"
"Nothing. What could I do so long after you were bitten? When a
man is bitten by a snake in a solitary place he is in God's
hands. He will live or die as God wills. There is nothing to be
done. But surely, sir, you remember that my poor grandchild was
with you in the wood when the snake bit you?"
"A girl was there--a strange girl I have seen and heard before
when I have walked in the forest. But not this girl--surely not
this girl!"
"No other," said he, carefully rolling up another cigarette.
"It is not possible!" I returned.
"III would you have fared, sir, had she not been there. For
after being bitten, you rushed away into the thickest part of the
wood, and went about in a circle like a demented person for
Heaven knows how long. But she never left you; she was always
close to you--you might have touched her with your hand. And at
last some good angel who was watching you, in order to stop your
career, made you mad altogether and caused you to jump over a
precipice and lose your senses. And you were no sooner on the
ground than she was with you--ask me not how she got down! And
when she had propped you up against the bank, she came for me.
Fortunately the spot where you had fallen is near--not five
hundred yards from the door. And I, on my part, was willing to
assist her in saving you; for I knew it was no Indian that had
fallen, since she loves not that breed, and they come not here.
It was not an easy task, for you weigh, senor; but between us we
brought you in."
While he spoke, the girl continued sitting in the same listless
attitude as when I first observed her, with eyes cast down and
hands folded in her lap. Recalling that brilliant being in the
wood that had protected the serpent from me and calmed its rage,
I found it hard to believe his words, and still felt a little
incredulous.
"Rime--that is your name, is it not?" I said. "Will you come
here and stand before me, and let me look closely at you?"
"Si, senor." she meekly answered; and removing the things from
her lap, she stood up; then, passing behind the old man, came and
stood before me, her eyes still bent on the ground--a picture of
humility.
She had the figure of the forest girl, but wore now a scanty
faded cotton garment, while the loose cloud of hair was confined
in two plaits and hung down her back. The face also showed the
same delicate lines, but of the brilliant animation and variable
colour and expression there appeared no trace. Gazing at her
countenance as she stood there silent, shy, and spiritless before
me, the image of her brighter self came vividly to my mind and I
could not recover from the astonishment I felt at such a
contrast.
Have you ever observed a humming-bird moving about in an aerial
dance among the flowers--a living prismatic gem that changes its
colour with every change of position--how in turning it catches
the sunshine on its burnished neck and gorges plumes--green and
gold and flame-coloured, the beams changing to visible flakes as
they fall, dissolving into nothing, to be succeeded by others and
yet others? In its exquisite form, its changeful splendour, its
swift motions and intervals of aerial suspension, it is a
creature of such fairy-like loveliness as to mock all
description. And have you seen this same fairy-like creature
suddenly perch itself on a twig, in the shade, its misty wings
and fan-like tail folded, the iridescent glory vanished, looking
like some common dull-plumaged little bird sitting listless in a
cage? Just so great was the difference in the girl as I had seen
her in the forest and as she now appeared under the smoky roof in
the firelight.
After watching her for some moments, I spoke: "Rime, there must
be a good deal of strength in that frame of yours, which looks so
delicate; will you raise me up a little?"
She went down on one knee and, placing her arms round me,
assisted me to a sitting posture.
"Thank you, Rima--oh, misery!" I groaned. "Is there a bone left
unbroken in my poor body?"
"Nothing broken," cried the old man, clouds of smoke flying out
with his words. "I have examined you well--legs, arms, ribs.
For this is how it was, senor. A thorny bush into which you fell
saved you from being flattened on the stony ground. But you are
bruised, sir, black with bruises; and there are more scratches of
thorns on your skin than letters on a written page."
"A long thorn might have entered my brain," I said, "from the way
it pains. Feel my forehead, Rima; is it very hot and dry?"
She did as I asked, touching me lightly with her little cool
hand. "No, senor, not hot, but warm and moist," she said.
"Thank Heaven for that!" I said. "Poor girl! And you followed
me through the wood in all that terrible storm! Ah, if I could
lift my bruised arm I would take your hand to kiss it in
gratitude for so great a service. I owe you my life, sweet
Rima--what shall I do to repay so great a debt?"
The old man chuckled as if amused, but the girl lifted not her
eyes nor spoke.
"Tell me, sweet child," I said, "for I cannot realize it yet; was
it really you that saved the serpent's life when I would have
killed it--did you stand by me in the wood with the serpent lying
at your feet?"
"Yes, senor," came her gentle answer.
"And it was you I saw in the wood one day, lying on the ground
playing with a small bird?"
"Yes, senor."
"And it was you that followed me so often among the trees,
calling to me, yet always hiding so that I could never see you?"
"Yes, senor."
"Oh, this is wonderful!" I exclaimed; whereat the old man
chuckled again.
"But tell me this, my sweet girl," I continued. "You never
addressed me in Spanish; what strange musical language was it you
spoke to me in?"
She shot a timid glance at my face and looked troubled at the
question, but made no reply.
"Senor," said the old man, "that is a question which you must
excuse my child from answering. Not, sir, from want of will, for
she is docile and obedient, though I say it, but there is no
answer beyond what I can tell you. And this is, sir, that all
creatures, whether man or bird, have the voice that God has given
them; and in some the voice is musical and in others not so."
"Very well, old man," said I to myself; "there let the matter
rest for the present. But if I am destined to live and not die,
I shall not long remain satisfied with your too simple
explanation."
"Rima," I said, "you must be fatigued; it is thoughtless of me to
keep you standing here so long."
Her face brightened a little, and bending down, she replied in a
low voice: "I am not fatigued, sir. Let me get you something to
eat now."
She moved quickly away to the fire, and presently returned with
an earthenware dish of roasted pumpkin and sweet potatoes and,
kneeling at my side, fed me deftly with a small wooden spoon. I
did not feel grieved at the absence of meat and the stinging
condiments the Indians love, nor did I even remark that there was
no salt in the vegetables, so much was I taken up with watching
her beautiful delicate face while she ministered to me. The
exquisite fragrance of her breath was more to me than the most
delicious viands could have been; and it was a delight each time
she raised the spoon to my mouth to catch a momentary glimpse of
her eyes, which now looked dark as wine when we lift the glass to
see the ruby gleam of light within the purple. But she never for
a moment laid aside the silent, meek, constrained manner; and
when I remembered her bursting out in her brilliant wrath on me,
pouring forth that torrent of stinging invective in her
mysterious language, I was lost in wonder and admiration at the
change in her, and at her double personality. Having satisfied
my wants, she moved quietly away and, raising a straw mat,
disappeared behind it into her own sleeping-apartment, which was
divided off by a partition from the room I was in.
The old man's sleeping-place was a wooden cot or stand on the
opposite side of the room, but he was in no hurry to sleep, and
after Rima had left us, put a fresh log on the blaze and lit
another cigarette. Heaven knows how many he had smoked by this
time. He became very talkative and called to his side his two
dogs, which I had not noticed in the room before, for me to see.
It amused me to hear their names--Susio and Goloso: Dirty and
Greedy. They were surly-looking brutes, with rough yellow hair,
and did not win my heart, but according to his account they
possessed all the usual canine virtues; and he was still holding
forth on the subject when I fell asleep.
CHAPTER VIII
When morning came I was too stiff and sore to move, and not until
the following day was I able to creep out to sit in the shade of
the trees. My old host, whose name was Nuflo, went off with his
dogs, leaving the girl to attend to my wants. Two or three times
during the day she appeared to serve me with food and drink, but
she continued silent and constrained in manner as on the first
evening of seeing her in the hut.
Late in the afternoon old Nuflo returned, but did not say where
he had been; and shortly afterwards Rima reappeared, demure as
usual, in her faded cotton dress, her cloud of hair confined in
two long plaits. My curiosity was more excited than ever, and I
resolved to get to the bottom of the mystery of her life. The
girl had not shown herself responsive, but now that Nuflo was
back I was treated to as much talk as I cared to hear. He talked
of many things, only omitting those which I desired to hear
about; but his pet subject appeared to be the divine government
of the world--"God's politics"--and its manifest imperfections,
or, in other words, the manifold abuses which from time to time
had been allowed to creep into it. The old man was pious, but
like many of his class in my country, he permitted himself to
indulge in very free criticisms of the powers above, from the
King of Heaven down to the smallest saint whose name figures in
the calendar.
"These things, senor," he said, "are not properly managed.
Consider my position. Here am I compelled for my sins to inhabit
this wilderness with my poor granddaughter--"
"She is not your granddaughter!" I suddenly interrupted,
thinking to surprise him into an admission.
But he took his time to answer. "Senor, we are never sure of
anything in this world. Not absolutely sure. Thus, it may come
to pass that you will one day marry, and that your wife will in
due time present you with a son--one that will inherit your
fortune and transmit your name to posterity. And yet, sir, in
this world, you will never know to a certainty that he is your
son."
"Proceed with what you were saying," I returned, with some
dignity.
"Here we are," he continued, "compelled to inhabit this land and
do not meet with proper protection from the infidel. Now, sir,
this is a crying evil, and it is only becoming in one who has the
true faith, and is a loyal subject of the All-Powerful, to point
out with due humility that He is growing very remiss in His
affairs, and is losing a good deal of His prestige. And what,
senor, is at the bottom of it? Favoritism. We know that the
Supreme cannot Himself be everywhere, attending to each little
trick-track that arises in the world--matters altogether beneath
His notice; and that He must, like the President of Venezuela or
the Emperor of Brazil, appoint men--angels if you like--to
conduct His affairs and watch over each district. And it is
manifest that for this country of Guayana the proper person has
not been appointed. Every evil is done and there is no remedy,
and the Christian has no more consideration shown him than the
infidel. Now, senor, in a town near the Orinoco I once saw on a
church the archangel Michael, made of stone, and twice as tall as
a man, with one foot on a monster shaped like a cayman, but with
bat's wings, and a head and neck like a serpent. Into this
monster he was thrusting his spear. That is the kind of person
that should be sent to rule these latitudes--a person of firmness
and resolution, with strength in his wrist. And yet it is
probable that this very man- -this St. Michael--is hanging about
the palace, twirling his thumbs, waiting for an appointment,
while other weaker men, and--Heaven forgive me for saying it--not
above a bribe, perhaps, are sent out to rule over this province."
On this string he would harp by the hour; it was a lofty subject
on which he had pondered much in his solitary life, and he was
glad of an opportunity of ventilating his grievance and
expounding his views. At first it was a pure pleasure to hear
Spanish again, and the old man, albeit ignorant of letters, spoke
well; but this, I may say, is a common thing in our country,
where the peasant's quickness of intelligence and poetic feeling
often compensate for want of instruction. His views also amused
me, although they were not novel. But after a while I grew tired
of listening, yet I listened still, agreeing with him, and
leading him on to let him have his fill of talk, always hoping
that he would come at last to speak of personal matters and give
me an account of his history and of Rima's origin. But the hope
proved vain; not a word to enlighten me would he drop, however
cunningly I tempted him.
"So be it," thought I; "but if you are cunning, old man, I shall
be cunning too--and patient; for all things come to him who
waits."
He was in no hurry to get rid of me. On the contrary, he more
than hinted that I would be safer under his roof than with the
Indians, at the same time apologizing for not giving me meat to
eat.
"But why do you not have meat? Never have I seen animals so
abundant and tame as in this wood." Before he could reply Rima,
with a jug of water from the spring in her hand, came in;
glancing at me, he lifted his finger to signify that such a
subject must not be discussed in her presence; but as soon as she
quitted the room he returned to it.
"Senor," he said, "have you forgotten your adventure with the
snake? Know, then, that my grandchild would not live with me for
one day longer if I were to lift my hand against any living
creature. For us, senor, every day is fast-day--only without the
fish. We have maize, pumpkin, cassava, potatoes, and these
suffice. And even of these cultivated fruits of the earth she
eats but little in the house, preferring certain wild berries and
gums, which are more to her taste, and which she picks here and
there in her rambles in the wood. And I, sir, loving her as I
do, whatever my inclination may be, shed no blood and eat no
flesh."
I looked at him with an incredulous smile.
"And your dogs, old man?"
"My dogs? Sir, they would not pause or turn aside if a
coatimundi crossed their path--an animal with a strong odour. As
a man is, so is his dog. Have you not seen dogs eating grass,
sir, even in Venezuela, where these sentiments do not prevail?
And when there is no meat--when meat is forbidden--these
sagacious animals accustom themselves to a vegetable diet."
I could not very well tell the old man that he was lying to
me--that would have been bad policy--and so I passed it off. "I
have no doubt that you are right," I said. "I have heard that
there are dogs in China that eat no meat, but are themselves
eaten by their owners after being fattened on rice. I should not
care to dine on one of your animals, old man."
He looked at them critically and replied: "Certainly they are
lean."
"I was thinking less of their leanness than of their smell," I
returned. "Their odour when they approach me is not flowery, but
resembles that of other dogs which feed on flesh, and have
offended my too sensitive nostrils even in the drawing-rooms of
Caracas. It is not like the fragrance of cattle when they return
from the pasture."
"Every animal," he replied, "gives out that odour which is
peculiar to its kind"; an incontrovertible fact which left me
nothing to say.
When I had sufficiently recovered the suppleness of my limbs to
walk with ease, I went for a ramble in the wood, in the hope that
Rima would accompany me, and that out among the trees she would
cast aside that artificial constraint and shyness which was her
manner in the house.
It fell out just as I had expected; she accompanied me in the
sense of being always near me, or within earshot, and her manner
was now free and unconstrained as I could wish; but little or
nothing was gained by the change. She was once more the
tantalizing, elusive, mysterious creature I had first known
through her wandering, melodious voice. The only difference was
that the musical, inarticulate sounds were now less often heard,
and that she was no longer afraid to show herself to me. This
for a short time was enough to make me happy, since no lovelier
being was ever looked upon, nor one whose loveliness was less
likely to lose its charm through being often seen.
But to keep her near me or always in sight was, I found,
impossible: she would be free as the wind, free as the butterfly,
going and coming at her wayward will, and losing herself from
sight a dozen times every hour. To induce her to walk soberly at
my side or sit down and enter into conversation with me seemed
about as impracticable as to tame the fiery-hearted little
humming-bird that flashes into sight, remains suspended
motionless for a few seconds before your face, then, quick as
lightning, vanishes again.
At length, feeling convinced that she was most happy when she had
me out following her in the wood, that in spite of her bird-like
wildness she had a tender, human heart, which was easily moved, I
determined to try to draw her closer by means of a little
innocent stratagem. Going out in the morning, after calling her
several times to no purpose, I began to assume a downcast manner,
as if suffering pain or depressed with grief; and at last,
finding a convenient exposed root under a tree, on a spot where
the ground was dry and strewn with loose yellow sand, I sat down
and refused to go any further. For she always wanted to lead me
on and on, and whenever I paused she would return to show
herself, or to chide or encourage me in her mysterious language.
All her pretty little arts were now practiced in vain: with cheek
resting on my hand, I still sat,
So my eyes fixed on that patch of yellow sand at my feet,
watching how the small particles glinted like diamond dust when
the sunlight touched them. A full hour passed in this way,
during which I encouraged myself by saying mentally: "This is a
contest between us, and the most patient and the strongest of
will, which should be the man, must conquer. And if I win on
this occasion, it will be easier for me in the future--easier to
discover those things which I am resolved to know, and the girl
must reveal to me, since the old man has proved impracticable."
Meanwhile she came and went and came again; and at last, finding
that I was not to be moved, she approached and stood near me.
Her face, when I glanced at it, had a somewhat troubled
look--both troubled and curious.
"Come here, Rima," I said, "and stay with me for a little
while--I cannot follow you now."
She took one or two hesitating steps, then stood still again; and
at length, slowly and reluctantly, advanced to within a yard of
me. Then I rose from my seat on the root, so as to catch her
face better, and placed my hand against the rough bark of the
tree.
"Rima," I said, speaking in a low, caressing tone, "will you stay
with me here a little while and talk to me, not in your language,
but in mine, so that I may understand? Will you listen when I
speak to you, and answer me?"
Her lips moved, but made no sound. She seemed strangely
disquieted, and shook back her loose hair, and with her small
toes moved the sparkling sand at her feet, and once or twice her
eyes glanced shyly at my face.
"Rime, you have not answered me," I persisted. "Will you not say
yes?"
"Yes."
"Where does your grandfather spend his day when he goes out with
his dogs?"
She shook her head slightly, but would not speak.
"Have you no mother, Rima? Do you remember your mother?"
"My mother! My mother!" she exclaimed in a low voice, but with
a sudden, wonderful animation. Bending a little nearer, she
continued: "Oh, she is dead! Her body is in the earth and turned
to dust. Like that," and she moved the loose sand with her foot.
"Her soul is up there, where the stars and the angels are,
grandfather says. But what is that to me? I am here--am I not?
I talk to her just the same. Everything I see I point out, and
tell her everything. In the daytime--in the woods, when we are
together. And at night when I lie down I cross my arms on my
breast--so, and say: 'Mother, mother, now you are in my arms; let
us go to sleep together.' Sometimes I say: 'Oh, why will you
never answer me when I speak and speak?' Mother--mother--mother!"
At the end her voice suddenly rose to a mournful cry, then sunk,
and at the last repetition of the word died to a low whisper.
"Ah, poor Rima! she is dead and cannot speak to you--cannot hear
you! Talk to me, Rima; I am living and can answer."
But now the cloud, which had suddenly lifted from her heart,
letting me see for a moment into its mysterious depths--its
fancies so childlike and feelings so intense--had fallen again;
and my words brought no response, except a return of that
troubled look to her face.
"Silent still?" I said. "Talk to me, then, of your mother,
Rima. Do you know that you will see her again some day?"
"Yes, when I die. That is what the priest said."
"The priest?"
"Yes, at Voa--do you know? Mother died there when I was
small--it is so far away! And there are thirteen houses by the
side of the river--just here; and on this side--trees, trees."
This was important, I thought, and would lead to the very
knowledge I wished for; so I pressed her to tell me more about
the settlement she had named, and of which I had never heard.
"Everything have I told you," she returned, surprised that I did
not know that she had exhausted the subject in those half-dozen
words she had spoken.
Obliged to shift my ground, I said at a venture: "Tell me, what
do you ask of the Virgin Mother when you kneel before her
picture? Your grandfather told me that you had a picture in your
little room."
"You know!" flashed out her answer, with something like
resentment.
"It is all there in there," waving her hand towards the hut.
"Out here in the wood it is all gone--like this," and stooping
quickly, she raised a little yellow sand on her palm, then let it
run away through her fingers.
Thus she illustrated how all the matters she had been taught
slipped from her mind when she was out of doors, out of sight of
the picture. After an interval she added: "Only mother is
here--always with me."
"Ah, poor Rima!" I said; "alone without a mother, and only your
old grandfather! He is old--what will you do when he dies and
flies away to the starry country where your mother is?"
She looked inquiringly at me, then made answer in a low voice:
"You are here."
"But when I go away?"
She was silent; and not wishing to dwell on a subject that seemed
to pain her, I continued: "Yes, I am here now, but you will not
stay with me and talk freely! Will it always be the same if I
remain with you? Why are you always so silent in the house, so
cold with your old grandfather? So different--so full of life,
like a bird, when you are alone in the woods? Rima, speak to me!
Am I no more to you than your old grandfather? Do you not like
me to talk to you?"
She appeared strangely disturbed at my words. "Oh, you are not
like him," she suddenly replied. "Sitting all day on a log by
the fire--all day, all day; Goloso and Susio lying beside
him--sleep, sleep. Oh, when I saw you in the wood I followed
you, and talked and talked; still no answer. Why will you not
come when I call? To me!" Then, mocking my voice: "Rime, Rima!
Come here! Do this! Say that! Rima! Rima! It is nothing,
nothing--it is not you," pointing to my mouth, and then, as if
fearing that her meaning had not been made clear, suddenly
touching my lips with her finger. "Why do you not answer
me?--speak to me--speak to me, like this!" And turning a little
more towards me, and glancing at me with eyes that had all at
once changed, losing their clouded expression for one of
exquisite tenderness, from her lips came a succession of those
mysterious sounds which had first attracted me to her, swift and
low and bird-like, yet with something so much higher and more
soul-penetrating than any bird-music. Ah, what feeling and
fancies, what quaint turns of expression, unfamiliar to my mind,
were contained in those sweet, wasted symbols! I could never
know--never come to her when she called, or respond to her
spirit. To me they would always be inarticulate sounds,
affecting me like a tender spiritual music--a language without
words, suggesting more than words to the soul.
The mysterious speech died down to a lisping sound, like the
faint note of some small bird falling from a cloud of foliage on
the topmost bough of a tree; and at the same time that new light
passed from her eyes, and she half averted her face in a
disappointed way.
"Rima," I said at length, a new thought coming to my aid, "it is
true that I am not here," touching my lips as she had done, "and
that my words are nothing. But look into my eyes, and you will
see me there--all, all that is in my heart."
"Oh, I know what I should see there!" she returned quickly.
"What would you see--tell me?"
"There is a little black ball in the middle of your eye; I should
see myself in it no bigger than that," and she marked off about
an eighth of her little fingernail. "There is a pool in the
wood, and I look down and see myself there. That is better.
Just as large as I am--not small and black like a small, small
fly." And after saying this a little disdainfully, she moved
away from my side and out into the sunshine; and then, half
turning towards me, and glancing first at my face and then
upwards, she raised her hand to call my attention to something
there.
Far up, high as the tops of the tallest trees, a great
blue-winged butterfly was passing across the open space with
loitering flight. In a few moments it was gone over the trees;
then she turned once more to me with a little rippling sound of
laughter--the first I had heard from her, and called: "Come,
come!"
I was glad enough to go with her then; and for the next two hours
we rambled together in the wood; that is, together in her way,
for though always near she contrived to keep out of my sight most
of the time. She was evidently now in a gay, frolicsome temper;
again and again, when I looked closely into some wide-spreading
bush, or peered behind a tree, when her calling voice had
sounded, her rippling laughter would come to me from some other
spot. At length, somewhere about the centre of the wood, she led
me to an immense mora tree, growing almost isolated, covering
with its shade a large space of ground entirely free from
undergrowth. At this spot she all at once vanished from my side;
and after listening and watching some time in vain, I sat down
beside the giant trunk to wait for her. Very soon I heard a low,
warbling sound which seemed quite near.
"Rime! Rima!" I called, and instantly my call was repeated like
an echo. Again and again I called, and still the words flew back
to me, and I could not decide whether it was an echo or not.
Then I gave up calling; and presently the low, warbling sound was
repeated, and I knew that Rima was somewhere near me.
"Rime, where are you?" I called.
"Rime, where are you?" came the answer.
"You are behind the tree."
"You are behind the tree."
"I shall catch you, Rima." And this time, instead of repeating
my words, she answered: "Oh no."
I jumped up and ran round the tree, feeling sure that I should
find her. It was about thirty-five or forty feet in
circumference; and after going round two or three times, I turned
and ran the other way, but failing to catch a glimpse of her I at
last sat down again.
"Rime, Rima!" sounded the mocking voice as soon as I had sat
down. "Where are you, Rima? I shall catch you, Rima! Have you
caught Rima?"
"No, I have not caught her. There is no Rima now. She has faded
away like a rainbow--like a drop of dew in the sun. I have lost
her; I shall go to sleep." And stretching myself out at full
length under the tree, I remained quiet for two or three minutes.
Then a slight rustling sound was heard, and I looked eagerly
round for her. But the sound was overhead and caused by a great
avalanche of leaves which began to descend on me from that vast
leafy canopy above.
"Ah, little spider-monkey--little green tree-snake--you are
there!" But there was no seeing her in that immense aerial
palace hung with dim drapery of green and copper-coloured leaves.
But how had she got there? Up the stupendous trunk even a monkey
could not have climbed, and there were no lianas dropping to
earth from the wide horizontal branches that I could see; but by
and by, looking further away, I perceived that on one side the
longest lower branches reached and mingled with the shorter
boughs of the neighbouring trees. While gazing up I heard her
low, rippling laugh, and then caught sight of her as she ran
along an exposed horizontal branch, erect on her feet; and my
heart stood still with terror, for she was fifty to sixty feet
above the ground. In another moment she vanished from sight in a
cloud of foliage, and I saw no more of her for about ten minutes,
when all at once she appeared at my side once more, having come
round the trunk of the more. Her face had a bright, pleased
expression, and showed no trace of fatigue or agitation.
I caught her hand in mine. It was a delicate, shapely little
hand, soft as velvet, and warm--a real human hand; only now when
I held it did she seem altogether like a human being and not a
mocking spirit of the wood, a daughter of the Didi.
"Do you like me to hold your hand, Rima?"
"Yes," she replied, with indifference.
"Is it I?"
"Yes." This time as if it was small satisfaction to make
acquaintance with this purely physical part of me.
Having her so close gave me an opportunity of examining that
light sheeny garment she wore always in the woods. It felt soft
and satiny to the touch, and there was no seam nor hem in it that
I could see, but it was all in one piece, like the cocoon of the
caterpillar. While I was feeling it on her shoulder and looking
narrowly at it, she glanced at me with a mocking laugh in her
eyes.
"Is it silk?" I asked. Then, as she remained silent, I
continued: "Where did you get this dress, Rima? Did you make it
yourself? Tell me."
She answered not in words, but in response to my question a new
look came into her face; no longer restless and full of change in
her expression, she was now as immovable as an alabaster statue;
not a silken hair on her head trembled; her eyes were wide open,
gazing fixedly before her; and when I looked into them they
seemed to see and yet not to see me. They were like the clear,
brilliant eyes of a bird, which reflect as in a miraculous mirror
all the visible world but do not return our look and seem to see
us merely as one of the thousand small details that make up the
whole picture. Suddenly she darted out her hand like a flash,
making me start at the unexpected motion, and quickly withdrawing
it, held up a finger before me. From its tip a minute gossamer
spider, about twice the bigness of a pin's head, appeared
suspended from a fine, scarcely visible line three or four inches
long.
"Look!" she exclaimed, with a bright glance at my face.
The small spider she had captured, anxious to be free, was
falling, falling earthward, but could not reach the surface.
Leaning her shoulder a little forward, she placed the finger-tip
against it, but lightly, scarcely touching, and moving
continuously, with a motion rapid as that of a fluttering moth's
wing; while the spider, still paying out his line, remained
suspended, rising and falling slightly at nearly the same
distance from the ground. After a few moments she cried: "Drop
down, little spider." Her finger's motion ceased, and the minute
captive fell, to lose itself on the shaded ground.
"Do you not see?" she said to me, pointing to her shoulder.
Just where the finger-tip had touched the garment a round shining
spot appeared, looking like a silver coin on the cloth; but on
touching it with my finger it seemed part of the original fabric,
only whiter and more shiny on the grey ground, on account of the
freshness of the web of which it had just been made.
And so all this curious and pretty performance, which seemed
instinctive in its spontaneous quickness and dexterity, was
merely intended to show me how she made her garments out of the
fine floating lines of small gossamer spiders!
Before I could express my surprise and admiration she cried
again, with startling suddenness: "Look!"
A minute shadowy form darted by, appearing like a dim line traced
across the deep glossy more foliage, then on the lighter green
foliage further away. She waved her hand in imitation of its
swift, curving flight; then, dropping it, exclaimed: "Gone--oh,
little thing!"
"What was it?" I asked, for it might have been a bird, a
bird-like moth, or a bee.
"Did you not see? And you asked me to look into your eyes!"
"Ah, little squirrel Sakawinki, you remind me of that!" I said,
passing my arm round her waist and drawing her a little closer.
"Look into my eyes now and see if I am blind, and if there is
nothing in them except an image of Rima like a small, small fly."
She shook her head and laughed a little mockingly, but made no
effort to escape from my arm.
"Would you like me always to do what you wish, Rima--to follow
you in the woods when you say 'Come'--to chase you round the tree
to catch you, and lie down for you to throw leaves on me, and to
be glad when you are glad?"
"Oh, yes."
"Then let us make a compact. I shall do everything to please
you, and you must promise to do everything to please me."
"Tell me."
"Little things, Rima--none so hard as chasing you round a tree.
Only to have you stand or sit by me and talk will make me happy.
And to begin you must call me by my name--Abel."
"Is that your name? Oh, not your real name! Abel, Abel--what is
that? It says nothing. I have called you by so many
names--twenty, thirty--and no answer."
"Have you? But, dearest girl, every person has a name, one name
he is called by. Your name, for instance, is Rima, is it not?"
"Rima! only Rima--to you? In the morning, in the evening . .
. now in this place and in a little while where know I? . . .
in the night when you wake and it is dark, dark, and you see me
all the same. Only Rima--oh, how strange!"
"What else, sweet girl? Your grandfather Nuflo calls you Rima."
"Nuflo?" She spoke as if putting a question to herself. "Is
that an old man with two dogs that lives somewhere in the wood?"
And then, with sudden petulance: "And you ask me to talk to you!"
"Oh, Rima, what can I say to you? Listen--"
"No, no," she exclaimed, quickly turning and putting her fingers
on my mouth to stop my speech, while a sudden merry look shone in
her eves. "You shall listen when I speak, and do all I say. And
tell me what to do to please you with your eyes--let me look in
your eyes that are not blind."
She turned her face more towards me and with head a little thrown
back and inclined to one side, gazing now full into my eyes as I
had wished her to do. After a few moments she glanced away to
the distant trees. But I could see into those divine orbs, and
knew that she was not looking at any particular object. All the
ever-varying expressions--inquisitive, petulant, troubled, shy,
frolicsome had now vanished from the still face, and the look was
inward and full of a strange, exquisite light, as if some new
happiness or hope had touched her spirit.
Sinking my voice to a whisper, I said: "Tell me what you have
seen in my eyes, Rima?"
She murmured in reply something melodious and inarticulate, then
glanced at my face in a questioning way; but only for a moment,
then her sweet eyes were again veiled under those drooping
lashes.
"Listen, Rima," I said. "Was that a humming-bird we saw a little
while ago? You are like that, now dark, a shadow in the shadow,
seen for an instant, and then--gone, oh, little thing! And now
in the sunshine standing still, how beautiful!--a thousand times
more beautiful than the humming-bird. Listen, Rima, you are like
all beautiful things in the wood--flower, and bird, and
butterfly, and green leaf, and frond, and little silky-haired
monkey high up in the trees. When I look at you I see them
all--all and more, a thousand times, for I see Rima herself. And
when I listen to Rima's voice, talking in a language I cannot
understand, I hear the wind whispering in the leaves, the
gurgling running water, the bee among the flowers, the organ-bird
singing far, far away in the shadows of the trees. I hear them
all, and more, for I hear Rima. Do you understand me now? Is it
I speaking to you--have I answered you--have I come to you?"
She glanced at me again, her lips trembling, her eyes now clouded
with some secret trouble. "Yes," she replied in a whisper, and
then: "No, it is not you," and after a moment, doubtfully: "Is it
you?"
But she did not wait to be answered: in a moment she was gone
round the more; nor would she return again for all my calling.
CHAPTER IX
That afternoon with Rima in the forest under the mora tree had
proved so delightful that I was eager for more rambles and talks
with her, but the variable little witch had a great surprise in
store for me. All her wild natural gaiety had unaccountably gone
out of her: when I walked in the shade she was there, but no
longer as the blithe, fantastic being, bright as an angel,
innocent and affectionate as a child, tricksy as a monkey, that
had played at hide-and-seek with me. She was now my shy, silent
attendant, only occasionally visible, and appearing then like the
mysterious maid I had found reclining among the ferns who had
melted away mist-like from sight as I gazed. When I called she
would not now answer as formerly, but in response would appear in
sight as if to assure me that I had not been forsaken; and after
a few moments her grey shadowy form would once more vanish among
the trees. The hope that as her confidence increased and she
grew accustomed to talk with me she would be brought to reveal
the story of her life had to be abandoned, at all events for the
present. I must, after all, get my information from Nuflo, or
rest in ignorance. The old man was out for the greater part of
each day with his dogs, and from these expeditions he brought
back nothing that I could see but a few nuts and fruits, some
thin bark for his cigarettes, and an occasional handful of haima
gum to perfume the hut of an evening. After I had wasted three
days in vainly trying to overcome the girl's now inexplicable
shyness, I resolved to give for a while my undivided attention to
her grandfather to discover, if possible, where he went and how
he spent his time.
My new game of hide-and-seek with Nuflo instead of with Rima
began on the following morning. He was cunning; so was I. Going
out and concealing myself among the bushes, I began to watch the
hut. That I could elude Rima's keener eyes I doubted; but that
did not trouble me. She was not in harmony with the old man, and
would do nothing to defeat my plan. I had not been long in my
hiding-place before he came out, followed by his two dogs, and
going to some distance from the door, he sat down on a log. For
some minutes he smoked, then rose, and after looking cautiously
round slipped away among the trees. I saw that he was going off
in the direction of the low range of rocky hills south of the
forest. I knew that the forest did not extend far in that
direction, and thinking that I should be able to catch a sight of
him on its borders, I left the bushes and ran through the trees
as fast as I could to get ahead of him. Coming to where the wood
was very open, I found that a barren plain beyond it, a quarter
of a mile wide, separated it from the range of hills; thinking
that the old man might cross this open space, I climbed into a
tree to watch. After some time he appeared, walking rapidly
among the trees, the dogs at his heels, but not going towards the
open plain; he had, it seemed, after arriving at the edge of the
wood, changed his direction and was going west, still keeping in
the shelter of the trees. When he had been gone about five
minutes, I dropped to the ground and started in pursuit; once
more I caught sight of him through the trees, and I kept him in
sight for about twenty minutes longer; then he came to a broad
strip of dense wood which extended into and through the range of
hills, and here I quickly lost him. Hoping still to overtake
him, I pushed on, but after struggling through the underwood for
some distance, and finding the forest growing more difficult as I
progressed, I at last gave him up. Turning eastward, I got out
of the wood to find myself at the foot of a steep rough hill, one
of the range which the wooded valley cut through at right angles.
It struck me that it would be a good plan to climb the hill to
get a view of the forest belt in which I had lost the old man;
and after walking a short distance I found a spot which allowed
of an ascent. The summit of the hill was about three hundred
feet above the surrounding level and did not take me long to
reach; it commanded a fair view, and I now saw that the belt of
wood beneath me extended right through the range, and on the
south side opened out into an extensive forest. "If that is your
destination," thought I, "old fox, your secrets are safe from
me."
It was still early in the day, and a slight breeze tempered the
air and made it cool and pleasant on the hilltop after my
exertions. My scramble through the wood had fatigued me
somewhat, and resolving to spend some hours on that spot, I
looked round for a comfortable resting-place. I soon found a
shady spot on the west side of an upright block of stone where I
could recline at ease on a bed of lichen. Here, with shoulders
resting against the rock, I sat thinking of Rima, alone in her
wood today, with just a tinge of bitterness in my thoughts which
made me hope that she would miss me as much as I missed her; and
in the end I fell asleep.
When I woke, it was past noon, and the sun was shining directly
on me. Standing up to gaze once more on the prospect, I noticed
a small wreath of white smoke issuing from a spot about the
middle of the forest belt beneath me, and I instantly divined
that Nuflo had made a fire at that place, and I resolved to
surprise him in his retreat. When I got down to the base of the
hill the smoke could no longer be seen, but I had studied the
spot well from above, and had singled out a large clump of trees
on the edge of the belt as a starting-point; and after a search
of half an hour I succeeded in finding the old man's
hiding-place. First I saw smoke again through an opening in the
trees, then a small rude hut of sticks and palm leaves.
Approaching cautiously, I peered through a crack and discovered
old Nuflo engaged in smoking some meat over a fire, and at the
same time grilling some bones on the coals. He had captured a
coatimundi, an animal somewhat larger than a tame tom-cat, with a
long snout and long ringed tail; one of the dogs was gnawing at
the animal's head, and the tail and the feet were also lying on
the floor, among the old bones and rubbish that littered it.
Stealing round, I suddenly presented myself at the opening to his
den, when the dogs rose up with a growl and Nuflo instantly
leaped to his feet, knife in hand.
"Aha, old man," I cried, with a laugh, "I have found you at one
of your vegetarian repasts; and your grass-eating dogs as well!"
He was disconcerted and suspicious, but when I explained that I
had seen a smoke while on the hills, where I had gone to search
for a curious blue flower which grew in such places, and had made
my way to it to discover the cause, he recovered confidence and
invited me to join him at his dinner of roast meat.
I was hungry by this time and not sorry to get animal food once
more; nevertheless, I ate this meat with some disgust, as it had
a rank taste and smell, and it was also unpleasant to have those
evil-looking dogs savagely gnawing at the animal's head and feet
at the same time.
"You see," said the old hypocrite, wiping the grease from his
moustache, "this is what I am compelled to do in order to avoid
giving offence. My granddaughter is a strange being, sir, as you
have perhaps observed--"
"That reminds me," I interrupted, "that I wish you to relate her
history to me. She is, as you say, strange, and has speech and
faculties unlike ours, which shows that she comes of a different
race."
"No, no, her faculties are not different from ours. They are
sharper, that is all. It pleases the All-Powerful to give more
to some than to others. Not all the fingers on the hand are
alike. You will find a man who will take up a guitar and make it
speak, while I--"
"All that I understand," I broke in again. "But her origin, her
history--that is what I wish to hear."
"And that, sir, is precisely what I am about to relate. Poor
child, she was left on my hands by her sainted mother--my
daughter, sir--who perished young. Now, her birthplace, where
she was taught letters and the Catechism by the priest, was in an
unhealthy situation. It was hot and wet--always wet--a place
suited to frogs rather than to human beings. At length, thinking
that it would suit the child better--for she was pale and
weakly--to live in a drier atmosphere among mountains, I brought
her to this district. For this, senor, and for all I have done
for her, I look for no reward here, but to that place where my
daughter has got her foot; not, sir, on the threshold, as you
might think, but well inside. For, after all, it is to the
authorities above, in spite of some blots which we see in their
administration, that we must look for justice. Frankly, sir,
this is the whole story of my granddaughter's origin."
"Ah, yes," I returned, "your story explains why she can call a
wild bird to her hand, and touch a venomous serpent with her bare
foot and receive no harm."
"Doubtless you are right," said the old dissembler. "Living
alone in the wood, she had only God's creatures to play and make
friends with; and wild animals, I have heard it said, know those
who are friendly towards them."
"You treat her friends badly," said I, kicking the long tail of
the coatimundi away with my foot, and regretting that I had
joined in his repast.
"Senor, you must consider that we are only what Heaven made us.
When all this was formed," he continued, opening his arms wide to
indicate the entire creation, "the Person who concerned Himself
with this matter gave seeds and fruitless and nectar of flowers
for the sustentation of His small birds. But we have not their
delicate appetites. The more robust stomach which he gave to man
cries out for meat. Do you understand? But of all this, friend,
not one word to Rima!"
I laughed scornfully. "Do you think me such a child, old man, as
to believe that Rima, that little sprite, does not know that you
are an eater of flesh? Rima, who is everywhere in the wood,
seeing all things, even if I lift my hand against a serpent, she
herself unseen."
"But, sir, if you will pardon my presumption, you are saying too
much. She does not come here, and therefore cannot see that I
eat meat. In all that wood where she flourishes and sings, where
she is in her house and garden, and mistress of the creatures,
even of the small butterfly with painted wings, there, sir, I
hunt no animal. Nor will my dogs chase any animal there. That
is what I meant when I said that if an animal should stumble
against their legs, they would lift up their noses and pass on
without seeing it. For in that wood there is one law, the law
that Rima imposes, and outside of it a different law."
"I am glad that you have told me this," I replied. "The thought
that Rima might be near, and, unseen herself, look in upon us
feeding with the dogs and, like dogs, on flesh, was one which
greatly troubled my mind."
He glanced at me in his usual quick, cunning way.
"Ah, senor, you have that feeling too--after so short a time with
us! Consider, then, what it must be for me, unable to nourish
myself on gums and fruitlets, and that little sweetness made by
wasps out of flowers, when I am compelled to go far away and eat
secretly to avoid giving offence."
It was hard, no doubt, but I did not pity him; secretly I could
only feel anger against him for refusing to enlighten me, while
making such a presence of openness; and I also felt disgusted
with myself for having joined him in his rank repast. But
dissimulation was necessary, and so, after conversing a little
more on indifferent topics, and thanking him for his hospitality,
I left him alone to go on with his smoky task.
On my way back to the lodge, fearing that some taint of Nuflo's
evil-smelling den and dinner might still cling to me, I turned
aside to where a streamlet in the wood widened and formed a deep
pool, to take a plunge in the water. After drying myself in the
air, and thoroughly ventilating my garments by shaking and
beating them, I found an open, shady spot in the wood and threw
myself on the grass to wait for evening before returning to the
house. By that time the sweet, warm air would have purified me.
Besides, I did not consider that I had sufficiently punished Rima
for her treatment of me. She would be anxious for my safety,
perhaps even looking for me everywhere in the wood. It was not
much to make her suffer one day after she had made me miserable
for three; and perhaps when she discovered that I could exist
without her society she would begin to treat me less
capriciously.
So ran my thoughts as I rested on the warm ground, gazing up into
the foliage, green as young grass in the lower, shady parts, and
above luminous with the bright sunlight, and full of the
murmuring sounds of insect life. My every action, word, thought,
had my feeling for Rima as a motive. Why, I began to ask myself,
was Rima so much to me? It was easy to answer that question:
Because nothing so exquisite had ever been created. All the
separate and fragmentary beauty and melody and graceful motion
found scattered throughout nature were concentrated and
harmoniously combined in her. How various, how luminous, how
divine she was! A being for the mind to marvel at, to admire
continually, finding some new grace and charm every hour, every
moment, to add to the old. And there was, besides, the
fascinating mystery surrounding her origin to arouse and keep my
interest in her continually active.
That was the easy answer I returned to the question I had asked
myself. But I knew that there was another answer--a reason more
powerful than the first. And I could no longer thrust it back,
or hide its shining face with the dull, leaden mask of mere
intellectual curiosity. BECAUSE I LOVED HER; loved her as I had
never loved before, never could love any other being, with a
passion which had caught something of her own brilliance and
intensity, making a former passion look dim and commonplace in
comparison--a feeling known to everyone, something old and worn
out, a weariness even to think of.
From these reflections I was roused by the plaintive
three-syllable call of an evening bird--a nightjar common in
these woods; and was surprised to find that the sun had set, and
the woods already shadowed with the twilight. I started up and
began hurriedly walking homewards, thinking of Rima, and was
consumed with impatience to see her; and as I drew near to the
house, walking along a narrow path which I knew, I suddenly met
her face to face. Doubtless she had heard my approach, and
instead of shrinking out of the path and allowing me to pass on
without seeing her, as she would have done on the previous day,
she had sprung forward to meet me. I was struck with wonder at
the change in her as she came with a swift, easy motion, like a
flying bird, her hands outstretched as if to clasp mine, her lips
parted in a radiant, welcoming smile, her eyes sparkling with
joy.
I started forward to meet her, but had no sooner touched her
hands than her countenance changed, and she shrunk back
trembling, as if the touch had chilled her warm blood; and moving
some feet away, she stood with downcast eyes, pale and sorrowful
as she had seemed yesterday. In vain I implored her to tell me
the cause of this change and of the trouble she evidently felt;
her lips trembled as if with speech, but she made no reply, and
only shrunk further away when I attempted to approach her; and at
length, moving aside from the path, she was lost to sight in the
dusky leafage.
I went on alone, and sat outside for some time, until old Nuflo
returned from his hunting; and only after he had gone in and had
made the fire burn up did Rima make her appearance, silent and
constrained as ever.
CHAPTER X
On the following day Rima continued in the same inexplicable
humour; and feeling my defeat keenly, I determined once more to
try the effect of absence on her, and to remain away on this
occasion for a longer period. Like old Nuflo, I was secret in
going forth next morning, waiting until the girl was out of the
way, then slipping off among the bushes into the deeper wood; and
finally quitting its shelter, I set out across the savannah
towards my old quarters. Great was my surprise on arriving at
the village to find no person there. At first I imagined that my
disappearance in the forest of evil fame had caused them to
abandon their home in a panic; but on looking round I concluded
that my friends had only gone on one of their periodical visits
to some neighbouring village. For when these Indians visit their
neighbours they do it in a very thorough manner; they all go,
taking with them their entire stock of provisions, their cooking
utensils, weapons, hammocks, and even their pet animals.
Fortunately in this case they had not taken quite everything; my
hammock was there, also one small pot, some cassava bread, purple
potatoes, and a few ears of maize. I concluded that these had
been left for me in the event of my return; also that they had
not been gone very many hours, since a log of wood buried under
the ashes of the hearth was still alight. Now, as their absences
from home usually last many days, it was plain that I would have
the big naked barn-like house to myself for as long as I thought
proper to remain, with little food to eat; but the prospect did
not disturb me, and I resolved to amuse myself with music. In
vain I hunted for my guitar; the Indians had taken it to delight
their friends by twanging its strings. At odd moments during the
last day or two I had been composing a simple melody in my brain,
fitting it to ancient words; and now, without an instrument to
assist me, I began softly singing to myself:
Muy mas clara que la luna
Sola una
en el mundo vos nacistes.
After music I made up the fire and parched an ear of maize for my
dinner, and while laboriously crunching the dry hard grain I
thanked Heaven for having bestowed on me such good molars.
Finally I slung my hammock in its old corner, and placing myself
in it in my favourite oblique position, my hands clasped behind
my head, one knee cocked up, the other leg dangling down, I
resigned myself to idle thought. I felt very happy. How
strange, thought I, with a little self-flattery, that I,
accustomed to the agreeable society of intelligent men and
charming women, and of books, should find such perfect
contentment here! But I congratulated myself too soon. The
profound silence began at length to oppress me. It was not like
the forest, where one has wild birds for company, where their
cries, albeit inarticulate, have a meaning and give a charm to
solitude. Even the sight and whispered sounds of green leaves
and rushes trembling in the wind have for us something of
intelligence and sympathy; but I could not commune with mud walls
and an earthen pot. Feeling my loneliness too acutely, I began
to regret that I had left Rima, then to feel remorse at the
secrecy I had practiced. Even now while I inclined idly in my
hammock, she would be roaming the forest in search of me,
listening for my footsteps, fearing perhaps that I had met with
some accident where there was no person to succour me. It was
painful to think of her in this way, of the pain I had doubtless
given her by stealing off without a word of warning. Springing
to the floor, I flung out of the house and went down to the
stream. It was better there, for now the greatest heat of the
day was over, and the weltering sun began to look large and red
and rayless through the afternoon haze.
I seated myself on a stone within a yard or two of the limpid
water; and now the sight of nature and the warm, vital air and
sunshine infected my spirit and made it possible for me to face
the position calmly, even hopefully. The position was this: for
some days the idea had been present in my mind, and was now fixed
there, that this desert was to be my permanent home. The thought
of going back to Caracas, that little Paris in America, with its
Old World vices, its idle political passions, its empty round of
gaieties, was unendurable. I was changed, and this change--so
great, so complete--was proof that the old artificial life had
not been and could not be the real one, in harmony with my deeper
and truer nature. I deceived myself, you will say, as I have
often myself said. I had and I had not. It is too long a
question to discuss here; but just then I felt that I had quitted
the hot, tainted atmosphere of the ballroom, that the morning air
of heaven refreshed and elevated me and was sweet to breathe.
Friends and relations I had who were dear to me; but I could
forget them, even as I could forget the splendid dreams which had
been mine. And the woman I had loved, and who perhaps loved me
in return--I could forget her too. A daughter of civilization
and of that artificial life, she could never experience such
feelings as these and return to nature as I was doing. For
women, though within narrow limits more plastic than men, are yet
without that larger adaptiveness which can take us back to the
sources of life, which they have left eternally behind. Better,
far better for both of us that she should wait through the long,
slow months, growing sick at heart with hope deferred; that,
seeing me no more, she should weep my loss, and be healed at last
by time, and find love and happiness again in the old way, in the
old place.
And while I thus sat thinking, sadly enough, but not
despondingly, of past and present and future, all at once on the
warm, still air came the resonant, far-reaching KLING-KLANG of
the campanero from some leafy summit half a league away.
KLING-KLANG fell the sound again, and often again, at intervals,
affecting me strangely at that moment, so bell-like, so like the
great wide-travelling sounds associated in our minds with
Christian worship. And yet so unlike. A bell, yet not made of
gross metal dug out of earth, but of an ethereal, sublimer
material that floats impalpable and invisible in space--a vital
bell suspended on nothing, giving out sounds in harmony with the
vastness of blue heaven, the unsullied purity of nature, the
glory of the sun, and conveying a mystic, a higher message to the
soul than the sounds that surge from tower and belfry.
O mystic bell-bird of the heavenly race of the swallow and dove,
the quetzal and the nightingale! When the brutish savage and the
brutish white man that slay thee, one for food, the other for the
benefit of science, shall have passed away, live still, live to
tell thy message to the blameless spiritualized race that shall
come after us to possess the earth, not for a thousand years, but
for ever; for how much shall thy voice be our clarified
successors when even to my dull, unpurged soul thou canst speak
such high things and bring it a sense of an impersonal,
all-compromising One who is in me and I in Him, flesh of His
flesh and soul of His soul.
The sounds ceased, but I was still in that exalted mood and, like
a person in a trance, staring fixedly before me into the open
wood of scattered dwarf trees on the other side of the stream,
when suddenly on the field of vision appeared a grotesque human
figure moving towards me. I started violently, astonished and a
little alarmed, but in a very few moments I recognized the
ancient Cla-cla, coming home with a large bundle of dry sticks on
her shoulders, bent almost double under the burden, and still
ignorant of my presence. Slowly she came down to the stream,
then cautiously made her way over the line of stepping-stones by
which it was crossed; and only when within ten yards did the old
creature catch sight of me sitting silent and motionless in her
path. With a sharp cry of amazement and terror she straightened
herself up, the bundle of sticks dropping to the ground, and
turned to run from me. That, at all events, seemed her
intention, for her body was thrown forward, and her head and arms
working like those of a person going at full speed, but her legs
seemed paralysed and her feet remained planted on the same spot.
I burst out laughing; whereat she twisted her neck until her
wrinkled, brown old face appeared over her shoulder staring at
me. This made me laugh again, whereupon she straightened herself
up once more and turned round to have a good look at me.
"Come, Cla-cla," I cried; "can you not see that I am a living man
and no spirit? I thought no one had remained behind to keep me
company and give me food. Why are you not with the others?"
"Ah, why!" she returned tragically. And then deliberately
turning from me and assuming a most unladylike attitude, she
slapped herself vigorously on the small of the back, exclaiming:
"Because of my pain here!"
As she continued in that position with her back towards me for
some time, I laughed once more and begged her to explain.
Slowly she turned round and advanced cautiously towards me,
staring at me all the time. Finally, still eyeing me
suspiciously, she related that the others had all gone on a visit
to a distant village, she starting with them; that after going
some distance a pain had attacked her in her hind quarters, so
sudden and acute that it had instantly brought her to a full
stop; and to illustrate how full the stop was she allowed herself
to go down, very unnecessarily, with a flop to the ground. But
she no sooner touched the ground than up she started to her feet
again, with an alarmed look on her owlish face, as if she had sat
down on a stinging-nettle.
"We thought you were dead," she remarked, still thinking that I
might be a ghost after all.
"No, still alive," I said. "And so because you came to the
ground with your pain, they left you behind! Well, never mind,
Cla-cla, we are two now and must try to be happy together."
By this time she had recovered from her fear and began to feel
highly pleased at my return, only lamenting that she had no meat
to give me. She was anxious to hear my adventures, and the
reason of my long absence. I had no wish to gratify her
curiosity, with the truth at all events, knowing very well that
with regard to the daughter of the Didi her feelings were as
purely savage and malignant as those of Kua-ko. But it was
necessary to say something, and, fortifying myself with the good
old Spanish notion that lies told to the heathen are not
recorded, I related that a venomous serpent had bitten me; after
which a terrible thunderstorm had surprised me in the forest, and
night coming on prevented my escape from it; then, next day,
remembering that he who is bitten by a serpent dies, and not
wishing to distress my friends with the sight of my dissolution,
I elected to remain, sitting there in the wood, amusing myself by
singing songs and smoking cigarettes; and after several days and
nights had gone by, finding that I was not going to die after
all, and beginning to feel hungry, I got up and came back.
Old Cla-cla looked very serious, shaking and nodding her head a
great deal, muttering to herself; finally she gave it as her
opinion that nothing ever would or could kill me; but whether my
story had been believed or not she only knew.
I spent an amusing evening with my old savage hostess. She had
thrown off her ailments and, pleased at having a companion in her
dreary solitude, she was good-tempered and talkative, and much
more inclined to laugh than when the others were present, when
she was on her dignity.
We sat by the fire, cooking such food as we had, and talked and
smoked; then I sang her songs in Spanish with that melody of my
own--
Muy mas clara que la luna;
and she rewarded me by emitting a barbarous chant in a shrill,
screechy voice; and finally, starting up, I danced for her
benefit polka, mazurka, and valse, whistling and singing to my
motions.
More than once during the evening she tried to introduce serious
subjects, telling me that I must always live with them, learn to
shoot the birds and catch the fishes, and have a wife; and then
she would speak of her granddaughter Oalava, whose virtues it was
proper to mention, but whose physical charms needed no
description since they had never been concealed. Each time she
got on this topic I cut her short, vowing that if I ever married
she only should be my wife. She informed me that she was old and
past her fruitful period; that not much longer would she make
cassava bread, and blow the fire to a flame with her wheezy old
bellows, and talk the men to sleep at night. But I stuck to it
that she was young and beautiful, that our descendants would be
more numerous than the birds in the forest. I went out to some
bushes close by, where I had noticed a passion plant in bloom,
and gathering a few splendid scarlet blossoms with their stems
and leaves, I brought them in and wove them into a garland for
the old dame's head; then I pulled her up, in spite of screams
and struggles, and waltzed her wildly to the other end of the
room and back again to her seat beside the fire. And as she sat
there, panting and grinning with laughter, I knelt before her
and, with suitable passionate gestures, declaimed again the old
delicate lines sung by Mena before Columbus sailed the seas:
Muy mas clara que la luna
Sola una
en el mundo vos nacistes
tan gentil, que no vecistes
ni tavistes
competedora ninguna
Desdi ninez en la cuna
cobrastes fama, beldad, con tanta graciosidad,
que vos doto la fortuna.
Thinking of another all the time! O poor old Cla-cla, knowing
not what the jingle meant nor the secret of my wild happiness,
now when I recall you sitting there, your old grey owlish head
crowned with scarlet passion flowers, flushed with firelight,
against the background of smoke-blackened walls and rafters, how
the old undying sorrow comes back to me!
Thus our evening was spent, merrily enough; then we made up the
fire with hard wood that would last all night, and went to our
hammocks, but wakeful still. The old dame, glad and proud to be
on duty once more, religiously went to work to talk me to sleep;
but although I called out at intervals to encourage her to go on,
I did not attempt to follow the ancient tales she told, which she
had imbibed in childhood from other white-headed grandmothers
long, long turned to dust. My own brain was busy thinking,
thinking, thinking now of the woman I had once loved, far away in
Venezuela, waiting and weeping and sick with hope deferred; now
of Rima, wakeful and listening to the mysterious nightsounds of
the forest--listening, listening for my returning footsteps.
Next morning I began to waver in my resolution to remain absent
from Rima for some days; and before evening my passion, which I
had now ceased to struggle against, coupled with the thought that
I had acted unkindly in leaving her, that she would be a prey to
anxiety, overcame me, and I was ready to return. The old woman,
who had been suspiciously watching my movements, rushed out after
me as I left the house, crying out that a storm was brewing, that
it was too late to go far, and night would be full of danger. I
waved my hand in good-bye, laughingly reminding her that I was
proof against all perils. Little she cared what evil might
befall me, I thought; but she loved not to be alone; even for
her, low down as she was intellectually, the solitary earthen pot
had no "mind stuff" in it, and could not be sent to sleep at
night with the legends of long ago.
By the time I reached the ridge, I had discovered that she had
prophesied truly, for now an ominous change had come over nature.
A dull grey vapour had overspread the entire western half of the
heavens; down, beyond the forest, the sky looked black as ink,
and behind this blackness the sun had vanished. It was too late
to go back now; I had been too long absent from Rima, and could
only hope to reach Nuflo's lodge, wet or dry, before night closed
round me in the forest.
For some moments I stood still on the ridge, struck by the
somewhat weird aspect of the shadowed scene before me--the long
strip of dull uniform green, with here and there a slender palm
lifting its feathery crown above the other trees, standing
motionless, in strange relief against the advancing blackness.
Then I set out once more at a run, taking advantage of the
downward slope to get well on my way before the tempest should
burst. As I approached the wood, there came a flash of
lightning, pale, but covering the whole visible sky, followed
after a long interval by a distant roll of thunder, which lasted
several seconds and ended with a succession of deep throbs. It
was as if Nature herself, in supreme anguish and abandonment, had
cast herself prone on the earth, and her great heart had throbbed
audibly, shaking the world with its beats. No more thunder
followed, but the rain was coming down heavily now in huge drops
that fell straight through the gloomy, windless air. In half a
minute I was drenched to the skin; but for a short time the rain
seemed an advantage, as the brightness of the falling water
lessened the gloom, turning the air from dark to lighter grey.
This subdued rain-light did not last long: I had not been twenty
minutes in the wood before a second and greater darkness fell on
the earth, accompanied by an even more copious downpour of water.
The sun had evidently gone down, and the whole sky was now
covered with one thick cloud. Becoming more nervous as the gloom
increased, I bent my steps more to the south, so as to keep near
the border and more open part of the wood. Probably I had
already grown confused before deviating and turned the wrong way,
for instead of finding the forest easier, it grew closer and more
difficult as I advanced. Before many minutes the darkness so
increased that I could no longer distinguish objects more than
five feet from my eyes. Groping blindly along, I became
entangled in a dense undergrowth, and after struggling and
stumbling along for some distance in vain endeavours to get
through it, I came to a stand at last in sheer despair. All
sense of direction was now lost: I was entombed in thick
blackness--blackness of night and cloud and rain and of dripping
foliage and network of branches bound with bush ropes and
creepers in a wild tangle. I had struggled into a hollow, or
hole, as it were, in the midst of that mass of vegetation, where
I could stand upright and turn round and round without touching
anything; but when I put out my hands they came into contact with
vines and bushes. To move from that spot seemed folly; yet how
dreadful to remain there standing on the sodden earth, chilled
with rain, in that awful blackness in which the only luminous
thing one could look to see would be the eyes, shining with their
own internal light, of some savage beast of prey! Yet the
danger, the intense physical discomfort, and the anguish of
looking forward to a whole night spent in that situation stung my
heart less than the thought of Rima's anxiety and of the pain I
had carelessly given by secretly leaving her.
It was then, with that pang in my heart, that I was startled by
hearing, close by, one of her own low, warbled expressions.
There could be no mistake; if the forest had been full of the
sounds of animal life and songs of melodious birds, her voice
would have been instantly distinguished from all others. How
mysterious, how infinitely tender it sounded in that awful
blackness!--so musical and exquisitely modulated, so sorrowful,
yet piercing my heart with a sudden, unutterable joy.
"Rime! Rima!" I cried. "Speak again. Is it you? Come to me
here."
Again that low, warbling sound, or series of sounds, seemingly
from a distance of a few yards. I was not disturbed at her not
replying in Spanish: she had always spoken it somewhat
reluctantly, and only when at my side; but when calling to me
from some distance she would return instinctively to her own
mysterious language, and call to me as bird calls to bird. I
knew that she was inviting me to follow her, but I refused to
move.
"Rima," I cried again, "come to me here, for I know not where to
step, and cannot move until you are at my side and I can feel
your hand."
There came no response, and after some moments, becoming alarmed,
I called to her again.
Then close by me, in a low, trembling voice, she returned: "I am
here."
I put out my hand and touched something soft and wet; it was her
breast, and moving my hand higher up, I felt her hair, hanging
now and streaming with water. She was trembling, and I thought
the rain had chilled her.
"Rime--poor child! How wet you are! How strange to meet you in
such a place! Tell me, dear Rima, how did you find me?"
"I was waiting--watching--all day. I saw you coming across the
savannah, and followed at a distance through the wood."
"And I had treated you so unkindly! Ah, my guardian angel, my
light in the darkness, how I hate myself for giving you pain!
Tell me, sweet, did you wish me to come back and live with you
again?" She made no reply. Then, running my fingers down her
arm, I took her hand in mine. It was hot, like the hand of one
in a fever. I raised it to my lips and then attempted to draw
her to me, but she slipped down and out of my arms to my feet. I
felt her there, on her knees, with head bowed low. Stooping and
putting my arm round her body, I drew her up and held her against
my breast, and felt her heart throbbing wildly. With many
endearing words I begged her to speak to me; but her only reply
was: "Come--come," as she slipped again out of my arms and,
holding my hand in hers, guided me through the bushes.
Before long we came to an open path or glade, where the darkness
was not profound; and releasing my hand, she began walking
rapidly before me, always keeping at such a distance as just
enabled me to distinguish her grey, shadowy figure, and with
frequent doublings to follow the natural paths and openings which
she knew so well. In this way we kept on nearly to the end,
without exchanging a word, and hearing no sound except the
continuous rush of rain, which to our accustomed ears had ceased
to have the effect of sound, and the various gurgling noises of
innumerable runners. All at once, as we came to a more open
place, a strip of bright firelight appeared before us, shining
from the half-open door of Nuflo's lodge. She turned round as
much as to say: "Now you know where you are," then hurried on,
leaving me to follow as best I could.
CHAPTER XI
There was a welcome change in the weather when I rose early next
morning; the sky was without cloud and had that purity in its
colour and look of infinite distance seen only when the
atmosphere is free from vapour. The sun had not yet risen, but
old Nuflo was already among the ashes, on his hands and knees,
blowing the embers he had uncovered to a flame.Then Rima appeared
only to pass through the room with quick light tread to go out of
the door without a word or even a glance at my face. The old
man, after watching at the door for a few minutes, turned and
began eagerly questioning me about my adventures on the previous
evening. In reply I related to him how the girl had found me in
the forest lost and unable to extricate myself from the tangled
undergrowth.
He rubbed his hands on his knees and chuckled. "Happy for you,
senor," he said, "that my granddaughter regards you with such
friendly eyes, otherwise you might have perished before morning.
Once she was at your side, no light, whether of sun or moon or
lantern, was needed, nor that small instrument which is said to
guide a man aright in the desert, even in the darkest night--let
him that can believe such a thing!"
"Yes, happy for me," I returned. "I am filled with remorse that
it was all through my fault that the poor child was exposed to
such weather."
"O senor," he cried airily, "let not that distress you! Rain and
wind and hot suns, from which we seek shelter, do not harm her.
She takes no cold, and no fever, with or without ague."
After some further conversation I left him to steal away
unobserved on his own account, and set out for a ramble in the
hope of encountering Rima and winning her to talk to me.
My quest did not succeed: not a glimpse of her delicate shadowy
form did I catch among the trees; and not one note from her
melodious lips came to gladden me. At noon I returned to the
house, where I found food placed ready for me, and knew that she
had come there during my absence and had not been forgetful of my
wants. "Shall I thank you for this?" I said. "I ask you for
heavenly nectar for the sustentation of the higher winged nature
in me, and you give me a boiled sweet potato, toasted strips of
sun-dried pumpkins, and a handful of parched maize! Rima! Rima!
my woodland fairy, my sweet saviour, why do you yet fear me? Is
it that love struggles in you with repugnance? Can you discern
with clear spiritual eyes the grosser elements in me, and hate
them; or has some false imagination made me appear all dark and
evil, but too late for your peace, after the sweet sickness of
love has infected you?"
But she was not there to answer me, and so after a time I went
forth again and seated myself listlessly on the root of an old
tree not far from the house. I had sat there a full hour when
all at once Rima appeared at my side. Bending forward, she
touched my hand, but without glancing at my face; "Come with me,"
she said, and turning, moved swiftly towards the northern
extremity of the forest. She seemed to take it for granted that
I would follow, never casting a look behind nor pausing in her
rapid walk; but I was only too glad to obey and, starting up, was
quickly after her. She led me by easy ways, familiar to her,
with many doublings to escape the undergrowth, never speaking or
pausing until we came out from the thick forest, and I found
myself for the first time at the foot of the great hill or
mountain Ytaioa. Glancing back for a few moments, she waved a
hand towards the summit, and then at once began the ascent. Here
too it seemed all familiar ground to her. From below, the sides
had presented an exceedingly rugged appearance--a wild confusion
of huge jagged rocks, mixed with a tangled vegetation of trees,
bushes, and vines; but following her in all her doublings, it
became easy enough, although it fatigued me greatly owing to our
rapid pace. The hill was conical, but I found that it had a flat
top--an oblong or pear-shaped area, almost level, of a soft,
crumbly sandstone, with a few blocks and boulders of a harder
stone scattered about--and no vegetation, except the grey
mountain lichen and a few sere-looking dwarf shrubs.
Here Rima, at a distance of a few yards from me, remained
standing still for some minutes, as if to give me time to recover
my breath; and I was right glad to sit down on a stone to rest.
Finally she walked slowly to the centre of the level area, which
was about two acres in extent; rising, I followed her and,
climbing on to a huge block of stone, began gazing at the wide
prospect spread out before me. The day was windless and bright,
with only a few white clouds floating at a great height above and
casting travelling shadows over that wild, broken country, where
forest, marsh, and savannah were only distinguishable by their
different colours, like the greys and greens and yellows on a
map. At a great distance the circle of the horizon was broken
here and there by mountains, but the hills in our neighbourhood
were all beneath our feet.
After gazing all round for some minutes, I jumped down from my
stand and, leaning against the stone, stood watching the girl,
waiting for her to speak. I felt convinced that she had
something of the very highest importance (to herself) to
communicate, and that only the pressing need of a confidant, not
Nuflo, had overcome her shyness of me; and I determined to let
her take her own time to say it in her own way. For a while she
continued silent, her face averted, but her little movements and
the way she clasped and unclasped her fingers showed that she was
anxious and her mind working. Suddenly, half turning to me, she
began speaking eagerly and rapidly.
"Do you see," she said, waving her hand to indicate the whole
circuit of earth, "how large it is? Look!" pointing now to
mountains in the west. "Those are the Vahanas--one, two,
three--the highest--I can tell you their names--Vahana-Chara,
Chumi, Aranoa. Do you see that water? It is a river, called
Guaypero. From the hills it comes down, Inaruna is their name,
and you can see them there in the south--far, far." And in this
way she went on pointing out and naming all the mountains and
rivers within sight. Then she suddenly dropped her hands to her
sides and continued: "That is all. Because we can see no
further. But the world is larger than that! Other mountains,
other rivers. Have I not told you of Voa, on the River Voa,
where I was born, where mother died, where the priest taught me,
years, years ago? All that you cannot see, it is so far away--so
far."
I did not laugh at her simplicity, nor did I smile or feel any
inclination to smile. On the contrary, I only experienced a
sympathy so keen that it was like pain while watching her clouded
face, so changeful in its expression, yet in all changes so
wistful. I could not yet form any idea as to what she wished to
communicate or to discover, but seeing that she paused for a
reply, I answered: "The world is so large, Rima, that we can only
see a very small portion of it from any one spot. Look at this,"
and with a stick I had used to aid me in my ascent I traced a
circle six or seven inches in circumference on the soft stone,
and in its centre placed a small pebble. "This represents the
mountain we are standing on," I continued, touching the pebble;
"and this line encircling it encloses all of the earth we can see
from the mountain-top. Do you understand?--the line I have
traced is the blue line of the horizon beyond which we cannot
see. And outside of this little circle is all the flat top of
Ytaioa representing the world. Consider, then, how small a
portion of the world we can see from this spot!"
"And do you know it all?" she returned excitedly. "All the
world?" waving her hand to indicate the little stone plain.
"All the mountains, and rivers, and forests--all the people in
the world?"
"That would be impossible, Rima; consider how large it is."
"That does not matter. Come, let us go together--we two and
grandfather--and see all the world; all the mountains and
forests, and know all the people."
"You do not know what you are saying, Rima. You might as well
say: 'Come, let us go to the sun and find out everything in it.'"
"It is you who do not know what you are saying," she retorted,
with brightening eyes which for a moment glanced full into mine.
"We have no wings like birds to fly to the sun. Am I not able to
walk on the earth, and run? Can I not swim? Can I not climb
every mountain?"
"No, you cannot. You imagine that all the earth is like this
little portion you see. But it is not all the same. There are
great rivers which you cannot cross by swimming; mountains you
cannot climb; forests you cannot penetrate--dark, and inhabited
by dangerous beasts, and so vast that all this space your eyes
look on is a mere speck of earth in comparison."
She listened excitedly. "Oh, do you know all that?" she cried,
with a strangely brightening look; and then half turning from me,
she added, with sudden petulance: "Yet only a minute ago you knew
nothing of the world--because it is so large! Is anything to be
gained by speaking to one who says such contrary things?"
I explained that I had not contradicted myself, that she had not
rightly interpreted my words. I knew, I said, something about
the principal features of the different countries of the world,
as, for instance, the largest mountain ranges, and rivers, and
the cities. Also something, but very little, about the tribes of
savage men. She heard me with impatience, which made me speak
rapidly, in very general terms; and to simplify the matter I made
the world stand for the continent we were in. It seemed idle to
go beyond that, and her eagerness would not have allowed it.
"Tell me all you know," she said the moment I ceased speaking.
"What is there--and there--and there?" pointing in various
directions. "Rivers and forests--they are nothing to me. The
villages, the tribes, the people everywhere; tell me, for I must
know it all."
"It would take long to tell, Rima."
"Because you are so slow. Look how high the sun is! Speak,
speak! What is there?" pointing to the north.
"All that country," I said, waving my hands from east to west,
"is Guayana; and so large is it that you could go in this
direction, or in this, travelling for months, without seeing the
end of Guayana. Still it would be Guayana; rivers, rivers,
rivers, with forests between, and other forests and rivers
beyond. And savage people, nations and tribes--Guahibo,
Aguaricoto, Ayano, Maco, Piaroa, Quiriquiripo, Tuparito--shall I
name a hundred more? It would be useless, Rima; they are all
savages, and live widely scattered in the forests, hunting with
bow and arrow and the zabatana. Consider, then, how large
Guayana is!"
"Guayana--Guayana! Do I not know all this is Guayana? But
beyond, and beyond, and beyond? Is there no end to Guayana?"
"Yes; there northwards it ends at the Orinoco, a mighty river,
coming from mighty mountains, compared with which Ytaioa is like
a stone on the Around on which we have sat down to rest. You
must know that guayana is only a portion, a half, of our country,
Venezuela. Look," I continued, putting my hand round my shoulder
to touch the middle of my back, "there is a groove running down
my spine dividing my body into equal parts. Thus does the great
Orinoco divide Venezuela, and on one side of it is all Guayana;
and on the other side the countries or provinces of Cumana,
Maturm, Barcelona, Bolivar, Guarico, Apure, and many others." I
then gave a rapid description of the northern half of the
country, with its vast llanos covered with herds in one part, its
plantations of coffee, rice, and sugar-cane in another, and its
chief towns; last of all Caracas, the gay and opulent little
Paris in America.
This seemed to weary her; but the moment I ceased speaking, and
before I could well moisten my dry lips, she demanded to know
what came after Caracas--after all Venezuela.
"The ocean--water, water, water," I replied.
"There are no people there--in the water; only fishes," she
remarked; then suddenly continued: "Why are you silent--is
Venezuela, then, all the world?"
The task I had set myself to perform seemed only at its
commencement yet. Thinking how to proceed with it, my eyes roved
over the level area we were standing on, and it struck me that
this little irregular plain, broad at one end and almost pointed
at the other, roughly resembled the South American continent in
its form.
"Look, Rima," I began, "here we are on this small pebble--Ytaioa;
and this line round it shuts us in--we cannot see beyond. Now
let us imagine that we can see beyond--that we can see the whole
flat mountaintop; and that, you know, is the whole world. Now
listen while I tell you of all the countries, and principal
mountains, and rivers, and cities of the world."
The plan I had now fixed on involved a great deal of walking
about and some hard work in moving and setting up stones and
tracing boundary and other lines; but it gave me pleasure, for
Rima was close by all the time, following me from place to place,
listening to all I said in silence but with keen interest. At
the broad end of the level summit I marked out Venezuela, showing
by means of a long line how the Orinoco divided it, and also
marking several of the greater streams flowing into it. I also
marked the sites of Caracas and other large towns with stones;
and rejoiced that we are not like the Europeans, great
city-builders, for the stones proved heavy to lift. Then
followed Colombia and Ecuador on the west; and, successively,
Bolivia, Peru, Chile, ending at last in the south with Patagonia,
a cold arid land, bleak and desolate. I marked the littoral
cities as we progressed on that side, where earth ends and the
Pacific Ocean begins, and infinitude.
Then, in a sudden burst of inspiration, I described the
Cordilleras to her--that world-long, stupendous chain; its sea of
Titicaca, and wintry, desolate Paramo, where lie the ruins of
Tiahuanaco, older than Thebes. I mentioned its principal
cities--those small inflamed or festering pimples that attract
much attention from appearing on such a body. Quito, called--not
in irony, but by its own people--the Splendid and the
Magnificent; so high above the earth as to appear but a little
way removed from heaven--"de Quito al cielo," as the saying is.
But of its sublime history, its kings and conquerors, Haymar
Capac the Mighty, and Huascar, and Atahualpa the Unhappy, not one
word. Many words--how inadequate!--of the summits, white with
everlasting snows, above it--above this navel of the world, above
the earth, the ocean, the darkening tempest, the condor's flight.
Flame-breathing Cotopaxi, whose wrathful mutterings are audible
two hundred leagues away, and Chimborazo, Antisana, Sarata,
Illimani, Aconcagua--names of mountains that affect us like the
names of gods, implacable Pachacamac and Viracocha, whose
everlasting granite thrones they are. At the last I showed her
Cuzco, the city of the sun, and the highest dwelling-place of men
on earth.
I was carried away by so sublime a theme; and remembering that I
had no critical hearer, I gave free reins to fancy, forgetting
for the moment that some undiscovered thought or feeling had
prompted her questions. And while I spoke of the mountains, she
hung on my words, following me closely in my walk, her
countenance brilliant. her frame quivering with excitement.
There yet remained to be described all that unimaginable space
east of the Andes; the rivers--what rivers!--the green plains
that are like the sea--the illimitable waste of water where there
is no land--and the forest region. The very thought of the
Amazonian forest made my spirit droop. If I could have snatched
her up and placed her on the dome of Chimborazo she would have
looked on an area of ten thousand square miles of earth, so vast
is the horizon at that elevation. And possibly her imagination
would have been able to clothe it all with an unbroken forest.
Yet how small a portion this would be of the stupendous whole--of
a forest region equal in extent to the whole of Europe! All
loveliness, all grace, all majesty are there; but we cannot see,
cannot conceive--come away! From this vast stage, to be occupied
in the distant future by millions and myriads of beings, like us
of upright form, the nations that will be born when all the
existing dominant races on the globe and the civilizations they
represent have perished as utterly as those who sculptured the
stones of old Tiahuanaco--from this theatre of palms prepared for
a drama unlike any which the Immortals have yet witnessed--I
hurried away; and then slowly conducted her along the Atlantic
coast, listening to the thunder of its great waves, and pausing
at intervals to survey some maritime city.
Never probably since old Father Noah divided the earth among his
sons had so grand a geographical discourse been delivered; and
having finished, I sat down, exhausted with my efforts, and
mopped my brow, but glad that my huge task was over, and
satisfied that I had convinced her of the futility of her wish to
see the world for herself.
Her excitement had passed away by now. She was standing a little
apart from me, her eyes cast down and thoughtful. At length she
approached me and said, waving her hand all round: "What is
beyond the mountains over there, beyond the cities on that
side--beyond the world?"
"Water, only water. Did I not tell you?" I returned stoutly;
for I had, of course, sunk the Isthmus of Panama beneath the sea.
"Water! All round?" she persisted.
"Yes."
"Water, and no beyond? Only water--always water?"
I could no longer adhere to so gross a lie. She was too
intelligent, and I loved her too much. Standing up, I pointed to
distant mountains and isolated peaks.
"Look at those peaks," I said. "It is like that with the
world--this world we are standing on. Beyond that great water
that flows all round the world, but far away, so far that it
would take months in a big boat to reach them, there are islands,
some small, others as large as this world. But, Rima, they are
so far away, so impossible to reach, that it is useless to speak
or to think of them. They are to us like the sun and moon and
stars, to which we cannot fly. And now sit down and rest by my
side, for you know everything."
She glanced at me with troubled eyes.
"Nothing do I know--nothing have you told me. Did I not say that
mountains and rivers and forests are nothing? Tell me about all
the people in the world. Look! there is Cuzco over there, a
city like no other in the world--did you not tell me so? Of the
people nothing. Are they also different from all others in the
world?"
"I will tell you that if you will first answer me one question,
Rima."
She drew a little nearer, curious to hear, but was silent.
"Promise that you will answer me," I persisted, and as she
continued silent, I added: "Shall I not ask you, then?"
"Say," she murmured.
"Why do you wish to know about the people of Cuzco?"
She flashed a look at me, then averted her face. For some
moments she stood hesitating; then, coming closer, touched me on
the shoulder and said softly: "Turn away, do not look at me."
I obeyed, and bending so close that I felt her warm breath on my
neck, she whispered: "Are the people in Cuzco like me? Would
they understand me--the things you cannot understand? Do you
know?"
Her tremulous voice betrayed her agitation, and her words, I
imagined, revealed the motive of her action in bringing me to the
summit of Ytaioa, and of her desire to visit and know all the
various peoples inhabiting the world. She had begun to realize,
after knowing me, her isolation and unlikeness to others, and at
the same time to dream that all human beings might not be unlike
her and unable to understand her mysterious speech and to enter
into her thoughts and feelings.
"I can answer that question, Rima," I said. "Ah, no, poor child,
there are none there like you--not one, not one. Of all
there--priests, soldiers, merchants, workmen, white, black, red,
and mixed; men and women, old and young, rich and poor, ugly and
beautiful--not one would understand the sweet language you
speak."
She said nothing, and glancing round, I discovered that she was
walking away, her fingers clasped before her, her eyes cast down,
and looking profoundly dejected. Jumping up, I hurried after
her. "Listen!" I said, coming to her side. "Do you know that
there are others in the world like you who would understand your
speech?"
"Oh, do I not! Yes--mother told me. I was young when you died,
but, O mother, why did you not tell me more?"
"But where?"
"Oh, do you not think that I would go to them if I knew--that I
would ask?"
"Does Nuflo know?"
She shook her head, walking dejectedly along.
"But have you asked him?" I persisted.
"Have I not! Not once--not a hundred times."
Suddenly she paused. "Look," she said, "now we are standing in
Guayana again. And over there in Brazil, and up there towards
the Cordilleras, it is unknown. And there are people there.
Come, let us go and seek for my mother's people in that place.
With grandfather, but not the dogs; they would frighten the
animals and betray us by barking to cruel men who would slay us
with poisoned arrows."
"O Rima, can you not understand? It is too far. And your
grandfather, poor old man, would die of weariness and hunger and
old age in some strange forest."
"Would he die--old grandfather? Then we could cover him up with
palm leaves in the forest and leave him. It would not be
grandfather; only his body that must turn to dust. He would be
away--away where the stars are. We should not die, but go on,
and on, and on."
To continue the discussion seemed hopeless. I was silent,
thinking of what I had heard--that there were others like her
somewhere in that vast green world, so much of it imperfectly
known, so many districts never yet explored by white men. True,
it was strange that no report of such a race had reached the ears
of any traveller; yet here was Rima herself at my side, a living
proof that such a race did exist. Nuflo probably knew more than
he would say; I had failed, as we have seen, to win the secret
from him by fair means, and could not have recourse to foul--the
rack and thumbscrew--to wring it from him. To the Indians she
was only an object of superstitious fear--a daughter of the
Didi--and to them nothing of her origin was known. And she, poor
girl, had only a vague remembrance of a few words heard in
childhood from her mother, and probably not rightly understood.
While these thoughts had been passing through my mind, Rima had
been standing silent by, waiting, perhaps, for an answer to her
last words. Then stooping, she picked up a small pebble and
tossed it three or four yards away.
"Do you see where it fell?" she cried, turning towards me.
"That is on the border of Guayana--is it not? Let us go there
first."
"Rime, how you distress me! We cannot go there. It is all a
savage wilderness, almost unknown to men--a blank on the map--"
"The map?--speak no word that I do not understand."
In a very few words I explained my meaning; even fewer would have
sufficed, so quick was her apprehension.
"If it is a blank," she returned quickly, "then you know of
nothing to stop us--no river we cannot swim, and no great
mountains like those where Quito is."
"But I happen to know, Rima, for it has been related to me by old
Indians, that of all places that is the most difficult of access.
There is a river there, and although it is not on the map, it
would prove more impassable to us than the mighty Orinoco and
Amazon. It has vast malarious swamps on its borders, overgrown
with dense forest, teeming with savage and venomous animals, so
that even the Indians dare not venture near it. And even before
the river is reached, there is a range of precipitous mountains
called by the same name--just there where your pebble fell--the
mountains of Riolama--"
Hardly had the name fallen from my lips before a change swift as
lightning came over her countenance; all doubt, anxiety,
petulance, hope, and despondence, and these in ever-varying
degrees, chasing each other like shadows, had vanished, and she
was instinct and burning with some new powerful emotion which had
flashed into her soul.
"Riolama! Riolama!" she repeated so rapidly and in a tone so
sharp that it tingled in the brain. "That is the place I am
seeking! There was my mother found--there are her people and
mine! Therefore was I called Riolama--that is my name!"
"Rima!" I returned, astonished at her words.
"No, no, no--Riolama. When I was a child, and the priest
baptized me, he named me Riolama--the place where my mother was
found. But it was long to say, and they called me Rima."
Suddenly she became still and then cried in a ringing voice:
"And he knew it all along--that old man--he knew that Riolama was
near--only there where the pebble fell--that we could go there!"
While speaking she turned towards her home, pointing with raised
hand. Her whole appearance now reminded me of that first meeting
with her when the serpent bit me; the soft red of her irides
shone like fire, her delicate skin seemed to glow with an intense
rose colour, and her frame trembled with her agitation, so that
her loose cloud of hair was in motion as if blown through by the
wind.
"Traitor! Traitor!" she cried, still looking homewards and
using quick, passionate gestures. "It was all known to you, and
you deceived me all these years; even to me, Rima, you lied with
your lips! Oh, horrible! Was there ever such a scandal known in
Guayana? Come, follow me, let us go at once to Riolama." And
without so much as casting a glance behind to see whether I
followed or no, she hurried away, and in a couple of minutes
disappeared from sight over the edge of the flat summit. "Rime!
Rima! Come back and listen to me! Oh, you are mad! Come back!
Come back!"
But she would not return or pause and listen; and looking after
her, I saw her bounding down the rocky slope like some wild,
agile creature possessed of padded hoofs and an infallible
instinct; and before many minutes she vanished from sight among
crabs and trees lower down.
"Nuflo, old man," said I, looking out towards his lodge, "are
there no shooting pains in those old bones of yours to warn you
in time of the tempest about to burst on your head?"
Then I sat down to think.
CHAPTER XII
To follow impetuous, bird-like Rima in her descent of the hill
would have been impossible, nor had I any desire to be a witness
of old Nuflo's discomfiture at the finish. It was better to
leave them to settle their quarrel themselves, while I occupied
myself in turning over these fresh facts in my mind to find out
how they fitted into the speculative structure I had been
building during the last two or three weeks. But it soon struck
me that it was getting late, that the sun would be gone in a
couple of hours; and at once I began the descent. It was not
accomplished without some bruises and a good many scratches.
After a cold draught, obtained by putting my lips to a black rock
from which the water was trickling, I set out on my walk home,
keeping near the western border of the forest for fear of losing
myself. I had covered about half the distance from the foot of
the hill to Nuflo's lodge when the sun went down. Away on my
left the evening uproar of the howling monkeys burst out, and
after three or four minutes ceased; the after silence was pierced
at intervals by screams of birds going to roost among the trees
in the distance, and by many minor sounds close at hand, of small
bird, frog, and insect. The western sky was now like
amber-coloured flame, and against that immeasurably distant
luminous background the near branches and clustered foliage
looked black; but on my left hand the vegetation still appeared
of a uniform dusky green. In a little while night would drown all
colour, and there would be no light but that of the wandering
lantern-fly, always unwelcome to the belated walker in a lonely
place, since, like the ignis fatuus, it is confusing to the sight
and sense of direction.
With increasing anxiety I hastened on, when all at once a low
growl issuing from the bushes some yards ahead of me brought me
to a stop. In a moment the dogs, Susio and Goloso, rushed out
from some hiding place furiously barking; but they quickly
recognized me and slunk back again. Relieved from fear, I walked
on for a short distance; then it struck me that the old man must
be about somewhere, as the dogs scarcely ever stirred from his
side. Turning back, I went to the spot where they had appeared
to me; and there, after a while, I caught sight of a dim, yellow
form as one of the brutes rose up to look at me. He had been
lying on the ground by the side of a wide-spreading bush, dead
and dry, but overgrown by a creeping plant which had completely
covered its broad, flat top like a piece of tapestry thrown over
a table, its slender terminal stems and leaves hanging over the
edge like a deep fringe. But the fringe did not reach to the
ground and under the bush. in its dark interior. I caught sight
of the other dog; and after gazing in for some time, I also
discovered a black, recumbent form, which I took to be Nuflo.
"What are you doing there, old man?" I cried. "Where is
Rima--have you not seen her? Come out."
Then he stirred himself, slowly creeping out on all fours; and
finally, getting free of the dead twigs and leaves, he stood up
and faced me. He had a strange, wild look, his white beard all
disordered, moss and dead leaves clinging to it, his eyes staring
like an owl's, while his mouth opened and shut, the teeth
striking together audibly, like an angry peccary's. After
silently glaring at me in this mad way for some moments, he burst
out: "Cursed be the day when I first saw you, man of Caracas!
Cursed be the serpent that bit you and had not sufficient power
in its venom to kill! Ha! you come from Ytaioa, where you
talked with Rima? And you have now returned to the tiger's den
to mock that dangerous animal with the loss of its whelp. Fool,
if you did not wish the dogs to feed on your flesh, it would have
been better if you had taken your evening walk in some other
direction."
These raging words did not have the effect of alarming me in the
least, nor even of astonishing me very much, albeit up till now
the old man tract always shown himself suave and respectful. His
attack did not seem quite spontaneous. In spite of the wildness
of his manner and the violence of his speech, he appeared to be
acting a part which he had rehearsed beforehand. I was only
angry, and stepping forward, I dealt him a very sharp rap with my
knuckles on his chest. "Moderate your language, old man," I
said; "remember that you are addressing a superior."
"What do you say to me?" he screamed in a shrill, broken voice,
accompanying his words with emphatic gestures. "Do you think you
are on the pavement of Caracas? Here are no police to protect
you--here we are alone in the desert where names and titles are
nothing, standing man to man."
"An old man to a young one," I returned. "And in virtue of my
youth I am your superior. Do you wish me to take you by the
throat and shake your insolence out of you?"
"What, do you threaten me with violence?" he exclaimed, throwing
himself into a hostile attitude. "You, the man I saved, and
sheltered, and fed, and treated like a son! Destroyer of my
peace, have you not injured me enough? You have stolen my
grandchild's heart from me; with a thousand inventions you have
driven her mad! My child, my angel, Rima, my saviour! With your
lying tongue you have changed her into a demon to persecute me!
And you are not satisfied, but must finish your evil work by
inflicting blows on my worn body! All, all is lost to me! Take
my life if you wish it, for now it is worth nothing and I desire
not to keep it!" And here he threw himself on his knees and,
tearing open his old, ragged mantle, presented his naked breast
to me. "Shoot! Shoot!" he screeched. "And if you have no
weapon take my knife and plunge it into this sad heart, and let
me die!" And drawing his knife from its sheath, he flung it down
at my feet.
All this performance only served to increase my anger and
contempt; but before I could make any reply I caught sight of a
shadowy object at some distance moving towards us--something grey
and formless, gliding swift and noiseless, like some great
low-flying owl among the trees. It was Rima, and hardly had I
seen her before she was with us, facing old Nuflo, her whole
frame quivering with passion, her wide-open eyes appearing
luminous in that dim light.
"You are here!" she cried in that quick, ringing tone that was
almost painful to the sense. "You thought to escape me! To hide
yourself from my eyes in the wood! Miserable! Do you not know
that I have need of you--that I have not finished with you yet?
Do you, then, wish to be scourged to Riolama with thorny
twigs--to be dragged thither by the beard?"
He had been staring open-mouthed at her, still on his knees, and
holding his mantle open with his skinny hands. "Rima! Rima!
have mercy on me!" he cried out piteously. "I cannot go to
Riolama, it is so far--so far. And I am old and should meet my
death. Oh, Rima, child of the woman I saved from death, have you
no compassion? I shall die, I shall die!"
"Shall you die? Not until you have shown me the way to Riolama.
And when I have seen Riolama with my eyes, then you may die, and
I shall be glad at your death; and the children and the
grandchildren and cousins and friends of all the animals you have
slain and fed on shall know that you are dead and be glad at your
death. For you have deceived me with lies all these years even
me--and are not fit to live! Come now to Riolama; rise
instantly, I command you!"
Instead of rising he suddenly put out his hand and snatched up
the knife from the ground. "Do you then wish me to die?" he
cried. "Shall you be glad at my death? Behold, then I shall
slay myself before your eyes. By my own hand, Rima, I am now
about to perish, striking the knife into my heart!"
While speaking he waved the knife in a tragic manner over his
head, but I made no movement; I was convinced that he had no
intention of taking his own life--that he was still acting.
Rima, incapable of understanding such a thing, took it
differently.
"Oh, you are going to kill yourself." she cried. "Oh, wicked
man, wait until you know what will happen to you after death.
All shall now be told to my mother. Hear my words, then kill
yourself."
She also now dropped on to her knees and, lifting her clasped
hands and fixing her resentful sparkling eyes on the dim blue
patch of heaven visible beyond the treetops, began to speak
rapidly in clear, vibrating tones. She was praying to her mother
in heaven; and while Nuflo listened absorbed, his mouth open, his
eyes fixed on her, the hand that clutched the knife dropped to
his side. I also heard with the greatest wonder and admiration.
For she had been shy and reticent with me, and now, as if
oblivious of my presence, she was telling aloud the secrets of
her inmost heart.
"O mother, mother, listen to me, to Rima, your beloved child!"
she began. "All these years I have been wickedly deceived by
grandfather--Nuflo--the old man that found you. Often have I
spoken to him of Riolama, where you once were, and your people
are, and he denied all knowledge of such a place. Sometimes he
said that it was at an immense distance, in a great wilderness
full of serpents larger than the trunks of great trees, and of
evil spirits and savage men, slayers of all strangers. At other
times he affirmed that no such place existed; that it was a tale
told by the Indians; such false things did he say to me--to Rima,
your child. O mother, can you believe such wickedness?
"Then a stranger, a white man from Venezuela, came into our
woods: this is the man that was bitten by a serpent, and his name
is Abel; only I do not call him by that name, but by other names
which I have told you. But perhaps you did not listen, or did
not hear, for I spoke softly and not as now, on my knees,
solemnly. For I must tell you, O mother, that after you died the
priest at Voa told me repeatedly that when I prayed, whether to
you or to any of the saints, or to the Mother of Heaven, I must
speak as he had taught me if I wished to be heard and understood.
And that was most strange, since you had taught me differently;
but you were living then, at Voa, and now that you are in heaven,
perhaps you know better. Therefore listen to me now, O mother,
and let nothing I say escape you.
"When this white man had been for some days with us, a strange
thing happened to me, which made me different, so that I was no
longer Rima, although Rima still--so strange was this thing; and
I often went to the pool to look at myself and see the change in
me, but nothing different could I see. In the first place it
came from his eyes passing into mine, and filling me just as the
lightning fills a cloud at sunset: afterwards it was no longer
from his eyes only, but it came into me whenever I saw him, even
at a distance, when I heard his voice, and most of all when he
touched me with his hand. When he is out of my sight I cannot
rest until I see him again; and when I see him, then I am glad,
yet in such fear and trouble that I hide myself from him. O
mother, it could not be told; for once when he caught me in his
arms and compelled me to speak of it, he did not understand; yet
there was need to tell it; then it came to me that only to our
people could it be told, for they would understand, and reply to
me, and tell me what to do in such a case.
"And now, O mother, this is what happened next. I went to
grandfather and first begged and then commanded him to take me to
Riolama; but he would not obey, nor give attention to what I
said, but whenever I spoke to him of it he rose up and hurried
from me; and when I followed he flung back a confused and angry
reply, saying in the same breath that it was so long since he had
been to Riolama that he had forgotten where it was, and that no
such place existed. And which of his words were true and which
false I knew not; so that it would have been better if he had
returned no answer at all; and there was no help to be got from
him. And having thus failed, and there being no other person to
speak to except this stranger, I determined to go to him, and in
his company seek through the whole world for my people. This
will surprise you, O mother, because of that fear which came on
me in his presence, causing me to hide from his sight; but my
wish was so great that for a time it overcame my fear; so that I
went to him as he sat alone in the wood, sad because he could not
see me, and spoke to him, and led him to the summit of Ytaioa to
show me all the countries of the world from the summit. And you
must also know that I tremble in his presence, not because I fear
him as I fear Indians and cruel men; for he has no evil in him,
and is beautiful to look at, and his words are gentle, and his
desire is to be always with me, so that he difFers from all other
men I have seen, just as I differ from all women, except from you
only, O sweet mother.
"On the mountain-top he marked out and named all the countries of
the world, the great mountains, the rivers, the plains, the
forests, the cities; and told me also of the peoples, whites and
savages, but of our people nothing. And beyond where the world
ends there is water, water, water. And when he spoke of that
unknown part on the borders of Guayana, on the side of the
Cordilleras, he named the mountains of Riolama, and in that way I
first found out where my people are. I then left him on Ytaioa,
he refusing to follow me, and ran to grandfather and taxed him
with his falsehoods; and he, finding I knew all, escaped from me
into the woods, where I have now found him once more, talking
with the stranger. And now, O mother, seeing himself caught and
unable to escape a second time, he has taken up a knife to kill
himself, so as not to take me to Riolama; and he is only waiting
until I finish speaking to you, for I wish him to know what will
happen to him after death. Therefore, O mother, listen well and
do what I tell you. When he has killed himself, and has come
into that place where you are, see that he does not escape the
punishment he merits. Watch well for his coming, for he is full
of cunning and deceit, and will endeavor to hide himself from
your eyes. When you have recognized him--an old man, brown as an
Indian, with a white beard--point him out to the angels, and say:
'This is Nuflo, the bad man that lied to Rima.' Let them take him
and singe his wings with fire, so that he may not escape by
flying; and afterwards thrust him into some dark cavern under a
mountain, and place a great stone that a hundred men could not
remove over its mouth, and leave him there alone and in the dark
for ever!"
Having ended, she rose quickly from her knees, and at the same
moment Nuflo, dropping the knife, cast himself prostrate at her
feet.
"Rima--my child, my child, not that!" he cried out in a voice
that was broken with terror. He tried to take hold of her feet
with his hands, but she shrank from him with aversion; still he
kept on crawling after her like a disabled lizard, abjectly
imploring her to forgive him, reminding her that he had saved
from death the woman whose enmity had now been enlisted against
him, and declaring that he would do anything she commanded him,
and gladly perish in her service.
It was a pitiable sight, and moving quickly to her side I touched
her on the shoulder and asked her to forgive him.
The response came quickly enough. Turning to him once more, she
said: "I forgive you, grandfather. And now get up and take me to
Riolama."
He rose, but only to his knees. "But you have not told her!" he
said, recovering his natural voice, although still anxious, and
jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "Consider, my child, that I
am old and shall doubtless perish on the way. What would become
of my soul in such a case? For now you have told her everything,
and it will not be forgotten."
She regarded him in silence for a few moments; then, moving a
little way apart, dropped on to her knees again, and with raised
hands and eyes fixed on the blue space above, already sprinkled
with stars, prayed again.
"O mother, listen to me, for I have something fresh to say to
you. Grandfather has not killed himself, but has asked my
forgiveness and has promised to obey me. O mother, I have
forgiven him, and he will now take me to Riolama, to our people.
Therefore, O mother, if he dies on the way to Riolama let nothing
be done against him, but remember only that I forgave him at the
last; and when he comes into that place where you are, let him be
well received, for that is the wish of Rima, your child."
As soon as this second petition was ended she was up again and
engaged in an animated discussion with him, urging him to take
her without further delay to Riolama; while he, now recovered
from his fear, urged that so important an undertaking required a
great deal of thought and preparation; that the journey would
occupy about twenty days, and unless he set out well provided
with food he would starve before accomplishing half the distance,
and his death would leave her worse off than before. He
concluded by affirming that he could not start in less time than
seven or eight days.
For a while I listened with keen interest to this dispute, and at
length interposed once more on the old man's side. The poor girl
in her petition had unwittingly revealed to me the power I
possessed, and it was a pleasing experience to exercise it.
Touching her shoulder again, I assured her that seven or eight
days was only a reasonable time in which to prepare for so long a
journey. She instantly yielded, and after one glance at my face,
she moved swiftly away into the darker shadows, leaving me alone
with the old man.
As we returned together through the now profoundly dark wood, I
explained to him how the subject of Riolama had first come up
during my conversation with Rima, and he then apologized for the
violent language he had used to me. This personal question
disposed of, he spoke of the pilgrimage before him, and informed
me in confidence that he intended preparing a quantity of
smoke-dried meat and packing it in a bag, with a layer of cassava
bread, dried pumpkin slips, and such innocent trifles to conceal
it from Rima's keen sight and delicate nostrils. Finally he made
a long rambling statement which, I vainly imagined, was intended
to lead up to an account of Rima's origin, with something about
her people at Riolama; but it led to nothing except an expression
of opinion that the girl was afflicted with a maggot in the
brain, but that as she had interest with the powers above,
especially with her mother, who was now a very important person
among the celestials, it was good policy to submit to her wishes.
Turning to me, doubtless to wink (only I missed the sign owing to
the darkness), he added that it was a fine thing to have a friend
at court. With a little gratulatory chuckle he went on to say
that for others it was necessary to obey all the ordinances of
the Church, to contribute to its support, hear mass, confess from
time to time, and receive absolution; consequently those who went
out into the wilderness, where there were no churches and no
priests to absolve them, did so at the risk of losing their
souls. But with him it was different: he expected in the end to
escape the fires of purgatory and go directly in all his
uncleanness to heaven--a thing, he remarked, which happened to
very few; and he, Nuflo, was no saint, and had first become a
dweller in the desert, as a very young man, in order to escape
the penalty of his misdeeds.
I could not resist the temptation of remarking here that to an
unregenerate man the celestial country might turn out a somewhat
uncongenial place for a residence. He replied airily that he had
considered the point and had no fear about the future; that he
was old, and from all he had observed of the methods of
government followed by those who ruled over earthly affairs from
the sky, he had formed a clear idea of that place, and believed
that even among so many glorified beings he would be able to meet
with those who would prove companionable enough and would think
no worse of him on account of his little blemishes.
How he had first got this idea into his brain about Rima's
ability to make things smooth for him after death I cannot say;
probably it was the effect of the girl's powerful personality and
vivid faith acting on an ignorant and extremely;superstitious
mind. While she was making that petition to her mother in
heaven, it did not seem in the least ridiculous to me: I had felt
no inclination to smile, even when hearing all that about the old
man's wings being singed to prevent his escape by flying. Her
rapt look; the intense conviction that vibrated in her ringing,
passionate tones; the brilliant scorn with which she, a hater of
bloodshed, one so tender towards all living things, even the
meanest, bade him kill himself, and only hear first how her
vengeance would pursue his deceitful soul into other worlds; the
clearness with which she had related the facts of the case,
disclosing the inmost secrets of her heart--all this had had a
strange, convincing effect on me. Listening to her I was no
longer the enlightened, the creedless man. She herself was so
near to the supernatural that it seemed brought near me;
indefinable feelings, which had been latent in me, stirred into
life, and following the direction of her divine, lustrous eyes,
fixed on the blue sky above, I seemed to see there another being
like herself, a Rima glorified, leaning her pale, spiritual face
to catch the winged words uttered by her child on earth. And
even now, while hearing the old man's talk, showing as it did a
mind darkened with such gross delusions, I was not yet altogether
free from the strange effect of that prayer. Doubtless it was a
delusion; her mother was not really there above listening to the
girl's voice. Still, in some mysterious way, Rima had become to
me, even as to superstitious old Nuflo, a being apart and sacred,
and this feeling seemed to mix with my passion, to purify and
exalt it and make it infinitely sweet and precious.
After we had been silent for some time, I said: "Old man, the
result of the grand discussion you have had with Rima is that you
have agreed to take her to Riolama, but about my accompanying you
not one word has been spoken by either of you."
He stopped short to stare at me, and although it was too dark to
see his face, I felt his astonishment. "Senor!" he exclaimed,
"we cannot go without you. Have you not heard my granddaughter's
words--that it is only because of you that she is about to
undertake this crazy journey? If you are not with us in this
thing, then, senor, here we must remain. But what will Rima say
to that?"
"Very well, I will go, but only on one condition."
"What is it?" he asked, with a sudden change of tone, which
warned me that he was becoming cautious again.
"That you tell me the whole story of Rima's origin, and how you
came to be now living with her in this solitary place, and who
these people are she wishes to visit at Riolama."
"Ah, senor, it is a long story, and sad. But you shall hear it
all. You must hear it, senor, since you are now one of us; and
when I am no longer here to protect her, then she will be yours.
And although you will never be able to do more than old Nuflo for
her, perhaps she will be better pleased; and you, senor, better
able to exist innocently by her side, without eating flesh, since
you will always have that rare flower to delight you. But the
story would take long to tell. You shall hear it all as we
journey to Riolama. What else will there be to talk about when
we are walking that long distance, and when we sit at night by
the fire?"
"No, no, old man, I am not to be put off in that way. I must
hear it before I start."
But he was determined to reserve the narrative until the journey,
and after some further argument I yielded the point.
CHAPTER XIII
That evening by the fire old Nuflo, lately so miserable, now
happy in his delusions, was more than usually gay and loquacious.
He was like a child who by timely submission has escaped a
threatened severe punishment. But his lightness of heart was
exceeded by mine; and, with the exception of one other yet to
come, that evening now shines in memory as the happiest my life
has known. For Rima's sweet secret was known to me; and her very
ignorance of the meaning of the feeling she experienced, which
caused her to fly from me as from an enemy, only served to make
the thought of it more purely delightful.
On this occasion she did not steal away like a timid mouse to her
own apartment, as her custom was, but remained to give that one
evening a special grace, seated well away from the fire in that
same shadowy corner where I had first seen her indoors, when I
had marvelled at her altered appearance. From that corner she
could see my face, with the firelight full upon it, she herself
in shadow, her eyes veiled by their drooping lashes. Sitting
there, the vivid consciousness of my happiness was like draughts
of strong, delicious wine, and its effect was like wine,
imparting such freedom to fancy, such fluency, that again and
again old Nuflo applauded, crying out that I was a poet, and
begging me to put it all into rhyme. I could not do that to
please him, never having acquired the art of improvisation--that
idle trick of making words jingle which men of Nuflo's class in
my country so greatly admire; yet it seemed to me on that evening
that my feelings could be adequately expressed only in that
sublimated language used by the finest minds in their inspired
moments; and, accordingly, I fell to reciting. But not from any
modern, nor from the poets of the last century, nor even from the
greater seventeenth century. I kept to the more ancient romances
and ballads, the sweet old verse that, whether glad or sorrowful,
seems always natural and spontaneous as the song of a bird, and
so simple that even a child can understand it.
It was late that night before all the romances I remembered or
cared to recite were exhausted, and not until then did Rima come
out of her shaded corner and steal silently away to her
sleeping-place.
Although I had resolved to go with them, and had set Nuflo's mind
at rest on the point, I was bent on getting the request from
Rima's own lips; and the next morning the opportunity of seeing
her alone presented itself, after old Nuflo had sneaked off with
his dogs. From the moment of his departure I kept a close watch
on the house, as one watches a bush in which a bird one wishes to
see has concealed itself, and out of which it may dart at any
moment and escape unseen.
At length she came forth, and seeing me in the way, would have
slipped back into hiding; for, in spite of her boldness on the
previous day, she now seemed shyer than ever when I spoke to her.
"Rima," I said, "do you remember where we first talked together
under a tree one morning, when you spoke of your mother, telling
me that she was dead?"
"Yes."
"I am going now to that spot to wait for you. I must speak to
you again in that place about this journey to Riolama." As she
kept silent, I added: "Will you promise to come to me there?"
She shook her head, turning half away.
"Have you forgotten our compact, Rima?"
"No," she returned; and then, suddenly coming near, spoke in a
low tone: "I will go there to please you, and you must also do as
I tell you."
"What do you wish, Rima?"
She came nearer still. "Listen! You must not look into my eyes,
you must not touch me with your hands."
"Sweet Rima, I must hold your hand when I speak with you."
"No, no, no," she murmured, shrinking from me; and finding that
it must be as she wished, I reluctantly agreed.
Before I had waited long, she appeared at the trysting-place, and
stood before me, as on a former occasion, on that same spot of
clean yellow sand, clasping and unclasping her fingers, troubled
in mind even then. Only now her trouble was different and
greater, making her shyer and more reticent.
"Rime, your grandfather is going to take you to Riolama. Do you
wish me to go with you?"
"Oh, do you not know that?" she returned, with a swift glance at
my face.
"How should I know?"
Her eyes wandered away restlessly. "On Ytaioa you told me a
hundred things which I did not know," she replied in a vague way,
wishing, perhaps, to imply that with so great a knowledge of
geography it was strange I did not know everything, even her most
secret thoughts.
"Tell me, why must you go to Riolama?"
"You have heard. To speak to my people."
"What will you say to them? Tell me."
"What you do not understand. How tell you?"
"I understand you when you speak in Spanish."
"Oh, that is not speaking."
"Last night you spoke to your mother in Spanish. Did you not
tell her everything?"
"Oh no--not then. When I tell her everything I speak in another
way, in a low voice--not on my knees and praying. At night, and
in the woods, and when I am alone I tell her. But perhaps she
does not hear me; she is not here, but up there--so far! She
never answers, but when I speak to my people they will answer
me."
Then she turned away as if there was nothing more to be said.
"Is this all I am to hear from you, Rima--these few words?" I
exclaimed. "So much did you say to your grandfather, so much to
your dead mother, but to me you say so little!"
She turned again, and with eyes cast down replied:
"He deceived me--I had to tell him that, and then to pray to
mother. But to you that do not understand, what can I say? Only
that you are not like him and all those that I knew at Voa. It
is so different--and the same. You are you, and I am I; why is
it--do you know?"
"No; yes--I know, but cannot tell you. And if you find your
people, what will you do--leave me to go to them? Must I go all
the way to Riolama only to lose you?"
"Where I am, there you must be."
"Why?"
"Do I not see it there?" she returned, with a quick gesture to
indicate that it appeared in my face.
"Your sight is keen, Rima--keen as a bird's. Mine is not so
keen. Let me look once more into those beautiful wild eyes, then
perhaps I shall see in them as much as you see in mine."
"Oh no, no, not that!" she murmured in distress, drawing away
from me; then with a sudden flash of brilliant colour cried:
"Have you forgotten the compact--the promise you made me?"
Her words made me ashamed, and I could not reply. But the shame
was as nothing in strength compared to the impulse I felt to
clasp her beautiful body in my arms and cover her face with
kisses. Sick with desire, I turned away and, sitting on a root
of the tree, covered my face with my hands.
She came nearer: I could see her shadow through my fingers; then
her face and wistful, compassionate eyes.
"Forgive me, dear Rima," I said, dropping my hands again. "I
have tried so hard to please you in everything! Touch my face
with your hand--only that, and I will go to Riolama with you, and
obey you in all things."
For a while she hesitated, then stepped quickly aside so that I
could not see her; but I knew that she had not left me, that she
was standing just behind me. And after waiting a moment longer I
felt her fingers touching my skin, softly, trembling over my
cheek as if a soft-winged moth had fluttered against it; then the
slight aerial touch was gone, and she, too, moth-like, had
vanished from my side.
Left alone in the wood, I was not happy. That fluttering,
flattering touch of her finger-tips had been to me like spoken
language, and more eloquent than language, yet the sweet
assurance it conveyed had not given perfect satisfaction; and
when I asked myself why the gladness of the previous evening had
forsaken me--why I was infected with this new sadness when
everything promised well for me, I found that it was because my
passion had greatly increased during the last few hours; even
during sleep it had been growing, and could no longer be fed by
merely dwelling in thought on the charms, moral and physical, of
its object, and by dreams of future fruition.
I concluded that it would be best for Rima's sake as well as my
own to spend a few of the days before setting out on our journey
with my Indian friends, who would be troubled at my long absence;
and, accordingly, next morning I bade good-bye to the old man,
promising to return in three or four days, and then started
without seeing Rima, who had quitted the house before her usual
time. After getting free of the woods, on casting back my eyes I
caught sight of the girl standing under an isolated tree watching
me with that vague, misty, greenish appearance she so frequently
had when seen in the light shade at a short distance.
"Rima!" I cried, hurrying back to speak to her, but when I
reached the spot she had vanished; and after waiting some time,
seeing and hearing nothing to indicate that she was near me, I
resumed my walk, half thinking that my imagination had deceived
me.
I found my Indian friends home again, and was not surprised to
observe a distinct change in their manner towards me. I had
expected as much; and considering that they must have known very
well where and in whose company I had been spending my time, it
was not strange. Coming across the savannah that morning I had
first begun to think seriously of the risk I was running. But
this thought only served to prepare me for a new condition of
things; for now to go back and appear before Rima, and thus prove
myself to be a person not only capable of forgetting a promise
occasionally, but also of a weak, vacillating mind, was not to be
thought of for a moment.
I was received--not welcomed--quietly enough; not a question, not
a word, concerning my long absence fell from anyone; it was as if
a stranger had appeared among them, one about whom they knew
nothing and consequently regarded with suspicion, if not actual
hostility. I affected not to notice the change, and dipped my
hand uninvited in the pot to satisfy my hunger, and smoked and
dozed away the sultry hours in my hammock. Then I got my guitar
and spent the rest of the day over it, tuning it, touching the
strings so softly with my finger-tips that to a person four yards
off the sound must have seemed like the murmur or buzz of an
insect's wings; and to this scarcely audible accompaniment I
murmured in an equally low tone a new song.
In the evening, when all were gathered under the roof and I had
eaten again, I took up the instrument once more, furtively
watched by all those half-closed animal eyes, and swept the
strings loudly, and sang aloud. I sang an old simple Spanish
melody, to which I had put words in their own language--a
language with no words not in everyday use, in which it is so
difficult to express feelings out of and above the common. What
I had been constructing and practicing all the afternoon sotto
voce was a kind of ballad, an extremely simple tale of a poor
Indian living alone with his young family in a season of dearth;
how day after day he ranged the voiceless woods, to return each
evening with nothing but a few withered sour berries in his hand,
to find his lean, large-eyed wife still nursing the fire that
cooked nothing, and his children crying for food, showing their
bones more plainly through their skins every day; and how,
without anything miraculous, anything wonderful, happening, that
barrenness passed from earth, and the garden once more yielded
them pumpkin and maize, and manioc, the wild fruits ripened, and
the birds returned, filling the forest with their cries; and so
their long hunger was satisfied, and the children grew sleek, and
played and laughed in the sunshine; and the wife, no longer
brooding over the empty pot, wove a hammock of silk grass,
decorated with blue-and-scarlet feathers of the macaw; and in
that new hammock the Indian rested long from his labours, smoking
endless cigars.
When I at last concluded with a loud note of joy, a long,
involuntary suspiration in the darkening room told me that I had
been listened to with profound interest; and, although no word
was spoken, though I was still a stranger and under a cloud, it
was plain that the experiment had succeeded, and that for the
present the danger was averted.
I went to my hammock and slept, but without undressing. Next
morning I missed my revolver and found that the holster
containing it had been detached from the belt. My knife had not
been taken, possibly because it was under me in the hammock while
I slept. In answer to my inquiries I was informed that Runi had
BORROWED my weapon to take it with him to the forest, where he
had gone to hunt, and that he would return it to me in the
evening. I affected to take it in good part, although feeling
secretly ill at ease. Later in the day I came to the conclusion
that Runi had had it in his mind to murder me, that I had
softened him by singing that Indian story, and that by taking
possession of the revolver he showed that he now only meant to
keep me a prisoner. Subsequent events confirmed me in this
suspicion. On his return he explained that he had gone out to
seek for game in the woods; and, going without a companion, he
had taken my revolver to preserve him from dangers--meaning those
of a supernatural kind; and that he had had the misfortune to
drop it among the bushes while in pursuit of some animal. I
answered hotly that he had not treated me like a friend; that if
he had asked me for the weapon it would have been lent to him;
that as he had taken it without permission he must pay me for it.
After some pondering he said that when he took it I was sleeping
soundly; also, that it would not be lost; he would take me to the
place where he had dropped it, when we could search together for
it.
He was in appearance more friendly towards me now, even asking me
to repeat my last evening's song, and so we had that performance
all over again to everybody's satisfaction. But when morning
came he was not inclined to go to the woods: there was food
enough in the house, and the pistol would not be hurt by lying
where it had fallen a day longer. Next day the same excuse;
still I disguised my impatience and suspicion of him and waited,
singing the ballad for the third time that evening. Then I was
conducted to a wood about a league and a half away and we hunted
for the lost pistol among the bushes, I with little hope of
finding it, while he attended to the bird voices and frequently
asked me to stand or lie still when a chance of something
offered.
The result of that wasted day was a determination on my part to
escape from Runi as soon as possible, although at the risk of
making a deadly enemy of him and of being compelled to go on that
long journey to Riolama with no better weapon than a
hunting-knife. I had noticed, while appearing not to do so, that
outside of the house I was followed or watched by one or other of
the Indians, so that great circumspection was needed. On the
following day I attacked my host once more about the revolver,
telling him with well-acted indignation that if not found it must
be paid for. I went so far as to give a list of the articles I
should require, including a bow and arrows, zabatana, two spears,
and other things which I need not specify, to set me up for life
as a wild man in the woods of Guayana. I was going to add a
wife, but as I had already been offered one it did not appear to
be necessary. He seemed a little taken aback at the value I set
upon my weapon, and promised to go and look for it again. Then I
begged that Kua-ko, in whose sharpness of sight I had great
faith, might accompany us. He consented, and named the next day
but one for the expedition. Very well, thought I, tomorrow their
suspicion will be less, and my opportunity will come; then taking
up my rude instrument, I gave them an old Spanish song:
Desde aquel doloroso momento;
but this kind of music had lost its charm for them, and I was
asked to give them the ballad they understood so well, in which
their interest seemed to increase with every repetition. In
spite of anxiety it amused me to see old Cla-cla regarding me
fixedly with owlish eyes and lips moving. My tale had no
wonderful things in it, like hers of the olden time, which she
told only to send her hearers to sleep. Perhaps she had
discovered by now that it was the strange honey of melody which
made the coarse, common cassava bread of everyday life in my
story so pleasant to the palate. I was quite prepared to receive
a proposal to give her music and singing lessons, and to bequeath
a guitar to her in my last will and testament. For, in spite of
her hoary hair and million wrinkles, she, more than any other
savage I had met with, seemed to have taken a draught from Ponce
de Leon's undiscovered fountain of eternal youth. Poor old
witch!
The following day was the sixth of my absence from Rima, and one
of intense anxiety to me, a feeling which I endeavoured to hide
by playing with the children, fighting our old comic stick
fights, and by strumming noisily on the guitar. In the
afternoon, when it was hottest, and all the men who happened to
be indoors were lying in their hammocks, I asked Kua-ko to go
with me to the stream to bathe. He refused--I had counted on
that--and earnestly advised me not to bathe in the pool I was
accustomed to, as some little caribe fishes had made their
appearance there and would be sure to attack me. I laughed at
his idle tale and, taking up my cloak, swung out of the door,
whistling a lively air. He knew that I always threw my cloak
over my head and shoulders as a protection from the sun and
stinging flies when coming out of the water, and so his suspicion
was not aroused, and I was not followed. The pool was about ten
minutes' walk from the house; I arrived at it with palpitating
heart, and going round to its end, where the stream was shallow,
sat down to rest for a few moments and take a few sips of cool
water dipped up in my palm. Presently I rose, crossed the
stream, and began running, keeping among the low trees near the
bank until a dry gully, which extended for some distance across
the savannah, was reached. By following its course the distance
to be covered would be considerably increased, but the shorter
way would have exposed me to sight and made it more dangerous. I
had put forth too much speed at first, and in a short time my
exertions, and the hot sun, together with my intense excitement,
overcame me. I dared not hope that my flight had not been
observed; I imagined that the Indians, unencumbered by any heavy
weight, were already close behind me, and ready to launch their
deadly spears at my back. With a sob of rage and despair I fell
prostrate on my face in the dry bed of the stream, and for two or
three minutes remained thus exhausted and unmanned, my heart
throbbing so violently that my whole frame was shaken. If my
enemies had come on me then disposed to kill me, I could not have
lifted a hand in defence of my life. But minutes passed and they
came not. I rose and went on, at a fast walk now, and when the
sheltering streamed ended, I stooped among the sere dwarfed
shrubs scattered about here and there on its southern side; and
now creeping and now running, with an occasional pause to rest
and look back, I at last reached the dividing ridge at its
southern extremity. The rest of the way was over comparatively
easy ground, inclining downwards; and with that glad green forest
now full in sight, and hope growing stronger every minute in my
breast, my knees ceased to tremble, and I ran on again, scarcely
pausing until I had touched and lost myself in the welcome
shadows.
CHAPTER XIV
Ah, that return to the forest where Rima dwelt, after so anxious
day, when the declining sun shone hotly still, and the green
woodland shadows were so grateful! The coolness, the sense of
security, allayed the fever and excitement I had suffered on the
open savannah; I walked leisurely, pausing often to listen to
some bird voice or to admire some rare insect or parasitic flower
shining star-like in the shade. There was a strangely delightful
sensation in me. I likened myself to a child that, startled at
something it had seen while out playing in the sun, flies to its
mother to feel her caressing hand on its cheek and forget its
tremors. And describing what I felt in that way, I was a little
ashamed and laughed at myself; nevertheless the feeling was very
sweet. At that moment Mother and Nature seemed one and the same
thing. As I kept to the more open part of the wood, on its
southernmost border, the red flame of the sinking sun was seen at
intervals through the deep humid green of the higher foliage.
How every object it touched took from it a new wonderful glory!
At one spot, high up where the foliage was scanty, and slender
bush ropes and moss depended like broken cordage from a dead
limb--just there, bathing itself in that glory-giving light, I
noticed a fluttering bird, and stood still to watch its antics.
Now it would cling, head downwards, to the slender twigs, wings
and tail open; then, righting itself, it would flit from waving
line to line, dropping lower and lower; and anon soar upwards a
distance of twenty feet and alight to recommence the flitting and
swaying and dropping towards the earth. It was one of those
birds that have a polished plumage, and as it moved this way and
that, flirting its feathers, they caught the beams and shone at
moments like glass or burnished metal. Suddenly another bird of
the same kind dropped down to it as if from the sky, straight and
swift as a falling stone; and the first bird sprang up to meet
the comer, and after rapidly wheeling round each other for a
moment, they fled away in company, screaming shrilly through the
wood, and were instantly lost to sight, while their jubilant
cries came back fainter and fainter at each repetition.
I envied them not their wings: at that moment earth did not seem
fixed and solid beneath me, nor I bound by gravity to it. The
faint, floating clouds, the blue infinite heaven itself, seemed
not more ethereal and free than I, or the ground I walked on.
The low, stony hills on my right hand, of which I caught
occasional glimpses through the trees, looking now blue and
delicate in the level rays, were no more than the billowy
projections on the moving cloud of earth: the trees of unnumbered
kinds--great more, cecropia, and greenheart, bush and fern and
suspended lianas, and tall palms balancing their feathery foliage
on slender stems--all was but a fantastic mist embroidery
covering the surface of that floating cloud on which my feet were
set, and which floated with me near the sun.
The red evening flame had vanished from the summits of the trees,
the sun was setting, the woods in shadow, when I got to the end
of my walk. I did not approach the house on the side of the
door, yet by some means those within became aware of my presence,
for out they came in a great hurry, Rima leading the way, Nuflo
behind her, waving his arms and shouting. But as I drew near,
the girl dropped behind and stood motionless regarding me, her
face pallid and showing strong excitement. I could scarcely
remove my eyes from her eloquent countenance: I seemed to read in
it relief and gladness mingled with surprise and something like
vexation. She was piqued perhaps that I had taken her by
surprise, that after much watching for me in the wood I had come
through it undetected when she was indoors.
"Happy the eyes that see you!" shouted the old man, laughing
boisterously.
"Happy are mine that look on Rima again," I answered. "I have
been long absent."
"Long--you may say so," returned Nuflo. "We had given you up.
We said that, alarmed at the thought of the journey to Riolama,
you had abandoned us."
"WE said!" exclaimed Rima, her pallid face suddenly flushing.
"I spoke differently."
"Yes, I know--I know!" he said airily, waving his hand. "You
said that he was in danger, that he was kept against his will
from coming. He is present now--let him speak."
"She was right," I said. "Ah, Nuflo, old man, you have lived
long, and got much experience, but not insight--not that inner
vision that sees further than the eyes."
"No, not that--I know what you mean," he answered. Then, tossing
his hand towards the sky, he added: "The knowledge you speak of
comes from there."
The girl had been listening with keen interest, glancing from one
to the other. "What!" she spoke suddenly. as if unable to keep
silence, "do you think, grandfather, that SHE tells me--when
there is danger--when the rain will cease--when the wind will
blow--everything? Do I not ask and listen, lying awake at night?
She is always silent, like the stars."
Then, pointing to me with her finger, she finished:
"HE knows so many things! Who tells them to HIM?"
"But distinguish, Rima. You do not distinguish the great from
the little," he answered loftily. "WE know a thousand things,
but they are things that any man with a forehead can learn. The
knowledge that comes from the blue is not like that--it is more
important and miraculous. Is it not so, senor?" he ended,
appealing to me.
"Is it, then, left for me to decide?" said I, addressing the
girl.
But though her face was towards me, she refused to meet my look
and was silent. Silent, but not satisfied: she doubted still,
and had perhaps caught something in my tone that strengthened her
doubt.
Old Nuflo understood the expression. "Look at me, Rima," he
said, drawing himself up. "I am old, and he is young--do I not
know best? I have spoken and have decided it."
Still that unconvinced expression, and her face turned expectant
to me.
"Am I to decide?" I repeated.
"Who, then?" she said at last, her voice scarcely more than a
murmur; yet there was reproach in the tone, as if she had made a
long speech and I had tyrannously driven her to it.
"Thus, then, I decide," said I. "To each of us, as to every kind
of animal, even to small birds and insects, and to every kind of
plant, there is given something peculiar--a fragrance, a melody,
a special instinct, an art, a knowledge, which no other has. And
to Rima has been given this quickness of mind and power to divine
distant things; it is hers, just as swiftness and grace and
changeful, brilliant colour are the hummingbird's; therefore she
need not that anyone dwelling in the blue should instruct her."
The old man frowned and shook his head; while she, after one
swift, shy glance at my face, and with something like a smile
flitting over her delicate lips, turned and re-entered the house.
I felt convinced from that parting look that she had understood
me, that my words had in some sort given her relief; for, strong
as was her faith in the supernatural, she appeared as ready to
escape from it, when a way of escape offered, as from the limp
cotton gown and constrained manner worn in the house. The
religion and cotton dress were evidently remains of her early
training at the settlement of Voa.
Old Nuflo, strange to say, had proved better than his word.
Instead of inventing new causes for delay, as I had imagined
would be the case, he now informed me that his preparations for
the journey were all but complete, that he had only waited for my
return to set out.
Rima soon left us in her customary way, and then, talking by the
fire, I gave an account of my detention by the Indians and of the
loss of my revolver, which I thought very serious.
"You seem to think little of it," I said, observing that he took
it very coolly. "Yet I know not how I shall defend myself in
case of an attack."
"I have no fear of an attack," he answered. "It seems to me the
same thing whether you have a revolver or many revolvers and
carbines and swords, or no revolver--no weapon at all. And for a
very simple reason. While Rima is with us, so long as we are on
her business, we are protected from above. The angels, senor,
will watch over us by day and night. What need of weapons, then,
except to procure food?"
"Why should not the angels provide us with food also?" said I.
"No, no, that is a different thing," he returned. "That is a
small and low thing, a necessity common to all creatures, which
all know how to meet. You would not expect an angel to drive
away a cloud of mosquitoes, or to remove a bush-tick from your
person. No, sir, you may talk of natural gifts, and try to make
Rima believe that she is what she is, and knows what she knows,
because, like a humming-bird or some plants with a peculiar
fragrance, she has been made so. It is wrong, senor, and, pardon
me for saying it, it ill becomes you to put such fables into her
head."
I answered, with a smile: "She herself seems to doubt what you
believe."
"But, senor, what can you expect from an ignorant girl like Rima?
She knows nothing, or very little, and will not listen to reason.
If she would only remain quietly indoors, with her hair braided,
and pray and read her Catechism, instead of running about after
flowers and birds and butterflies and such unsubstantial things,
it would be better for both of us."
"In what way, old man?"
"Why, it is plain that if she would cultivate the acquaintance of
the people that surround her--I mean those that come to her from
her sainted mother--and are ready to do her bidding in
everything, she could make it more safe for us in this place.
For example, there is Runi and his people; why should they remain
living so near us as to be a constant danger when a pestilence of
small-pox or some other fever might easily be sent to kill them
off?"
"And have you ever suggested such a thing to your grandchild?"
He looked surprised and grieved at the question. "Yes, many
times, senor," he said. "I should have been a poor Christian had
I not mentioned it. But when I speak of it she gives me a look
and is gone, and I see no more of her all day, and when I see her
she refuses even to answer me--so perverse, so foolish is she in
her ignorance; for, as you can see for yourself, she has no more
sense or concern about what is most important than some little
painted fly that flits about all day long without any object."
CHAPTER XV
The next day we were early at work. Nuflo had already gathered,
dried, and conveyed to a place of concealment the greater portion
of his garden produce. He was determined to leave nothing to be
taken by any wandering party of savages that might call at the
house during our absence. He had no fear of a visit from his
neighbours; they would not know, he said, that he and Rima were
out of the wood. A few large earthen pots, filled with shelled
maize, beans, and sun-dried strips of pumpkin, still remained to
be disposed of. Taking up one of these vessels and asking me to
follow with another, he started off through the wood. We went a
distance of five or six hundred yards, then made our way down a
very steep incline, close to the border of the forest on the
western side. Arrived at the bottom, we followed the bank a
little further, and I then found myself once more at the foot of
the precipice over which I had desperately thrown myself on the
stormy evening after the snake had bitten me. Nuflo, stealing
silently and softly before me through the bushes, had observed a
caution and secrecy in approaching this spot resembling that of a
wise old hen when she visits her hidden nest to lay an egg. And
here was his nest, his most secret treasure-house,.which he had
probably not revealed even to me without a sharp inward conflict,
notwithstanding that our fates were now linked together. The
lower portion of the bank was of rock; and in it, about ten or
twelve feet above the ground, but easily reached from below,
there was a natural cavity large enough to contain all his
portable property. Here, besides the food-stuff, he had already
stored a quantity of dried tobacco leaf, his rude weapons,
cooking utensils, ropes, mats, and other objects. Two or three
more journeys were made for the remaining pots, after which we
adjusted a slab of sandstone to the opening, which was
fortunately narrow, plastered up the crevices with clay, and
covered them over with moss to hide all traces of our work.
Towards evening, after we had refreshed ourselves with a long
siesta, Nuflo brought out from some other hiding-place two sacks;
one weighing about twenty pounds and containing smoke-dried meat,
also grease and gum for lighting-purposes, and a few other small
objects. This was his load; the other sack, which was smaller
and contained parched corn and raw beans, was for me to carry.
The old man, cautious in all his movements, always acting as if
surrounded by invisible spies, delayed setting out until an hour
after dark. Then, skirting the forest on its west side, we left
Ytaioa on our right hand, and after travelling over rough,
difficult ground, with only the stars to light us, we saw the
waning moon rise not long before dawn. Our course had been a
north-easterly one at first; now it was due east, with broad, dry
savannahs and patches of open forest as far as we could see
before us. It was weary walking on that first night, and weary
waiting on the first day when we sat in the shade during the
long, hot hours, persecuted by small stinging flies; but the days
and nights that succeeded were far worse, when the weather became
bad with intense heat and frequent heavy falls of rain. The one
compensation I had looked for, which would have outweighed all
the extreme discomforts we suffered, was denied me. Rima was no
more to me or with me now than she had been during those wild
days in her native woods, when every bush and bole and tangled
creeper or fern frond had joined in a conspiracy to keep her out
of my sight. It is true that at intervals in the daytime she was
visible, sometimes within speaking distance, so that I could
address a few words to her, but there was no companionship, and
we were fellow travellers only like birds flying independently in
the same direction, not so widely separated but that they can
occasionally hear and see each other. The pilgrim in the desert
is sometimes attended by a bird, and the bird, with its freer
motions, will often leave him a league behind and seem lost to
him, but only to return and show its form again; for it has never
lost sight nor recollection of the traveller toiling slowly over
the surface. Rima kept us company in some such wild erratic way
as that. A word, a sign from Nuflo was enough for her to know
the direction to take--the distant forest or still more distant
mountain near which we should have to pass. She would hasten on
and be lost to our sight, and when there was a forest in the way
she would explore it, resting in the shade and finding her own
food; but invariably she was before us at each resting- or
camping-place.
Indian villages were seen during the journey, but only to be
avoided; and in like manner, if we caught sight of Indians
travelling or camping at a distance, we would alter our course,
or conceal ourselves to escape observation. Only on one
occasion, two days after setting out, were we compelled to speak
with strangers. We were going round a hill, and all at once came
face to face with three persons travelling in an opposite
direction--two men and a woman, and, by a strange fatality, Rima
at that moment happened to be with us. We stood for some time
talking to these people, who were evidently surprised at our
appearance, and wished to learn who we were; but Nuflo, who spoke
their language like one of themselves, was too cunning to give
any true answer. They, on their side, told us that they had been
to visit a relative at Chani, the name of a river three days
ahead of us, and were now returning to their own village at
Baila-baila, two days beyond Parahuari. After parting from them
Nuflo was much troubled in his mind for the rest of that day.
These people, he said, would probably rest at some Parahuari
village, where they would be sure to give a description of us,
and so it might eventually come to the knowledge of our
unneighbourly neighbour Runi that we had left Ytaioa.
Other incidents of our long and wearisome journey need not be
related. Sitting under some shady tree during the sultry hours,
with Rima only too far out of earshot, or by the nightly fire,
the old man told me little by little and with much digression,
chiefly on sacred subjects, the strange story of the girl's
origin.
About seventeen years back--Nuflo had no sure method to compute
time by--when he was already verging on old age, he was one of a
company of nine men, living a kind of roving life in the very
part of Guayana through which we were now travelling; the others,
much younger than himself, were all equally offenders against the
laws of Venezuela, and fugitives from justice. Nuflo was the
leader of this gang, for it happened that he had passed a great
portion of his life outside the pale of civilization, and could
talk the Indian language, and knew this part of Guayana
intimately. But according to his own account he was not in
harmony with them. They were bold, desperate men, whose evil
appetites had so far only been whetted by the crimes they had
committed; while he, with passions worn out, recalling his many
bad acts, and with a vivid conviction of the truth of all he had
been taught in early life--for Nuflo was nothing if not
religious--was now grown timid and desirous only of making his
peace with Heaven. This difference of disposition made him
morose and quarrelsome with his companions; and they would, he
said, have murdered him without remorse if he had not been so
useful to them. Their favourite plan was to hang about the
neighbourhood of some small isolated settlement, keeping a watch
on it, and, when most of the male inhabitants were absent, to
swoop down on it and work their will. Now, shortly after one of
these raids it happened that a woman they had carried off,
becoming a burden to them, was flung into a river to the
alligators; but when being dragged down to the waterside she cast
up her eyes, and in a loud voice cried to God to execute
vengeance on her murderers. Nuflo affirmed that he took no part
in this black deed; nevertheless, the woman's dying appeal to
Heaven preyed on his mind; he feared that it might have won a
hearing, and the "person" eventually commissioned to execute
vengeance--after the usual days, of course might act on the
principle of the old proverb: Tell me whom you are with, and I
will tell you what you are--and punish the innocent (himself to
wit) along with the guilty. But while thus anxious about his
spiritual interests, he was not yet prepared to break with his
companions. He thought it best to temporize, and succeeded in
persuading them that it would be unsafe to attack another
Christian settlement for some time to come; that in the interval
they might find some pleasure, if no great credit, by turning
their attention to the Indians. The infidels, he said, were
God's natural enemies and fair game to the Christian. To make a
long story short, Nuflo's Christian band, after some successful
adventures, met with a reverse which reduced their number from
nine to five. Flying from their enemies, they sought safety at
Riolama, an uninhabited place, where they found it possible to
exist for some weeks on game, which was abundant, and wild
fruits.
One day at noon, while ascending a mountain at the southern
extremity of the Riolama range in order to get a view of the
country beyond the summit, Nuflo and his companions discovered a
cave; and finding it dry, without animal occupants, and with a
level floor, they at once determined to make it their
dwelling-place for a season. Wood for firing and water were to
be had close by; they were also well provided with smoked flesh
of a tapir they had slaughtered a day or two before, so that they
could afford to rest for a time in so comfortable a shelter. At
a short distance from the cave they made a fire on the rock to
toast some slices of meat for their dinner; and while thus
engaged all at once one of the men uttered a cry of astonishment,
and casting up his eyes Nuflo beheld, standing near and regarding
them with surprise and fear in-her wide-open eyes, a woman of a
most wonderful appearance. The one slight garment she had on was
silky and white as the snow on the summit of some great mountain,
but of the snow when the sinking sun touches and gives it some
delicate changing colour which is like fire. Her dark hair was
like a cloud from which her face looked out, and her head was
surrounded by an aureole like that of a saint in a picture, only
more beautiful. For, said Nuflo, a picture is a picture, and the
other was a reality, which is finer. Seeing her he fell on his
knees and crossed himself; and all the time her eyes, full of
amazement and shining with such a strange splendour that he could
not meet them, were fixed on him and not on the others; and he
felt that she had come to save his soul, in danger of perdition
owing to his companionship with men who were at war with God and
wholly bad.
But at this moment his comrades, recovering from their
astonishment, sprang to their feet, and the heavenly woman
vanished. Just behind where she had stood, and not twelve yards
from them, there was a huge chasm in the mountain, its jagged
precipitous sides clothed with thorny bushes; the men now cried
out that she had made her escape that way, and down after her
they rushed, pell-mell.
Nuflo cried out after them that they had seen a saint and that
some horrible thing would befall them if they allowed any evil
thought to enter their hearts; but they scoffed at his words, and
were soon far down out of hearing, while he, trembling with fear,
remained praying to the woman that had appeared to them and had
looked with such strange eyes at him, not to punish him for the
sins of the others.
Before long the men returned, disappointed and sullen, for they
had failed in their search for the woman; and perhaps Nuflo's
warning words had made them give up the chase too soon. At all
events, they seemed ill at ease, and made up their minds to
abandon the cave; in a short time they left the place to camp
that night at a considerable distance from the mountain. But
they were not satisfied: they had now recovered from their fear,
but not from the excitement of an evil passion; and finally,
after comparing notes, they came to the conclusion that they had
missed a great prize through Nuflo's cowardice; and when he
reproved them they blasphemed all the saints in the calendar and
even threatened him with violence. Fearing to remain longer in
the company of such godless men, he only waited until they slept,
then rose up cautiously, helped himself to most of the
provisions, and made his escape, devoutly hoping that after
losing their guide they would all speedily perish.
Finding himself alone now and master of his own actions, Nuflo
was in terrible distress, for while his heart was in the utmost
fear, it yet urged him imperiously to go back to the mountain, to
seek again for that sacred being who had appeared to him and had
been driven away by his brutal companions. If he obeyed that
inner voice, he would be saved; if he resisted it, then there
would be no hope for him, and along with those who had cast the
woman to the alligators he would be lost eternally. Finally, on
the following day, he went back, although not without fear and
trembling, and sat down on a stone just where he had sat toasting
his tapir meat on the previous day. But he waited in vain, and
at length that voice within him, which he had so far obeyed,
began urging him to descend into the valley-like chasm down which
the woman had escaped from his comrades, and to seek for her
there. Accordingly he rose and began cautiously and slowly
climbing down over the broken jagged rocks and through a dense
mass of thorny bushes and creepers. At the bottom of the chasm a
clear, swift stream of water rushed with foam and noise along its
rocky bed; but before reaching it, and when it was still twenty
yards lower down, he was startled by hearing a low moan among the
bushes, and looking about for the cause, he found the wonderful
woman--his saviour, as he expressed it. She was not now standing
nor able to stand, but half reclining among the rough stones, one
foot, which she had sprained in that headlong flight down the
ragged slope, wedged immovably between the rocks; and in this
painful position she had remained a prisoner since noon on the
previous day. She now gazed on her visitor in silent
consternation; while he, casting himself prostrate on the ground,
implored her forgiveness and begged to know her will. But she
made no reply; and at length, finding that she was powerless to
move, he concluded that, though a saint and one of the beings
that men worship, she was also flesh and liable to accidents
while sojourning on earth; and perhaps, he thought, that accident
which had befallen her had been specially designed by the powers
above to prove him. With great labour, and not without causing
her much pain, he succeeded in extricating her from her position;
and then finding that the injured foot was half crushed and blue
and swollen, he took her up in his arms and carried her to the
stream. There, making a cup of a broad green leaf, he offered
her water, which she drank eagerly; and he also raved her injured
foot in the cold stream and bandaged it with fresh aquatic
leaves; finally he made her a soft bed of moss and dry grass and
placed her on it. That night he spent keeping watch over her, at
intervals applying fresh wet leaves to her foot as the old ones
became dry and wilted from the heat of the inflammation.
The effect of all he did was that the terror with which she
regarded him gradually wore off; and next day, when she seemed to
be recovering her strength, he proposed by signs to remove her to
the cave higher up, where she would be sheltered in case of rain.
She appeared to understand him, and allowed herself to be taken
up in his arms and carried with much labour to the top of the
chasm. In the cave he made her a second couch, and tended her
assiduously. He made a fire on the floor and kept it burning
night and day, and supplied her with water to drink and fresh
leaves for her foot. There was little more that he could do.
From the choicest and fattest bits of toasted tapir flesh he
offered her she turned away with disgust. A little cassava bread
soaked in water she would take, but seemed not to like it. After
a time, fearing that she would starve, he took to hunting after
wild fruits, edible bulbs and gums, and on these small things she
subsisted during the whole time of their sojourn together in the
desert.
The woman, although lamed for life, was now so far recovered as
to be able to limp about without assistance, and she spent a
portion of each day out among the rocks and trees on the
mountains. Nuflo at first feared that she would now leave him,
but before long he became convinced that she had no such
intentions. And yet she was profoundly unhappy. He was
accustomed to see her seated on a rock, as if brooding over some
secret grief, her head bowed, and great tears falling from
half-closed eyes.
From the first he had conceived the idea that she was in the way
of becoming a mother at no distant date--an idea which seemed to
accord badly with the suppositions as to the nature of this
heavenly being he was privileged to minister to and so win
salvation; but he was now convinced of its truth, and he imagined
that in her condition he had discovered the cause of that sorrow
and anxiety which preyed continually on her. By means of that
dumb language of signs which enabled them to converse together a
little, he made it known to her that at a great distance from the
mountains there existed a place where there were beings like
herself, women, and mothers of children, who would comfort and
tenderly care for her. When she had understood, she seemed
pleased and willing to accompany him to that distant place; and
so it came to pass that they left their rocky shelter and the
mountains of Riolama far behind. But for several days, as they
slowly journeyed over the plain, she would pause at intervals in
her limping walk to gaze back on those blue summits, shedding
abundant tears.
Fortunately the village Voa, on the river of the same name, which
was the nearest Christian settlement to Riolama, whither his
course was directed, was well known to him; he had lived there in
former years, and, what was of great advantage, the inhabitants
were ignorant of his worst crimes, or, to put it in his own
subtle way, of the crimes committed by the men he had acted with.
Great was the astonishment and curiosity of the people of Voa
when, after many weeks' travelling, Nuflo arrived at last with
his companion. But he was not going to tell the truth, nor even
the least particle of the truth, to a gaping crowd of inferior
persons. For these, ingenious lies; only to the priest he told
the whole story, dwelling minutely on all he had done to rescue
and protect her; all of which was approved by the holy man, whose
first act was to baptize the woman for fear that she was not a
Christian. Let it be said to Nuflo's credit that he objected to
this ceremony, arguing that she could not be a saint, with an
aureole in token of her sainthood, yet stand in need of being
baptized by a priest. A priest--he added, with a little chuckle
of malicious pleasure--who was often seen drunk, who cheated at
cards, and was sometimes suspected of putting poison on his
fighting-cock's spur to make sure of the victory! Doubtless the
priest had his faults; but he was not without humanity, and for
the whole seven years of that unhappy stranger's sojourn at Voa
he did everything in his power to make her existence tolerable.
Some weeks after arriving she gave birth to a female child, and
then the priest insisted on naming it Riolama, in order, he said,
to keep in remembrance the strange story of the mother's
discovery at that place.
Rima's mother could not be taught to speak either Spanish or
Indian; and when she found that the mysterious and melodious
sounds that fell from her own lips were understood by none, she
ceased to utter them, and thereafter preserved an unbroken
silence among the people she lived with. But from the presence
of others she shrank, as if in disgust or fear, excepting only
Nuflo and the priest, whose kindly intentions she appeared to
understand and appreciate. So far her life in the village was
silent and sorrowful. With her child it was different; and every
day that was not wet, taking the little thing by the hand, she
would limp painfully out into the forest, and there, sitting on
the ground, the two would commune with each other by the hour in
their wonderful language.
At length she began to grow perceptibly paler and feebler week by
week, day by day, until she could no longer go out into the wood,
but sat or reclined, panting for breath in the dull hot room,
waiting for death to release her. At the same time little Rima,
who had always appeared frail, as if from sympathy, now began to
fade and look more shadowy, so that it was expected she would not
long survive her parent. To the mother death came slowly, but at
last it seemed so near that Nuflo and the priest were together at
her side waiting to see the end. It was then that little Rima,
who had learnt from infancy to speak in Spanish, rose from the
couch where her mother had been whispering to her, and began with
some difficulty to express what was in the dying woman's mind.
Her child, she had said, could not continue to live in that hot
wet place, but if taken away to a distance where there were
mountains and a cooler air she would survive and grow strong
again.
Hearing this, old Nuflo declared that the child should not
perish; that he himself would take her away to Parahuari, a
distant place where there were mountains and dry plains and open
woods; that he would watch over her and care for her there as he
had cared for her mother at Riolama.
When the substance of this speech had been made known by Rima to
the dying woman, she suddenly rose up from her couch, which she
had not risen from for many days, and stood erect on the floor,
her wasted face shining with joy. Then Nuflo knew that God's
angels had come for her, and put out his arms to save her from
falling; and even while he held her that sudden glory went out
from her face, now of a dead white like burnt-out ashes; and
murmuring something soft and melodious, her spirit passed away.
Once more Nuflo became a wanderer, now with the fragile-looking
little Rima for companion, the sacred child who had inherited the
position of his intercessor from a sacred mother. The priest,
who had probably become infected with Nuflo's superstitions, did
not allow them to leave Voa empty-handed, but gave the old man as
much calico as would serve to buy hospitality and whatsoever he
might require from the Indians for many a day to come.
At Parahuari, where they arrived safely at last, they lived for
some little time at one of the villages. But the child had an
instinctive aversion to all savages, or possibly the feeling was
derived from her mother, for it had shown itself early at Voa,
where she had refused to learn their language; and this
eventually led Nuflo to go away and live apart from them, in the
forest by Ytaioa, where he made himself a house and garden. The
Indians, however, continued friendly with him and visited him
with frequency. But when Rima grew up, developing into that
mysterious woodland girl I found her, they became suspicious, and
in the end regarded her with dangerously hostile feeling. She,
poor child, detested them because they were incessantly at war
with the wild animals she loved, her companions; and having no
fear of them, for she did not know that they had it in their
minds to turn their little poisonous arrows against herself, she
was constantly in the woods frustrating them; and the animals, in
league with her, seemed to understand her note of warning and hid
themselves or took to flight at the approach of danger. At
length their hatred and fear grew to such a degree that they
determined to make away with her, and one day, having matured a
plan, they went to the wood and spread themselves two and two
about it. The couples did not keep together, but moved about or
remained concealed at a distance of forty or fifty yards apart,
lest she should be missed. Two of the savages, armed with
blow-pipes, were near the border of the forest on the side
nearest to the village, and one of them, observing a motion in
the foliage of a tree, ran swiftly and cautiously towards it to
try and catch a glimpse of the enemy. And he did see her no
doubt, as she was there watching both him and his companions, and
blew an arrow at her, but even while in the act of blowing it he
was himself struck by a dart that buried itself deep in his flesh
just over the heart. He ran some distance with the fatal barbed
point in his flesh and met his comrade, who had mistaken him for
the girl and shot him. The wounded man threw himself down to
die, and dying related that he had fired at the girl sitting up
in a tree and that she had caught the arrow in her hand only to
hurl it instantly back with such force and precision that it
pierced his flesh just over the heart. He had seen it all with
his own eyes, and his friend who had accidentally slain him
believed his story and repeated it to the others. Rima had seen
one Indian shoot the other, and when she told her grandfather he
explained to her that it was an accident, but he guessed why the
arrow had been fired.
From that day the Indians hunted no more in the wood; and at
length one day Nuflo, meeting an Indian who did not know him and
with whom he had some talk, heard the strange story of the arrow,
and that the mysterious girl who could not be shot was the
offspring of an old man and a Didi who had become enamoured of
him; that, growing tired of her consort, the Didi had returned to
her river, leaving her half-human child to play her malicious
pranks in the wood.
This, then, was Nuflo's story, told not in Nuflo's manner, which
was infinitely prolix; and think not that it failed to move
me--that I failed to bless him for what he had done, in spite of
his selfish motives.
CHAPTER XVI
We were eighteen days travelling to Riolama, on the last two
making little progress, on account of continuous rain, which made
us miserable beyond description. Fortunately the dogs had found,
and Nuflo had succeeded in killing, a great ant-eater, so that we
were well supplied with excellent, strength-giving flesh. We
were among the Riolama mountains at last, and Rima kept with us,
apparently expecting great things. I expected nothing, for
reasons to be stated by and by. My belief was that the only
important thing that could happen to us would be starvation.
The afternoon of the last day was spent in skirting the foot of a
very long mountain, crowned at its southern extremity with a
huge, rocky mass resembling the head of a stone sphinx above its
long, couchant body, and at its highest part about a thousand
feet above the surrounding level. It was late in the day,
raining fast again, yet the old man still toiled on, contrary to
his usual practice, which was to spend the last daylight hours in
gathering firewood and in constructing a shelter. At length,
when we were nearly under the peak, he began to ascend. The rise
in this place was gentle, and the vegetation, chiefly composed of
dwarf thorn trees rooted in the clefts of the rock, scarcely
impeded our progress; yet Nuflo moved obliquely, as if he found
the ascent difficult, pausing frequently to take breath and look
round him. Then we came to a deep, ravine-like cleft in the side
of the mountain, which became deeper and narrower above us, but
below it broadened out to a valley; its steep sides as we looked
down were clothed with dense, thorny vegetation, and from the
bottom rose to our ears the dull sound of a hidden torrent.
Along the border of this ravine Nuflo began toiling upwards, and
finally brought us out upon a stony plateau on the mountain-side.
Here he paused and, turning and regarding us with a look as of
satisfied malice in his eyes, remarked that we were at our
journey's end, and he trusted the sight of that barren
mountain-side would compensate us for all the discomforts we had
suffered during the last eighteen days.
I heard him with indifference. I had already recognized the
place from his own exact description of it, and I now saw all
that I had looked to see--a big, barren hill. But Rima, what had
she expected that her face wore that blank look of surprise and
pain? "Is this the place where mother appeared to you?" she
suddenly cried. "The very place--this! This!" Then she added:
"The cave where you tended her--where is it?"
"Over there," he said, pointing across the plateau, which was
partially overgrown with dwarf trees and bushes, and ended at a
wall of rock, almost vertical and about forty feet high.
Going to this precipice, we saw no cave until Nuflo had cut away
two or three tangled bushes, revealing an opening behind, about
half as high and twice as wide as the door of an ordinary
dwelling-house.
The next thing was to make a torch, and aided by its light we
groped our way in and explored the interior. The cave, we found,
was about fifty feet long, narrowing to a mere hole at the
extremity; but the anterior portion formed an oblong chamber,
very lofty, with a dry floor. Leaving our torch burning, we set
to work cutting bushes to supply ourselves with wood enough to
last us all night. Nuflo, poor old man, loved a big fire dearly;
a big fire and fat meat to eat (the ranker its flavour, the
better he liked it) were to him the greatest blessings that man
could wish for. In me also the prospect of a cheerful blaze put
a new heart, and I worked with a will in the rain, which
increased in the end to a blinding downpour.
By the time I dragged my last load in, Nuflo had got his fire
well alight, and was heaping on wood in a most lavish way. "No
fear of burning our house down tonight," he remarked, with a
chuckle--the first sound of that description he had emitted for a
long time.
After we had satisfied our hunger, and had smoked one or two
cigarettes, the unaccustomed warmth, and dryness, and the
firelight affected us with drowsiness, and I had probably been
nodding for some time; but starting at last and opening my eyes,
I missed Rima. The old man appeared to be asleep, although still
in a sitting posture close to the fire. I rose and hurried out,
drawing my cloak close around me to protect me from the rain; but
what was my surprise on emerging from the cave to feel a dry,
bracing wind in my face and to see the desert spread out for
leagues before me in the brilliant white light of a full moon!
The rain had apparently long ceased, and only a few thin white
clouds appeared moving swiftly over the wide blue expanse of
heaven. It was a welcome change, but the shock of surprise and
pleasure was instantly succeeded by the maddening fear that Rima
was lost to me. She was nowhere in sight beneath, and running to
the end of the little plateau to get free of the thorn trees, I
turned my eyes towards the summit, and there, at some distance
above me, caught sight of her standing motionless and gazing
upwards. I quickly made my way to her side, calling to her as I
approached; but she only half turned to cast a look at me and did
not reply.
"Rima," I said, "why have you come here? Are you actually
thinking of climbing the mountain at this hour of the night?"
"Yes--why not?" she returned, moving one or two steps from me.
"Rima--sweet Rima, will you listen to me?"
"Now? Oh, no--why do you ask that? Did I not listen to you in
the wood before we started, and you also promised to do what I
wished? See, the rain is over and the moon shines brightly. Why
should I wait? Perhaps from the summit I shall see my people's
country. Are we not near it now?"
"Oh, Rima, what do you expect to see? Listen--you must listen,
for I know best. From that summit you would see nothing but a
vast dim desert, mountain and forest, mountain and forest, where
you might wander for years, or until you perished of hunger or
fever, or were slain by some beast of prey or by savage men; but
oh, Rima, never, never, never would you find your people, for
they exist not. You have seen the false water of the mirage on
the savannah, when the sun shines bright and hot; and if one were
to follow it one would at last fall down and perish, with never a
cool drop to moisten one's parched lips. And your hope,
Rima--this hope to find your people which has brought you all the
way to Riolama--is a mirage, a delusion, which will lead to
destruction if you will not abandon it."
She turned to face me with flashing eyes. "You know best!" she
exclaimed. "You know best and tell me that! Never until this
moment have you spoken falsely. Oh, why have you said such
things to me--named after this place, Riolama? Am I also like
that false water you speak of--no divine Rima, no sweet Rima? My
mother, had she no mother, no mother's mother? I remember her,
at Voa, before she died, and this hand seems real--like yours;
you have asked to hold it. But it is not he that speaks to
me--not one that showed me the whole world on Ytaioa. Ah, you
have wrapped yourself in a stolen cloak, only you have left your
old grey beard behind! Go back to the cave and look for it, and
leave me to seek my people alone!"
Once more, as on that day in the forest when she prevented me
from killing the serpent, and as on the occasion of her meeting
with Nuflo after we had been together on Ytaioa, she appeared
transformed and instinct with intense resentment--a beautiful
human wasp, and every word a sting.
"Rima," I cried, "you are cruelly unjust to say such words to me.
If you know that I have never deceived you before, give me a
little credit now. You are no delusion--no mirage, but Rima,
like no other being on earth. So perfectly truthful and pure I
cannot be, but rather than mislead you with falsehoods I would
drop down and die on this rock, and lose you and the sweet light
that shines on us for ever."
As she listened to my words, spoken with passion, she grew pale
and clasped her hands. "What have I said? What have I said?"
She spoke in a low voice charged with pain, and all at once she
came nearer, and with a low, sobbing cry sank down at my feet,
uttering, as on the occasion of finding me lost at night in the
forest near her home, tender, sorrowful expressions in her own
mysterious language. But before I could take her in my arms she
rose again quickly to her feet and moved away a little space from
me.
"Oh no, no, it cannot be that you know best!" she began again.
"But I know that you have never sought to deceive me. And now,
because I falsely accused you, I cannot go there without
you"--pointing to the summit--"but must stand still and listen to
all you have to say."
"You know, Rima, that your grandfather has now told me your
history--how he found your mother at this place, and took her to
Voa, where you were born; but of your mother's people he knows
nothing, and therefore he can now take you no further."
"Ah, you think that! He says that now; but he deceived me all
these years, and if he lied to me in the past, can he not still
lie, affirming that he knows nothing of my people, even as he
affirmed that he knew not Riolama?"
"He tells lies and he tells truth, Rima, and one can be
distinguished from the other. He spoke truthfully at last, and
brought us to this place, beyond which he cannot lead you."
"You are right; I must go alone."
"Not so, Rima, for where you go, there we must go; only you will
lead and we follow, believing only that our quest will end in
disappointment, if not in death."
"Believe that and yet follow! Oh no! Why did he consent to lead
me so far for nothing?"
"Do you forget that you compelled him? You know what he
believes; and he is old and looks with fear at death, remembering
his evil deeds, and is convinced that only through your
intercession and your mother's he can escape from perdition.
Consider, Rima, he could not refuse, to make you more angry and
so deprive himself of his only hope."
My words seemed to trouble her, but very soon she spoke again
with renewed animation. "If my people exist, why must it be
disappointment and perhaps death? He does not know; but she came
to him here--did she not? The others are not here, but perhaps
not far off. Come, let us go to the summit together to see from
it the desert beneath us--mountain and forest, mountain and
forest. Somewhere there! You said that I had knowledge of
distant things. And shall I not know which mountain--which
forest?"
"Alas! no, Rima; there is a limit to your far-seeing; and even
if that faculty were as great as you imagine, it would avail you
nothing, for there is no mountain, no forest, in whose shadow
your people dwell."
For a while she was silent, but her eyes and clasping fingers
were restless and showed her agitation. She seemed to be
searching in the depths of her mind for some argument to oppose
to my assertions. Then in a low, almost despondent voice, with
something of reproach in it, she said: "Have we come so far to go
back again? You were not Nuflo to need my intercession, yet you
came too."
"Where you are, there I must be--you have said it yourself.
Besides, when we started I had some hope of finding your people.
Now I know better, having heard Nuflo's story. Now I know that
your hope is a vain one."
"Why? Why? Was she not found here--mother? Where, then, are
the others?"
"Yes, she was found here, alone. You must remember all the
things she spoke to you before she died. Did she ever speak to
you of her people--speak of them as if they existed, and would be
glad to receive you among them some day?"
"No. Why did she not speak of that? Do you know--can you tell
me?"
"I can guess the reason, Rima. It is very sad--so sad that it is
hard to tell it. When Nuflo tended her in the cave and was ready
to worship her and do everything she wished, and conversed with
her by signs, she showed no wish to return to her people. And
when he offered her, in a way she understood, to take her to a
distant place, where she would be among strange beings, among
others like Nuflo, she readily consented, and painfully performed
that long journey to Voa. Would you, Rima, have acted
thus--would you have gone so far away from your beloved people,
never to return, never to hear of them or speak to them again?
Oh no, you could not; nor would she if her people had been in
existence. But she knew that she had survived them, that some
great calamity had fallen upon and destroyed them. They were few
in number, perhaps, and surrounded on every side by hostile
tribes, and had no weapons, and made no war. They had been
preserved because they inhabited a place apart, some deep valley
perhaps, guarded on all sides by lofty mountains and impenetrable
forests and marshes; but at last the cruel savages broke into
this retreat and hunted them down, destroying all except a few
fugitives, who escaped singly like your mother, and fled away to
hide in some distant solitude."
The anxious expression on her face deepened as she listened to
one of anguish and despair; and then, almost before I concluded,
she suddenly lifted her hands to her head, uttering a low,
sobbing cry, and would have fallen on the rock had I not caught
her quickly in my arms. Once more in my arms--against my breast,
her proper place! But now all that bright life seemed gone out
of her; her head fell on my shoulder, and there was no motion in
her except at intervals a slight shudder in her frame accompanied
by a low, gasping sob. In a little while the sobs ceased, the
eyes were closed, the face still and deathly white, and with a
terrible anxiety in my heart I carried her down to the cave.
CHAPTER XVII
As I re-entered the cave with my burden Nuflo sat up and stared
at me with a frightened look in his eyes. Throwing my cloak
down, I placed the girl on it and briefly related what had
happened.
He drew near to examine her; then placed his hand on her heart.
"Dead!--she is dead!" he exclaimed.
My own anxiety changed to an irrational anger at his words. "Old
fool! She has only fainted," I returned. "Get me some water,
quick."
But the water failed to restore her, and my anxiety deepened as I
gazed on that white, still face. Oh, why had I told her that sad
tragedy I had imagined with so little preparation? Alas! I had
succeeded too well in my purpose, killing her vain hope and her
at the same moment.
The old man, still bending over her, spoke again. "No, I will
not believe that she is dead yet; but, sir, if not dead, then she
is dying."
I could have struck him down for his words. "She will die in my
arms, then," I exclaimed, thrusting him roughly aside, and
lifting her up with the cloak beneath her.
And while I held her thus, her head resting on my arm, and gazed
with unutterable anguish into her strangely white face, insanely
praying to Heaven to restore her to me, Nuflo fell on his knees
before her, and with bowed head, and hands clasped in
supplication, began to speak.
"Rima! Grandchild!" he prayed, his quivering voice betraying
his agitation. "Do not die just yet: you must not die--not
wholly die--until you have heard what I have to say to you. I do
not ask you to answer in words--you are past that, and I am not
unreasonable. Only, when I finish, make some sign--a sigh, a
movement of the eyelid, a twitch of the lips, even in the small
corners of the mouth; nothing more than that, just to show that
you have heard, and I shall be satisfied. Remember all the years
that I have been your protector, and this long journey that I
have taken on your account; also all that I did for your sainted
mother before she died at Voa, to become one of the most
important of those who surround the Queen of Heaven, and who,
when they wish for any favour, have only to say half a word to
get it. And do not cast in oblivion that at the last I obeyed
your wish and brought you safely to Riolama. It is true that in
some small things I deceived you; but that must not weigh with
you, because it is a small matter and not worthy of mention when
you consider the claims I have on you. In your hands, Rima, I
leave everything, relying on the promise you made me, and on my
services. Only one word of caution remains to be added. Do not
let the magnificence of the place you are now about to enter, the
new sights and colours, and the noise of shouting, and musical
instruments and blowing of trumpets, put these things out of your
head. Nor must you begin to think meanly of yourself and be
abashed when you find yourself surrounded by saints and angels;
for you are not less than they, although it may not seem so at
first when you see them in their bright clothes, which, they say,
shine like the sun. I cannot ask you to tie a string round your
finger; I can only trust to your memory, which was always good,
even about the smallest things; and when you are asked, as no
doubt you will be, to express a wish, remember before everything
to speak of your grandfather, and his claims on you, also on your
angelic mother, to whom you will present my humble remembrances."
During this petition, which in other circumstances would have
moved me to laughter but now only irritated me, a subtle change
seemed to come to the apparently lifeless girl to make me hope.
The small hand in mine felt not so icy cold, and though no
faintest colour had come to the face, its pallor had lost
something of its deathly waxen appearance; and now the compressed
lips had relaxed a little and seemed ready to part. I laid my
finger-tips on her heart and felt, or imagined that I felt, a
faint fluttering; and at last I became convinced that her heart
was really beating.
I turned my eyes on the old man, still bending forward, intently
watching for the sign he had asked her to make. My anger and
disgust at his gross earthy egoism had vanished. "Let us thank
God, old man," I said, the tears of joy half choking my
utterance. "She lives--she is recovering from her fit."
He drew back, and on his knees, with bowed head, murmured a
prayer of thanks to Heaven.
Together we continued watching her face for half an hour longer,
I still holding her in my arms, which could never grow weary of
that sweet burden, waiting for other, surer signs of returning
life; and she seemed now like one that had fallen into a
profound, death-like sleep which must end in death. Yet when I
remembered her face as it had looked an hour ago, I was confirmed
in the belief that the progress to recovery, so strangely slow,
was yet sure. So slow, so gradual was this passing from death to
life that we had hardly ceased to fear when we noticed that the
lips were parted, or almost parted, that they were no longer
white, and that under her pale, transparent skin a faint,
bluish-rosy colour was now visible. And at length, seeing that
all danger was past and recovery so slow, old Nuflo withdrew once
more to the fireside and, stretching himself out on the sandy
floor, soon fell into a deep sleep.
If he had not been lying there before me in the strong light of
the glowing embers and dancing flames, I could not have felt more
alone with Rima--alone amid those remote mountains, in that
secret cavern, with lights and shadows dancing on its grey vault.
In that profound silence and solitude the mysterious loveliness
of the still face I continued to gaze on, its appearance of life
without consciousness, produced a strange feeling in me, hard,
perhaps impossible, to describe.
Once, when clambering among the rough rocks, overgrown with
forest, among the Queneveta mountains, I came on a single white
flower which was new to me, which I have never seen since. After
I had looked long at it, and passed on, the image of that perfect
flower remained so persistently in my mind that on the following
day I went again, in the hope of seeing it still untouched by
decay. There was no change; and on this occasion I spent a much
longer time looking at it, admiring the marvellous beauty of its
form, which seemed so greatly to exceed that of all other
flowers. It had thick petals, and at first gave me the idea of
an artificial flower, cut by a divinely inspired artist from some
unknown precious stone, of the size of a large orange and whiter
than milk, and yet, in spite of its opacity, with a crystalline
lustre on the surface. Next day I went again, scarcely hoping to
find it still unwithered; it was fresh as if only just opened;
and after that I went often, sometimes at intervals of several
days, and still no faintest sign of any change, the clear,
exquisite lines still undimmed, the purity and lustre as I had
first seen it. Why, I often asked, does not this mystic forest
flower fade and perish like others? That first impression of its
artificial appearance had soon left me; it was, indeed, a flower,
and, like other flowers, had life and growth, only with that
transcendent beauty it had a different kind of life.
Unconscious, but higher; perhaps immortal. Thus it would
continue to bloom when I had looked my last on it; wind and rain
and sunlight would never stain, never tinge, its sacred purity;
the savage Indian, though he sees little to admire in a flower,
yet seeing this one would veil his face and turn back; even the
browsing beast crashing his way through the forest, struck with
its strange glory, would swerve aside and pass on without harming
it. Afterwards I heard from some Indians to whom I described it
that the flower I had discovered was called Hata; also that they
had a superstition concerning it--a strange belief. They said
that only one Hata flower existed in the world; that it bloomed
in one spot for the space of a moon; that on the disappearance of
the moon in the sky the Hata disappeared from its place, only to
reappear blooming in some other spot, sometimes in some distant
forest. And they also said that whosoever discovered the Hata
flower in the forest would overcome all his enemies and obtain
all his desires, and finally outlive other men by many years.
But, as I have said, all this I heard afterwards, and my
half-superstitious feeling for the flower had grown up
independently in my own mind. A feeling like that was in me
while I gazed on the face that had no motion, no consciousness in
it, and yet had life, a life of so high a kind as to match with
its pure, surpassing loveliness. I could almost believe that,
like the forest flower, in this state and aspect it would endure
for ever; endure and perhaps give of its own immortality to
everything around it--to me, holding her in my arms and gazing
fixedly on the pale face framed in its cloud of dark, silken
hair; to the leaping flames that threw changing lights on the dim
stony wall of rock; to old Nuflo and his two yellow dogs
stretched out on the floor in eternal, unawakening sleep.
This feeling took such firm possession of my mind that it kept me
for a time as motionless as the form I held in my arms. I was
only released from its power by noting still further changes in
the face I watched, a more distinct advance towards conscious
life. The faint colour, which had scarcely been more than a
suspicion of colour, had deepened perceptibly; the lids were
lifted so as to show a gleam of the crystal orbs beneath; the
lips, too, were slightly parted.
And, at last, bending lower down to feel her breath, the beauty
and sweetness of those lips could no longer be resisted, and I
touched them with mine. Having once tasted their sweetness and
fragrance, it was impossible to keep from touching them again and
again. She was not conscious--how could she be and not shrink
from my caress? Yet there was a suspicion in my mind, and
drawing back I gazed into her face once more. A strange new
radiance had overspread it. Or was this only an illusive colour
thrown on her skin by the red firelight? I shaded her face with
my open hand, and saw that her pallor had really gone, that the
rosy flame on her cheeks was part of her life. Her lustrous
eyes, half open, were gazing into mine. Oh, surely consciousness
had returned to her! Had she been sensible of those stolen
kisses? Would she now shrink from another caress? Trembling, I
bent down and touched her lips again, lightly, but lingeringly,
and then again, and when I drew back and looked at her face the
rosy flame was brighter, and the eyes, more open still, were
looking into mine. And gazing with those open, conscious eyes,
it seemed to me that at last, at last, the shadow that had rested
between us had vanished, that we were united in perfect love and
confidence, and that speech was superfluous. And when I spoke,
it was not without doubt and hesitation: our bliss in those
silent moments had been so complete, what could speaking do but
make it less!
"My love, my life, my sweet Rima, I know that you will understand
me now as you did not before, on that dark night--do you remember
it, Rima?--when I held you clasped to my breast in the wood. How
it pierced my heart with pain to speak plainly to you as I did on
the mountain tonight--to kill the hope that had sustained and
brought you so far from home! But now that anguish is over; the
shadow has gone out of those beautiful eyes that are looking at
me. It is because loving me, knowing now what love is, knowing,
too, how much I love you, that you no longer need to speak to any
other living being of such things? To tell it, to show it, to me
is now enough--is it not so, Rima? How strange it seemed, at
first, when you shrank in fear from me! But, afterwards, when
you prayed aloud to your mother, opening all the secrets of your
heart, I understood it. In that lonely, isolated life in the
wood you had heard nothing of love, of its power over the heart,
its infinite sweetness; when it came to you at last it was a new,
inexplicable thing, and filled you with misgivings and tumultuous
thoughts, so that you feared it and hid yourself from its cause.
Such tremors would be felt if it had always been night, with no
light except that of the stars and the pale moon, as we saw it a
little while ago on the mountain; and, at last, day dawned, and a
strange, unheard-of rose and purple flame kindled in the eastern
sky, foretelling the coming sun. It would seem beautiful beyond
anything that night had shown to you, yet you would tremble and
your heart beat fast at that strange sight; you would wish to fly
to those who might be able to tell you its meaning, and whether
the sweet things it prophesied would ever really come. That is
why you wished to find your people, and came to Riolama to seek
them; and when you knew--when I cruelly told you--that they would
never be found, then you imagined that that strange feeling in
your heart must remain a secret for ever, and you could not
endure the thought of your loneliness. If you had not fainted so
quickly, then I should have told you what I must tell you now.
They are lost, Rima--your people--but I am with you, and know
what you feel, even if you have no words to tell it. But what
need of words? It shines in your eyes, it burns like a flame in
your face; I can feel it in your hands. Do you not also see it
in my face--all that I feel for you, the love that makes me
happy? For this is love, Rima, the flower and the melody of
life, the sweetest thing, the sweet miracle that makes our two
souls one."
Still resting in my arms, as if glad to rest there, still gazing
into my face, it was clear to me that she understood my every
word. And then, with no trace of doubt or fear left, I stooped
again, until my lips were on hers; and when I drew back once
more, hardly knowing which bliss was greatest--kissing her
delicate mouth or gazing into her face--she all at once put her
arms about my neck and drew herself up until she sat on my knee.
"Abel--shall I call you Abel now--and always?" she spoke, still
with her arms round my neck. "Ah, why did you let me come to
Riolama? I would come! I made him come--old grandfather,
sleeping there: he does not count, but you--you! After you had
heard my story, and knew that it was all for nothing! And all I
wished to know was there--in you. Oh, how sweet it is! But a
little while ago, what pain! When I stood on the mountain when
you talked to me, and I knew that you knew best, and tried and
tried not to know. At last I could try no more; they were all
dead like mother; I had chased the false water on the savannah.
'Oh, let me die too,' I said, for I could not bear the pain. And
afterwards, here in the cave, I was like one asleep, and when I
woke I did not really wake. It was like morning with the light
teasing me to open my eyes and look at it. Not yet, dear light;
a little while longer, it is so sweet to lie still. But it would
not leave me, and stayed teasing me still, like a small shining
green fly; until, because it teased me so, I opened my lids just
a little. It was not morning, but the firelight, and I was in
your arms, not in my little bed. Your eyes looking, looking into
mine. But I could see yours better. I remembered everything
then, how you once asked me to look into your eyes. I remembered
so many things--oh, so many!"
"How many things did you remember, Rima?"
"Listen, Abel, do you ever lie on the dry moss and look straight
up into a tree and count a thousand leaves?"
"No, sweetest, that could not be done, it is so many to count.
Do you know how many a thousand are?"
"Oh, do I not! When a humming-bird flies close to my face and
stops still in the air, humming like a bee, and then is gone, in
that short time I can count a hundred small round bright feathers
on its throat. That is only a hundred; a thousand are more, ten
times. Looking up I count a thousand leaves; then stop counting,
because there are thousands more behind the first, and thousands
more, crowded together so that I cannot count them. Lying in
your arms, looking up into your face, it was like that; I could
not count the things I remembered. In the wood, when you were
there, and before; and long, long ago at Voa, when I was a child
with mother."
"Tell me some of the things you remembered, Rima."
"Yes, one--only one now. When I was a child at Voa mother was
very lame--you know that. Whenever we went out, away from the
houses, into the forest, walking slowly, slowly, she would sit
under a tree while I ran about playing. And every time I came
back to her I would find her so pale, so sad, crying--crying.
That was when I would hide and come softly back so that she would
not hear me coming. 'Oh, mother, why are you crying? Does your
lame foot hurt you?' And one day she took me in her arms and told
me truly why she cried."
She ceased speaking, but looked at me with a strange new light
coming into her eyes.
"Why did she cry, my love?"
"Oh, Abel, can you understand--now--at last!" And putting her
lips close to my ear, she began to murmur soft, melodious sounds
that told me nothing. Then drawing back her head, she looked
again at me, her eyes glistening with tears, her lips half parted
with a smile, tender and wistful.
Ah, poor child! in spite of all that had been said, all that had
happened, she had returned to the old delusion that I must
understand her speech. I could only return her look, sorrowfully
and in silence.
Her face became clouded with disappointment, then she spoke again
with something of pleading in her tone. "Look, we are not now
apart, I hiding in the wood, you seeking, but together, saying
the same things. In your language--yours and now mine. But
before you came I knew nothing, nothing, for there was only
grandfather to talk to. A few words each day, the same words.
If yours is mine, mine must be yours. Oh, do you not know that
mine is better?"
"Yes, better; but alas! Rima, I can never hope to understand
your sweet speech, much less to speak it. The bird that only
chirps and twitters can never sing like the organ-bird."
Crying, she hid her face against my neck, murmuring sadly between
her sobs: "Never--never!"
How strange it seemed, in that moment of joy, such a passion of
tears, such despondent words!
For some minutes I preserved a sorrowful silence, realizing for
the first time, so far as it was possible to realize- such a
thing, what my inability to understand her secret language meant
to her--that finer language in which alone her swift thoughts and
vivid emotions could be expressed. Easily and well as she seemed
able to declare herself in my tongue, I could well imagine that
to her it would seem like the merest stammering. As she had said
to me once when I asked her to speak in Spanish, "That is not
speaking." And so long as she could not commune with me in that
better language, which reflected her mind, there would not be
that perfect union of soul she so passionately desired.
By and by, as she grew calmer, I sought to say something that
would be consoling to both of us. "Sweetest Rima," I spoke, "it
is so sad that I can never hope to talk with you in your way; but
a greater love than this that is ours we could never feel, and
love will make us happy, unutterably happy, in spite of that one
sadness. And perhaps, after a while, you will be able to say all
you wish in my language, which is also yours, as you said some
time ago. When we are back again in the beloved wood, and talk
once more under that tree where we first talked, and under the
old mora, where you hid yourself and threw down leaves on me, and
where you caught the little spider to show me how you made
yourself a dress, you shall speak to me in your own sweet tongue,
and then try to say the same things in mine.... And in the end,
perhaps, you will find that it is not so impossible as you
think."
She looked at me, smiling again through her tears, and shook her
head a little.
"Remember what I have heard, that before your mother died you
were able to tell Nuflo and the priest what her wish was. Can
you not, in the same way, tell me why she cried?"
"I can tell you, but it will not be telling you."
"I understand. You can tell the bare facts. I can imagine
something more, and the rest I must lose. Tell me, Rima."
Her face became troubled; she glanced away and let her eyes
wander round the dim, firelit cavern; then they returned to mine
once more.
"Look," she said, "grandfather lying asleep by the fire. So far
away from us--oh, so far! But if we were to go out from the
cave, and on and on to the great mountains where the city of the
sun is, and stood there at last in the midst of great crowds of
people, all looking at us, talking to us' it would be just the
same. They would be like the trees and rocks and animals--so
far! Not with us nor we with them. But we are everywhere alone
together, apart--we two. It is love; I know it now, but I did
not know it before because I had forgotten what she told me. Do
you think I can tell you what she said when I asked her why she
cried? Oh no! Only this, she and another were like one, always,
apart from the others. Then something came--something came! O
Abel, was that the something you told me about on the mountain?
And the other was lost for ever, and she was alone in the forests
and mountains of the world. Oh, why do we cry for what is lost?
Why do we not quickly forget it and feel glad again? Now only do
I know what you felt, O sweet mother, when you sat still and
cried, while I ran about and played and laughed! O poor mother!
Oh, what pain!" And hiding her face against my neck, she sobbed
once more.
To my eyes also love and sympathy brought the tears; but in a
little while the fond, comforting words I spoke and my caresses
recalled her from that sad past to the present; then, lying back
as at first, her head resting on my folded cloak, her body partly
supported by my encircling arm and partly by the rock we were
leaning against, her half-closed eyes turned to mine expressed a
tender assured happiness--the chastened gladness of sunshine
after rain; a soft delicious languor that was partly passionate
with the passion etherealized.
"Tell me, Rima," I said, bending down to her, "in all those
troubled days with me in the woods had you no happy moments? Did
not something in your heart tell you that it was sweet to love,
even before you knew what love meant?"
"Yes; and once--O Abel, do you remember that night, after
returning from Ytaioa, when you sat so late talking by the
fire--I in the shadow, never stirring, listening, listening; you
by the fire with the light on your face, saying so many strange
things? I was happy then--oh, how happy! It was black night and
raining, and I a plant growing in the dark, feeling the sweet
raindrops falling, falling on my leaves. Oh, it will be morning
by and by and the sun will shine on my wet leaves; and that made
me glad till I trembled with happiness. Then suddenly the
lightning would come, so bright, and I would tremble with fear,
and wish that it would be dark again. That was when you looked
at me sitting in the shadow, and I could not take my eyes away
quickly and could not meet yours, so that I trembled with fear."
"And now there is no fear--no shadow; now you are perfectly
happy?"
"Oh, so happy! If the way back to the wood was longer, ten
times, and if the great mountains, white with snow on their tops,
were between, and the great dark forest, and rivers wider than
Orinoco, still I would go alone without fear, because you would
come after me, to join me in the wood, to be with me at last and
always."
"But I should not let you go alone, Rima--your lonely days are
over now."
She opened her eyes wider and looked earnestly into my face. "I
must go back alone, Abel," she said. "Before day comes I must
leave you. Rest here, with grandfather, for a few days and
nights, then follow me."
I heard her with astonishment. "It must not be, Rima," I cried.
"What, let you leave me--now you are mine--to go all that
distance, through all that wild country where you might lose
yourself and perish alone? Oh, do not think of it!"
She listened, regarding me with some slight trouble in her eyes,
but smiling a little at the same time. Her small hand moved up
my arm and caressed my cheek; then she drew my face down to hers
until our lips met. But when I looked at her eyes again, I saw
that she had not consented to my wish. "Do I not know all the
way now," she spoke, "all the mountains, rivers, forests--how
should I lose myself? And I must return quickly, not step by
step, walking--resting, resting--walking, stopping to cook and
eat, stopping to gather firewood, to make a shelter--so many
things! Oh, I shall be back in half the time; and I have so much
to do."
"What can you have to do, love?--everything can be done when we
are in the wood together."
A bright smile with a touch of mockery in it flitted over her
face as she replied: "Oh, must I tell you that there are things
you cannot do? Look, Abel," and she touched the slight garment
she wore, thinner now than at first, and dulled by long exposure
to sun and wind and rain.
I could not command her, and seemed powerless to persuade her;
but I had not done yet, and proceeded to use every argument I
could find to bring her round to my view; and when I finished she
put her arms around my neck and drew herself up once more. "O
Abel, how happy I shall be!" she said, taking no notice of all I
had said. "Think of me alone, days and days, in the wood,
waiting for you, working all the time; saying: 'Come quickly,
Abel; come slow, Abel. O Abel, how long you are! Oh, do not come
until my work is finished!' And when it is finished and you
arrive you shall find me, but not at once. First you will seek
for me in the house, then in the wood, calling: 'Rime! Rima!'
And she will be there, listening, hid in the trees, wishing to be
in your arms, wishing for your lips--oh, so glad, yet fearing to
show herself. Do you know why? He told you--did he not?--that
when he first saw her she was standing before him all in white--a
dress that was like snow on the mountain-tops when the sun is
setting and gives it rose and purple colour. I shall be like
that, hidden among the trees, saying: 'Am I different--not like
Rima? Will he know me--will he love me just the same?' Oh, do I
not know that you will be glad, and love me, and call me
beautiful? Listen! Listen!" she suddenly exclaimed, lifting
her face.
Among the bushes not far from the cave's mouth a small bird had
broken out in song, a clear, tender melody soon taken up by other
birds further away.
"It will soon be morning," she said, and then clasped her arms
about me once more and held me in a long, passionate embrace;
then slipping away from my arms and with one swift glance at the
sleeping old man, passed out of the cave.
For a few moments I remained sitting, not yet realizing that she
had left me, so suddenly and swiftly had she passed from my arms
and my sight; then, recovering my faculties, I started up and
rushed out in hopes of overtaking her.
It was not yet dawn, but there was still some light from the full
moon, now somewhere behind the mountains. Running to the verge
of the bushgrown plateau, I explored the rocky slope beneath
without seeing her form, and then called: "Rima! Rima!"
A soft, warbling sound, uttered by no bird, came up from the
shadowy bushes far below; and in that direction I ran on; then
pausing, called again. The sweet sound was repeated once more,
but much lower down now, and so faintly that I scarcely heard it.
And when I went on further and called again and again, there was
no reply, and I knew that she had indeed gone on that long
journey alone.
CHAPTER XVIII
When Nuflo at length opened his eyes he found me sitting alone
and despondent by the fire, just returned from my vain chase. I
had been caught in a heavy mist on the mountain-side, and was wet
through as well as weighed down by fatigue and drowsiness,
consequent upon the previous day's laborious march and my
night-long vigil; yet I dared not think of rest. She had gone
from me, and I could not have prevented it; yet the thought that
I had allowed her to slip out of my arms, to go away alone on
that long, perilous journey, was as intolerable as if I had
consented to it.
Nuflo was at first startled to hear of her sudden departure; but
he laughed at my fears, affirming that after having once been
over the ground she could not lose herself; that she would be in
no danger from the Indians, as she would invariably see them at a
distance and avoid them, and that wild beasts, serpents, and
other evil creatures would do her no harm. The small amount of
food she required to sustain life could be found anywhere;
furthermore, her journey would not be interrupted by bad weather,
since rain and heat had no effect on her. In the end he seemed
pleased that she had left us, saying that with Rima in the wood
the house and cultivated patch and hidden provisions and
implements would be safe, for no Indian would venture to come
where she was. His confidence reassured me, and casting myself
down on the sandy floor of the cave, I fell into a deep slumber,
which lasted until evening; then I only woke to share a meal with
the old man, and sleep again until the following day.
Nuflo was not ready to start yet; he was enamoured of the
unaccustomed comforts of a dry sleeping-place and a fire blown
about by no wind and into which fell no hissing raindrops. Not
for two days more would he consent to set out on the return
journey, and if he could have persuaded me our stay at Riolama
would have lasted a week.
We had fine weather at starting; but before long it clouded, and
then for upwards of a fortnight we had it wet and stormy, which
so hindered us that it took us twenty-three days to accomplish
the return journey, whereas the journey out had only taken
eighteen. The adventures we met with and the pains we suffered
during this long march need not be related. The rain made us
miserable, but we suffered more from hunger than from any other
cause, and on more than one occasion were reduced to the verge of
starvation. Twice we were driven to beg for food at Indian
villages, and as we had nothing to give in exchange for it, we
got very little. It is possible to buy hospitality from the
savage without fish-hooks, nails, and calico; but on this
occasion I found myself without that impalpable medium of
exchange which had been so great a help to me on my first journey
to Parahuari. Now I was weak and miserable and without cunning.
It is true that we could have exchanged the two dogs for cassava
bread and corn, but we should then have been worse off than ever.
And in the end the dogs saved us by an occasional capture--an
armadillo surprised in the open and seized before it could bury
itself in the soil, or an iguana, opossum, or labba, traced by
means of their keen sense of smell to its hiding-place. Then
Nuflo would rejoice and feast, rewarding them with the skin,
bones, and entrails. But at length one of the dogs fell lame,
and Nuflo, who was very hungry, made its lameness an excuse for
dispatching it, which he did apparently without compunction,
notwithstanding that the poor brute had served him well in its
way. He cut up and smoke-dried the flesh, and the intolerable
pangs of hunger compelled me to share the loathsome food with
him. We were not only indecent, it seemed to me, but cannibals
to feed on the faithful servant that had been our butcher. "But
what does it matter?" I argued with myself. "All flesh, clean
and unclean, should be, and is, equally abhorrent to me, and
killing animals a kind of murder. But now I find myself
constrained to do this evil thing that good may come. Only to
live I take it now--this hateful strength-giver that will enable
me to reach Rima, and the purer, better life that is to be."
During all that time, when we toiled onwards league after league
in silence, or sat silent by the nightly fire, I thought of many
things; but the past, with which I had definitely broken, was
little in my mind. Rima was still the source and centre of all
my thoughts; from her they rose, and to her returned. Thinking,
hoping, dreaming, sustained me in those dark days and nights of
pain and privation. Imagination was the bread that gave me
strength, the wine that exhilarated. What sustained old Nuflo's
mind I know not. Probably it was like a chrysalis, dormant,
independent of sustenance; the bright-winged image to be called
at some future time to life by a great shouting of angelic hosts
and noises of musical instruments slept secure, coffined in that
dull, gross nature.
The old beloved wood once more! Never did his native village in
some mountain valley seem more beautiful to the Switzer,
returning, war-worn, from long voluntary exile, than did that
blue cloud on the horizon--the forest where Rima dwelt, my bride,
my beautiful--and towering over it the dark cone of Ytaioa, now
seem to my hungry eyes! How near at last--how near! And yet the
two or three intervening leagues to be traversed so slowly, step
by step--how vast the distance seemed! Even at far Riolama, when
I set out on my return, I scarcely seemed so far from my love.
This maddening impatience told on my strength, which was small,
and hindered me. I could not run nor even walk fast; old Nuflo,
slow, and sober, with no flame consuming his heart, was more than
my equal in the end, and to keep up with him was all I could do.
At the finish he became silent and cautious, first entering the
belt of trees leading away through the low range of hills at the
southern extremity of the wood. For a mile or upwards we trudged
on in the shade; then I began to recognize familiar ground, the
old trees under which I had walked or sat, and knew that a
hundred yards further on there would be a first glimpse of the
palm-leaf thatch. Then all weakness forsook me; with a low cry
of passionate longing and joy I rushed on ahead; but I strained
my eyes in vain for a sight of that sweet shelter; no patch of
pale yellow colour appeared amidst the universal verdure of
bushes, creepers, and trees--trees beyond trees, trees towering
above trees.
For some moments I could not realize it. No, I had surely made a
mistake, the house had not stood on that spot; it would appear in
sight a little further on. I took a few uncertain steps onwards,
and then again stood still, my brain reeling, my heart swelling
nigh to bursting with anguish. I was still standing motionless,
with hand pressed to my breast, when Nuflo overtook me. "Where
is it--the house?" I stammered, pointing with my hand. All his
stolidity seemed gone now; he was trembling too, his lips
silently moving. At length he spoke: "They have come--the
children of hell have been here, and have destroyed everything!"
"Rima! What has become of Rima?" I cried; but without replying
he walked on, and I followed.
The house, we soon found, had been burnt down. Not a stick
remained. Where it had stood a heap of black ashes covered the
ground--nothing more. But on looking round we could discover no
sign of human beings having recently visited the spot. A rank
growth of grass and herbage now covered the once clear space
surrounding the site of the dwelling, and the ash-heap looked as
if it had been lying there for a month at least. As to what had
become of Rima the old man could say no word. He sat down on the
ground overwhelmed at the calamity: Runi's people had been there,
he could not doubt it, and they would come again, and he could
only look for death at their hands. The thought that Rima had
perished, that she was lost, was unendurable. It could not be!
No doubt the Indians tract come and destroyed the house during
our absence; but she had returned, and they had gone away again
to come no more. She would be somewhere in the forest, perhaps
not far off, impatiently waiting our return. The old man stared
at me while I spoke; he appeared to be in a kind of stupor, and
made no reply: and at last, leaving him still sitting on the
ground, I went into the wood to look for Rima.
As I walked there, occasionally stopping to peer into some
shadowy glade or opening, and to listen, I was tempted again and
again to call the name of her I sought aloud; and still the fear
that by so doing I might bring some hidden danger on myself,
perhaps on her, made me silent. A strange melancholy rested on
the forest, a quietude seldom broken by a distant bird's cry.
How, I asked myself, should I ever find her in that wide forest
while I moved about in that silent, cautious way? My only hope
was that she would find me. It occurred to me that the most
likely place to seek her would be some of the old haunts known to
us both, where we had talked together. I thought first of the
mora tree, where she had hidden herself from me, and thither I
directed my steps. About this tree, and within its shade, I
lingered for upwards of an hour; and, finally, casting my eyes up
into the great dim cloud of green and purple leaves, I softly
called: "Rima, Rima, if you have seen me, and have concealed
yourself from me in your hiding-place, in mercy answer me--in
mercy come down to me now!" But Rima answered not, nor threw
down any red glowing leaves to mock me: only the wind, high up,
whispered something low and sorrowful in the foliage; and
turning, I wandered away at random into the deeper shadows.
By and by I was startled by the long, piercing cry of a wildfowl,
sounding strangely loud in the silence; and no sooner was the air
still again than it struck me that no bird had uttered that cry.
The Indian is a good mimic of animal voices, but practice had
made me able to distinguish the true from the false bird-note.
For a minute or so I stood still, at a loss what to do, then
moved on again with greater caution, scarcely breathing,
straining my sight to pierce the shadowy depths. All at once I
gave a great start, for directly before me, on the projecting
root in the deeper shade of a tree, sat a dark, motionless human
form. I stood still, watching it for some time, not yet knowing
that it had seen me, when all doubts were put to flight by the
form rising and deliberately advancing--a naked Indian with a
zabatana in his hand. As he came up out of the deeper shade I
recognized Piake, the surly elder brother of my friend Kua-ko.
It was a great shock to meet him in the wood, but I had no time
to reflect just then. I only remembered that I had deeply
offended him and his people, that they probably looked on me as
an enemy, and would think little of taking my life. It was too
late to attempt to escape by flight; I was spent with my long
journey and the many privations I had suffered, while he stood
there in his full strength with a deadly weapon in his hand.
Nothing was left but to put a bold face on, greet him in a
friendly way, and invent some plausible story to account for my
action in secretly leaving the village.
He was now standing still, silently regarding me, and glancing
round I saw that he was not alone: at a distance of about forty
yards on my right hand two other dusky forms appeared watching me
from the deep shade.
"Piake!" I cried, advancing three or four steps.
"You have returned," he answered, but without moving. "Where
from?"
"Riolama."
He shook his head, then asked where it was.
"Twenty days towards the setting sun," I said. As he remained
silent I added: "I heard that I could find gold in the mountains
there. An old man told me, and we went to look for gold."
"What did you find?"
"Nothing."
"Ah!"
And so our conversation appeared to be at an end. But after a
few moments my intense desire to discover whether the savages
knew aught of Rima or not made me hazard a question.
"Do you live here in the forest now?" I asked.
He shook his head, and after a while said: "We come to kill
animals."
"You are like me now," I returned quickly; "you fear nothing."
He looked distrustfully at me, then came a little nearer and
said: "You are very brave. I should not have gone twenty days'
journey with no weapons and only an old man for companion. What
weapons did you have?"
I saw that he feared me and wished to make sure that I had it not
in my power to do him some injury. "No weapon except my knife,"
I replied, with assumed carelessness. With that I raised my
cloak so as to let him see for himself, turning my body round
before him. "Have you found my pistol?" I added.
He shook his head; but he appeared less suspicious now and came
close up to me. "How do you get food? Where are you going?" he
asked.
I answered boldly: "Food! I am nearly starving. I am going to
the village to see if the women have got any meat in the pot, and
to tell Runi all I have done since I left him."
He looked at me keenly, a little surprised at my confidence
perhaps, then said that he was also going back and would
accompany me One of the other men now advanced, blow-pipe in
hand, to join us, and, leaving the wood, we started to walk
across the savannah.
It was hateful to have to recross that savannah again, to leave
the woodland shadows where I had hoped to find Rima; but I was
powerless: I was a prisoner once more, the lost captive recovered
and not yet pardoned, probably never to be pardoned. Only by
means of my own cunning could I be saved, and Nuflo, poor old
man, must take his chance.
Again and again as we tramped over the barren ground, and when we
climbed the ridge, I was compelled to stand still to recover
breath, explaining to Piake that I had been travelling day and
night, with no meat during the last three days, so that I was
exhausted. This was an exaggeration, but it was necessary to
account in some way for the faintness I experienced during our
walk, caused less by fatigue and want of food than by anguish of
mind.
At intervals I talked to him, asking after all the other members
of the community by name. At last, thinking only of Rima, I
asked him if any other person or persons besides his people came
to the wood now or lived there.
He said no. "Once," I said, "there was a daughter of the Didi, a
girl you all feared: is she there now?"
He looked at me with suspicion and then shook his head. I dared
not press him with more questions; but after an interval he said
plainly: "She is not there now."
And I was forced to believe him; for had Rima been in the wood
they would not have been there. She was not there, this much I
had discovered. Had she, then, lost her way, or perished on that
long journey from Riolama? Or had she returned only to fall into
the hands of her cruel enemies? My heart was heavy in me; but if
these devils in human shape knew more than they had told me, I
must, I said, hide my anxiety and wait patiently to find it out,
should they spare my life. And if they spared me and had not
spared that other sacred life interwoven with mine, the time
would come when they would find, too late, that they had taken to
their bosom a worse devil than themselves.
CHAPTER XIX
My arrival at the village created some excitement; but I was
plainly no longer regarded as a friend or one of the family.
Runi was absent, and I looked forward to his return with no
little apprehension; he would doubtless decide my fate. Kua-ko
was also away. The others sat or stood about the great room,
staring at me in silence. I took no notice, but merely asked for
food, then for my hammock, which I hung up in the old place, and
lying down I fell into a doze. Runi made his appearance at dusk.
I rose and greeted him, but he spoke no word and, until he went
to his hammock, sat in sullen silence, ignoring my presence.
On the following day the crisis came. We were once more gathered
in the room--all but Kua-ko and another of the men, who had not
yet returned from some expedition--and for the space of half an
hour not a word was spoken by anyone. Something was expected;
even the children were strangely still, and whenever one of the
pet birds strayed in at the open door, uttering a little
plaintive note, it was chased out again, but without a sound. At
length Runi straightened himself on his seat and fixed his eyes
on me; then cleared his throat and began a long harangue,
delivered in the loud, monotonous singsong which I knew so well
and which meant that the occasion was an important one. And as
is usual in such efforts, the same thought and expressions were
used again and again, and yet again, with dull, angry insistence.
The orator of Guayana to be impressive must be long, however
little he may have to say. Strange as it may seem, I listened
critically to him, not without a feeling of scorn at his lower
intelligence. But I was easier in my mind now. From the very
fact of his addressing such a speech to me I was convinced that
he wished not to take my life, and would not do so if I could
clear myself of the suspicion of treachery.
I was a white man, he said, they were Indians; nevertheless they
had treated me well. They had fed me and sheltered me. They had
done a great deal for me: they had taught me the use of the
zabatana, and had promised to make one for me, asking for nothing
in return. They had also promised me a wife. How had I treated
them? I had deserted them, going away secretly to a distance,
leaving them in doubt as to my intentions. How could they tell
why I had gone, and where? They had an enemy. Managa was his
name; he and his people hated them; I knew that he wished them
evil; I knew where to find him, for they had told me. That was
what they thought when I suddenly left them. Now I returned to
them, saying that I had been to Riolama. He knew where Riolama
was, although he had never been there: it was so far. Why did I
go to Riolama? It was a bad place. There were Indians there, a
few; but they were not good Indians like those of Parahuari, and
would kill a white man. HAD I gone there? Why had I gone there?
He finished at last, and it was my turn to speak, but he had
given me plenty of time, and my reply was ready. "I have heard
you," I said. "Your words are good words. They are the words of
a friend. 'I am the white man's friend,' you say; 'is he my
friend? He went away secretly, saying no word; why did he go
without speaking to his friend who had treated him well? Has he
been to my enemy Managa? Perhaps he is a friend of my enemy?
Where has he been?' I must now answer these things, saying true
words to my friend. You are an Indian, I am a white man. You do
not know all the white man's thoughts. These are the things I
wish to tell you. In the white man's country are two kinds of
men. There are the rich men, who have all that a man can
desire--houses made of stone, full of fine things, fine clothes,
fine weapons, fine ornaments; and they have horses, cattle,
sheep, dogs--everything they desire. Because they have gold, for
with gold the white man buys everything. The other kind of white
men are the poor, who have no gold and cannot buy or have
anything: they must work hard for the rich man for the little
food he gives them, and a rag to cover their nakedness; and if he
gives them shelter they have it; if not they must lie down in the
rain out of doors. In my own country, a hundred days from here,
I was the son of a great chief, who had much gold, and when he
died it was all mine, and I was rich. But I had an enemy, one
worse than Managa, for he was rich and had many people. And in a
war his people overcame mine, and he took my gold, and all I
possessed, making me poor. The Indian kills his enemy, but the
white man takes his gold, and that is worse than death. Then I
said: 'I have been a rich man and now I am poor, and must work
like a dog for some rich man, for the sake of the little food he
will throw me at the end of each day. No, I cannot do it! I
will go away and live with the Indians, so that those who have
seen me a rich man shall never see me working like a dog for a
master, and cry out and mock at me. For the Indians are not like
white men: they have no gold; they are not rich and poor; all are
alike. One roof covers them from the rain and sun. All have
weapons which they make; all kill birds in the forest and catch
fish in the rivers; and the women cook the meat and all eat from
one pot. And with the Indians I will be an Indian, and hunt in
the forest and eat with them and drink with them.' Then I left my
country and came here, and lived with you, Runi, and was well
treated. And now, why did I go away? This I have now to tell
you. After I had been here a certain time I went over there to
the forest. You wished me not to go, because of an evil thing, a
daughter of the Didi, that lived there; but I feared nothing and
went. There I met an old man, who talked to me in the white
man's language. He had travelled and seen much, and told me one
strange thing. On a mountain at Riolama he told me that he had
seen a great lump of gold, as much as a man could carry. And
when I heard this I said: 'With the gold I could return to my
country, and buy weapons for myself and all my people and go to
war with my enemy and deprive him of all his possessions and
serve him as he served me.' I asked the old man to take me to
Riolama; and when he had consented I went away from here without
saying a word, so as not to be prevented. It is far to Riolama,
and I had no weapons; but I feared nothing. I said: 'If I must
fight I must fight, and if I must be killed I must be killed.'
But when I got to Riolama I found no gold. There was only a
yellow stone which the old man had mistaken for gold. It was
yellow, like gold, but it would buy nothing. Therefore I came
back to Parahuari again, to my friend; and if he is angry with me
still because I went away without informing him, let him say: 'Go
and seek elsewhere for a new friend, for I am your friend no
longer."'
I concluded thus boldly because I did not wish him to know that I
had suspected him of harbouring any sinister designs, or that I
looked on our quarrel as a very serious one. When I had finished
speaking he emitted a sound which expressed neither approval nor
disapproval, but only the fact that he had heard me. But I was
satisfied. His expression had undergone a favourable change; it
was less grim. After a while he remarked, with a peculiar
twitching of the mouth which might have developed into a smile:
"The white man will do much to get gold. You walked twenty days
to see a yellow stone that would buy nothing." It was fortunate
that he took this view of the case, which was flattering to his
Indian nature, and perhaps touched his sense of the ludicrous.
At all events, he said nothing to discredit my story, to which
they had all listened with profound interest.
From that time it seemed to be tacitly agreed to let bygones be
bygones; and I could see that as the dangerous feeling that had
threatened my life diminished, the old pleasure they had once
found in my company returned. But my feelings towards them did
not change, nor could they while that black and terrible
suspicion concerning Rima was in my heart. I talked again freely
with them, as if there had been no break in the old friendly
relations. If they watched me furtively whenever I went out of
doors, I affected not to see it. I set to work to repair my rude
guitar, which had been broken in my absence, and studied to show
them a cheerful countenance. But when alone, or in my hammock,
hidden from their eyes, free to look into my own heart, then I
was conscious that something new and strange had come into my
life; that a new nature, black and implacable, had taken the
place of the old. And sometimes it was hard to conceal this fury
that burnt in me; sometimes I felt an impulse to spring like a
tiger on one of the Indians, to hold him fast by the throat until
the secret I wished to learn was forced from his lips, then to
dash his brains out against the stone. But they were many, and
there was no choice but to be cautious and patient if I wished to
outwit them with a cunning superior to their own.
Three days after my arrival at the village, Kua-ko returned with
his companion. I greeted him with affected warmth, but was
really pleased that he was back, believing that if the Indians
knew anything of Rima he among them all would be most likely to
tell it.
Kua-ko appeared to have brought some important news, which he
discussed with Runi and the others; and on the following day I
noticed that preparations for an expedition were in progress.
Spears and bows and arrows were got ready, but not blow-pipes,
and I knew by this that the expedition would not be a hunting
one. Having discovered so much, also that only four men were
going out, I called Kua-ko aside and begged him to let me go with
them. He seemed pleased at the proposal, and at once repeated it
to Runi, who considered for a little and then consented.
By and by he said, touching his bow: "You cannot fight with our
weapons; what will you do if we meet an enemy?"
I smiled and returned that I would not run away. All I wished to
show him was that his enemies were my enemies, that I was ready
to fight for my friend.
He was pleased at my words, and said no more and gave me no
weapons. Next morning, however, when we set out before daylight,
I made the discovery that he was carrying my revolver fastened to
his waist. He had concealed it carefully under the one simple
garment he wore, but it bulged slightly, and so the secret was
betrayed. I had never believed that he had lost it, and I was
convinced that he took it now with the object of putting it into
my hands at the last moment in case of meeting with an enemy.
From the village we travelled in a north-westerly direction, and
before noon camped in a grove of dwarf trees, where we remained
until the sun was low, then continued our walk through a rather
barren country. At night we camped again beside a small stream,
only a few inches deep, and after a meal of smoked meat and
parched maize prepared to sleep till dawn on the next day.
Sitting by the fire I resolved to make a first attempt to
discover from Kua-ko anything concerning Rima which might be
known to him. Instead of lying down when the others did, I
remained seated, my guardian also sitting--no doubt waiting for
me to lie down first. Presently I moved nearer to him and began
a conversation in a low voice, anxious not to rouse the attention
of the other men.
"Once you said that Oalava would be given to me for a wife," I
began. "Some day I shall want a wife."
He nodded approval, and remarked sententiously that the desire to
possess a wife was common to all men.
"What has been left to me?" I said despondingly and spreading
out my hands. "My pistol gone, and did I not give Runi the
tinder-box, and the little box with a cock painted on it to you?
I had no return--not even the blow-pipe. How, then, can I get me
a wife?"
He, like the others--dull-witted savage that he was--had come to
the belief that I was incapable of the cunning and duplicity they
practiced. I could not see a green parrot sitting silent and
motionless amidst the green foliage as they could; 1 had not
their preternatural keenness of sight; and, in like manner, to
deceive with lies and false seeming was their faculty and not
mine. He fell readily into the trap. My return to practical
subjects pleased him. He bade me hope that Oalava might yet be
mine in spite of my poverty. It was not always necessary to have
things to get a wife: to be able to maintain her was enough; some
day I would be like one of themselves, able to kill animals and
catch fish. Besides, did not Runi wish to keep me with them for
other reasons? But he could not keep me wifeless. I could do
much: I could sing and make music; I was brave and feared
nothing; I could teach the children to fight.
He did not say, however, that I could teach anything to one of
his years and attainments.
I protested that he gave me too much praise, that they were just
as brave. Did they not show a courage equal to mine by going
every day to hunt in that wood which was inhabited by the
daughter of the Didi?
I came to this subject with fear and trembling, but he took it
quietly. He shook his head, and then all at once began to tell
me how they first came to go there to hunt. He said that a few
days after I had secretly disappeared, two men and a woman,
returning home from a distant place where they had been on a
visit to a relation, stopped at the village. These travellers
related that two days' journey from Ytaioa they had met three
persons travelling in an opposite direction: an old man with a
white beard, followed by two yellow dogs, a young man in a big
cloak, and a strange-looking girl. Thus it came to be known that
I had left the wood with the old man and the daughter of the
Didi. It was great news to them, for they did not believe that
we had any intention of returning, and at once they began to hunt
in the wood, and went there every day, killing birds, monkeys,
and other animals in numbers.
His words had begun to excite me greatly, but I studied to appear
calm and only slightly interested, so as to draw him on to say
more.
"Then we returned," I said at last. "But only two of us, and not
together. I left the old man on the road, and SHE left us in
Riolama. She went away from us into the mountains--who knows
whither!"
"But she came back!" he returned, with a gleam of devilish
satisfaction in his eyes that made the blood run cold in my
veins.
It was hard to dissemble still, to tempt him to say something
that would madden me! "No, no," I answered, after considering
his words. "She feared to return; she went away to hide herself
in the great mountains beyond Riolama. She could not come back."
"But she came back!" he persisted, with that triumphant gleam in
his eyes once more. Under my cloak my hand had clutched my
knife-handle, but I strove hard against the fierce, almost
maddening impulse to pluck it out and bury it, quick as
lightning, in his accursed throat.
He continued: "Seven days before you returned we saw her in the
wood. We were always expecting, watching, always afraid; and
when hunting we were three and four together. On that day I and
three others saw her. It was in an open place, where the trees
are big and wide apart. We started up and chased her when she
ran from us, but feared to shoot. And in one moment she climbed
up into a small tree, then, like a monkey, passed from its
highest branches into a big tree. We could not see her there,
but she was there in the big tree, for there was no other tree
near--no way of escape. Three of us sat down to watch, and the
other went back to the village. He was long gone; we were just
going to leave the tree, fearing that she would do us some
injury, when he came back, and with him all the others, men,
women, and children. They brought axes and knives. Then Runi
said: 'Let no one shoot an arrow into the tree thinking to hit
her, for the arrow would be caught in her hand and thrown back at
him. We must burn her in the tree; there is no way to kill her
except by fire.' Then we went round and round looking up, but
could see nothing; and someone said: 'She has escaped, flying
like a bird from the tree'; but Runi answered that fire would
show. So we cut down the small tree and lopped the branches off
and heaped them round the big trunk. Then, at a distance, we cut
down ten more small trees, and afterwards, further away, ten
more, and then others, and piled them all round, tree after tree,
until the pile reached as far from the trunk as that," and here
he pointed to a bush forty to fifty yards from where we sat.
The feeling with which I had listened to this recital had become
intolerable. The sweat ran from me in streams; I shivered like a
person in a fit of ague, and clenched my teeth together to
prevent them from rattling. "I must drink," I said, cutting him
short and rising to my feet. He also rose, but did not follow
me, when, with uncertain steps, I made my way to the waterside,
which was ten or twelve yards away. Lying prostrate on my chest,
I took a long draught of clear cold water, and held my face for a
few moments in the current. It sent a chill through me, drying
my wet skin, and bracing me for the concluding part of the
hideous narrative. Slowly I stepped back to the fireside and sat
down again, while he resumed his old place at my side.
"You burnt the tree down," I said. "Finish telling me now and
let me sleep--my eyes are heavy."
"Yes. While the men cut and brought trees, the women and
children gathered dry stuff in the forest and brought it in their
arms and piled it round. Then they set fire to it on all sides,
laughing and shouting: 'Burn, burn, daughter of the Didi!' At
length all the lower branches of the big tree were on fire, and
the trunk was on fire, but above it was still green, and we could
see nothing. But the flames went up higher and higher with a
great noise; and at last from the top of the tree, out of the
green leaves, came a great cry, like the cry of a bird: 'Abel!
Abel!' and then looking we saw something fall; through leaves and
smoke and flame it fell like a great white bird killed with an
arrow and falling to the earth, and fell into the flames beneath.
And it was the daughter of the Didi, and she was burnt to ashes
like a moth in the flames of a fire, and no one has ever heard or
seen her since."
It was well for me that he spoke rapidly, and finished quickly.
Even before he had quite concluded I drew my cloak round my face
and stretched myself out. And I suppose that he at once followed
my example, but I had grown blind and deaf to outward things just
then. My heart no longer throbbed violently; it fluttered and
seemed to grow feebler and feebler in its action: I remember that
there was a dull, rushing sound in my ears, that I gasped for
breath, that my life seemed ebbing away. After these horrible
sensations had passed, I remained quiet for about half an hour;
and during this time the picture of that last act in the hateful
tragedy grew more and more distinct and vivid in my mind, until I
seemed to be actually gazing on it, until my ears were filled
with the hissing and crackling of the fire, the exultant shouts
of the savages, and above all the last piercing cry of "Abel!
Abel!" from the cloud of burning foliage. I could not endure it
longer, and rose at last to my feet. I glanced at Kua-ko lying
two or three yards away, and he, like the others, was, or
appeared to be, in a deep sleep; he was lying on his back, and
his dark firelit face looked as still and unconscious as a face
of stone. Now was my chance to escape--if to escape was my wish.
Yes; for I now possessed the coveted knowledge, and nothing more
was to be gained by keeping with my deadly enemies. And now,
most fortunately for me, they had brought me far on the road to
that place of the five hills where Managa lived--Managa, whose
name had been often in my mind since my return to Parahuari.
Glancing away from Kua-ko's still stone-like face. I caught
sight of that pale solitary star which Runi had pointed out to me
low down in the north-western sky when I had asked him where his
enemy lived. In that direction we had been travelling since
leaving the village; surely if I walked all night, by tomorrow I
could reach Managa's hunting-ground, and be safe and think over
what I had heard and on what I had to do.
I moved softly away a few steps, then thinking that it would be
well to take a spear in my hand, I turned back, and was surprised
and startled to notice that Kua-ko had moved in the interval. He
had turned over on his side, and his face was now towards me.
His eyes appeared closed, but he might be only feigning sleep,
and I dared not go back to pick up the spear. After a moment's
hesitation I moved on again, and after a second glance back and
seeing that he did not stir, I waded cautiously across the
stream, walked softly twenty or thirty yards, and then began to
run. At intervals I paused to listen for a moment; and presently
I heard a pattering sound as of footsteps coming swiftly after
me. I instantly concluded that Kua-ko had been awake all the
time watching my movements, and that he was now following me. I
now put forth my whole speed, and while thus running could
distinguish no sound. That he would miss me, for it was very
dark, although with a starry sky above, was my only hope; for
with no weapon except my knife my chances would be small indeed
should he overtake me. Besides, he had no doubt roused the
others before starting, and they would be close behind. There
were no bushes in that place to hide myself in and let them pass
me; and presently, to make matters worse, the character of the
soil changed, and I was running over level clayey ground, so
white with a salt efflorescence that a dark object moving on it
would show conspicuously at a distance. Here I paused to look
back and listen, when distinctly came the sound of footsteps, and
the next moment I made out the vague form of an Indian advancing
at a rapid rate of speed and with his uplifted spear in his hand.
In the brief pause I had made he had advanced almost to within
hurling distance of me, and turning, I sped on again, throwing
off my cloak to ease my flight. The next time I looked back he
was still in sight, but not so near; he had stopped to pick up my
cloak, which would be his now, and this had given me a slight
advantage. I fled on, and had continued running for a distance
perhaps of fifty yards when an object rushed past me, tearing
through the flesh of my left arm close to the shoulder on its
way; and not knowing that I was not badly wounded nor how near my
pursuer might be, I turned in desperation to meet him, and saw
him not above twenty-five yards away, running towards me with
something bright in his hand. It was Kua-ko, and after wounding
me with his spear he was about to finish me with his knife. O
fortunate young savage, after such a victory, and with that noble
blue cloth cloak for trophy and covering, what fame and happiness
will be yours! A change swift as lightning had come over me, a
sudden exultation. I was wounded, but my right hand was sound
and clutched a knife as good as his, and we were on an equality.
I waited for him calmly. All weakness, grief, despair had
vanished, all feelings except a terrible raging desire to spill
his accursed blood; and my brain was clear and my nerves like
steel, and I remembered with something like laughter our old
amusing encounters with rapiers of wood. Ah, that was only
making believe and childish play; this was reality. Could any
white man, deprived of his treacherous, far-killing weapon, meet
the resolute savage, face to face and foot to foot, and equal him
with the old primitive weapons? Poor youth, this delusion will
cost you dear! It was scarcely an equal contest when he hurled
himself against me, with only his savage strength and courage to
match my skill; in a few moments he was lying at my feet, pouring
out his life blood on that white thirsty plain. From his
prostrate form I turned, the wet, red knife in my hand, to meet
the others, still thinking that they were on the track and close
at hand. Why had he stooped to pick up the cloak if they were
not following--if he had not been afraid of losing it? I turned
only to receive their spears, to die with my face to them; nor
was the thought of death terrible to me; I could die calmly now
after killing my first assailant. But had I indeed killed him? I
asked, hearing a sound like a groan escape from his lips.
Quickly stooping, I once more drove my weapon to the hilt in his
prostrate form, and when he exhaled a deep sigh, and his frame
quivered, and the blood spurted afresh, I experienced a feeling
of savage joy. And still no sound of hurrying footsteps came to
my listening ears and no vague forms appeared in the darkness.
I concluded that he had either left them sleeping or that they
had not followed in the right direction. Taking up the cloak, I
was about to walk on, when I noticed the spear he had thrown at
me lying where it had fallen some yards away, and picking that up
also, I went on once more, still keeping the guiding star before
me.
CHAPTER XX
That good fight had been to me like a draught of wine, and made
me for a while oblivious of my loss and of the pain from my
wound. But the glow and feeling of exultation did not last: the
lacerated flesh smarted; I was weak from loss of blood, and
oppressed with sensations of fatigue. If my foes had appeared on
the scene they would have made an easy conquest of me; but they
came not, and I continued to walk on, slowly and painfully,
pausing often to rest.
At last, recovering somewhat from my faint condition, and losing
all fear of being overtaken, my sorrow revived in full force, and
thought returned to madden me.
Alas! this bright being, like no other in its divine brightness,
so long in the making, now no more than a dead leaf, a little
dust, lost and forgotten for ever--oh, pitiless! Oh, cruel!
But I knew it all before--this law of nature and of necessity,
against which all revolt is idle: often had the remembrance of it
filled me with ineffable melancholy; only now it seemed cruel
beyond all cruelty.
Not nature the instrument, not the keen sword that cuts into the
bleeding tissues, but the hand that wields it--the unseen unknown
something, or person, that manifests itself in the horrible
workings of nature.
"Did you know, beloved, at the last, in that intolerable heat, in
that moment of supreme anguish, that he is unlistening, unhelpful
as the stars, that you cried not to him? To me was your cry; but
your poor, frail fellow creature was not there to save, or,
failing that, to cast himself into the flames and perish with
you, hating God."
Thus, in my insufferable pain, I spoke aloud; alone in that
solitary place, a bleeding fugitive in the dark night, looking up
at the stars I cursed the Author of my being and called on Him to
take back the abhorred gift of life.
Yet, according to my philosophy, how vain it was! All my
bitterness and hatred and defiance were as empty, as ineffectual,
as utterly futile, as are the supplications of the meek
worshipper, and no more than the whisper of a leaf, the light
whirr of an insect's wing. Whether I loved Him who was over all,
as when I thanked Him on my knees for guiding me to where I had
heard so sweet and mysterious a melody, or hated and defied Him
as now, it all came from Him--love and hate, good and evil.
But I know--I knew then--that in one thing my philosophy was
false, that it was not the whole truth; that though my cries did
not touch nor come near Him they would yet hurt me; and, just as
a prisoner maddened at his unjust fate beats against the stone
walls of his cell until he falls back bruised and bleeding to the
floor, so did I wilfully bruise my own soul, and knew that those
wounds I gave myself would not heal.
Of that night, the beginning of the blackest period of my life, I
shall say no more; and over subsequent events I shall pass
quickly.
Morning found me at a distance of many miles from the scene of my
duel with the Indian, in a broken, hilly country, varied with
savannah and open forest. I was well-nigh spent with my long
march, and felt that unless food was obtained before many hours
my situation would be indeed desperate. With labour I managed to
climb to the summit of a hill about three hundred feet high in
order to survey the surrounding country, and found that it was
one of a group of five, and conjectured that these were the five
hills of Uritay and that I was in the neighbourhood of Managa's
village. Coming down I proceeded to the next hill, which was
higher; and before reaching it came to a stream in a narrow
valley dividing the hills, and proceeding along its banks in
search of a crossing-place, I came full in sight of the
settlement sought for. As I approached, people were seen moving
hurriedly about; and by the time I arrived, walking slowly and
painfully, seven or eight men were standing before the village'
some with spears in their hands, the women and children behind
them, all staring curiously at me. Drawing near I cried out in a
somewhat feeble voice that I was seeking for Managa; whereupon a
gray-haired man stepped forth, spear in hand, and replied that he
was Managa, and demanded to know why I sought him. I told him a
part of my story--enough to show that I had a deadly feud with
Runi, that I had escaped from him after killing one of his
people.
I was taken in and supplied with food; my wound was examined and
dressed; and then I was permitted to lie down and sleep, while
Managa, with half a dozen of his people, hurriedly started to
visit the scene of my fight with Kua-ko, not only to verify my
story, but partly with the hope of meeting Runi. I did not see
him again until the next morning, when he informed me that he had
found the spot where I had been overtaken, that the dead man had
been discovered by the others and carried back towards Parahuari.
He had followed the trace for some distance, and he was satisfied
that Runi had come thus far in the first place only with the
intention of spying on him.
My arrival, and the strange tidings I had brought, had thrown the
village into a great commotion; it was evident that from that
time Managa lived in constant apprehension of a sudden attack
from his old enemy. This gave me great satisfaction; it was my
study to keep the feeling alive, and, more than that, to drop
continual hints of his enemy's secret murderous purpose, until he
was wrought up to a kind of frenzy of mingled fear and rage. And
being of a suspicious and somewhat truculent temper, he one day
all at once turned on me as the immediate cause of his miserable
state, suspecting perhaps that I only wished to make an
instrument of him. But I was strangely bold and careless of
danger then, and only mocked at his rage, telling him proudly
that I feared him not; that Runi, his mortal enemy and mine,
feared not him but me; that Runi knew perfectly well where I had
taken refuge and would not venture to make his meditated attack
while I remained in his village, but would wait for my departure.
"Kill me, Managa," I cried, smiting my chest as I stood facing
him. "Kill me, and the result will be that he will come upon you
unawares and murder you all, as he has resolved to do sooner or
later."
After that speech he glared at me in silence, then flung down the
spear he had snatched up in his sudden rage and stalked out of
the house and into the wood; but before long he was back again,
seated in his old place, brooding on my words with a face black
as night.
It is painful to recall that secret dark chapter of my life--that
period of moral insanity. But I wish not to be a hypocrite,
conscious or unconscious, to delude myself or another with this
plea of insanity. My mind was very clear just then; past and
present were clear to me; the future clearest of all: I could
measure the extent of my action and speculate on its future
effect, and my sense of right or wrong--of individual
responsibility--was more vivid than at any other period of my
life. Can I even say that I was blinded by passion? Driven,
perhaps, but certainly not blinded. For no reaction, or
submission, had followed on that furious revolt against the
unknown being, personal or not, that is behind nature, in whose
existence I believed. I was still in revolt: I would hate Him,
and show my hatred by being like Him, as He appears to us
reflected in that mirror of Nature. Had He given me good
gifts--the sense of right and wrong and sweet humanity? The
beautiful sacred flower He had caused to grow in me I would crush
ruthlessly; its beauty and fragrance and grace would be dead for
ever; there was nothing evil, nothing cruel and contrary to my
nature, that I would not be guilty of, glorying in my guilt.
This was not the temper of a few days: I remained for close upon
two months at Managa's village, never repenting nor desisting in
my efforts to induce the Indians to join me in that most
barbarous adventure on which my heart was set.
I succeeded in the end; it would have been strange if I had not.
The horrible details need not be given. Managa did not wait for
his enemy, but fell on him unexpectedly, an hour after nightfall
in his own village. If I had really been insane during those two
months, if some cloud had been on me, some demoniacal force
dragging me on, the cloud and insanity vanished and the
constraint was over in one moment, when that hellish enterprise
was completed. It was the sight of an old woman, lying where she
had been struck down, the fire of the blazing house lighting her
wide-open glassy eyes and white hair dabbled in blood, which
suddenly, as by a miracle, wrought this change in my brain. For
they were all dead at last, old and young, all who had lighted
the fire round that great green tree in which Rima had taken
refuge, who had danced round the blaze, shouting: "Burn! burn!"
At the moment my glance fell on that prostrate form I paused and
stood still, trembling like a person struck with a sudden pang in
the heart, who thinks that his last moment has come to him
unawares. After a while I slunk away out of the great circle of
firelight into the thick darkness beyond. Instinctively I turned
towards the forests across the savannah--my forest again; and
fled away from the noise and the sight of flames, never pausing
until I found myself within the black shadow of the trees. Into
the deeper blackness of the interior I dared not venture; on the
border I paused to ask myself what I did there alone in the
night-time. Sitting down, I covered my face with my hands as if
to hide it more effectually than it could be hidden by night and
the forest shadows. What horrible thing, what calamity that
frightened my soul to think of, had fallen on me? The revulsion
of feeling, the unspeakable horror, the remorse, was more than I
could bear. I started up with a cry of anguish, and would have
slain myself to escape at that moment; but Nature is not always
and utterly cruel, and on this occasion she came to my aid.
Consciousness forsook me, and I lived not again until the light
of early morning was in the east; then found myself lying on the
wet herbage--wet with rain that had lately fallen. My physical
misery was now so great that it prevented me from dwelling on the
scenes witnessed on the previous evening. Nature was again
merciful in this. I only remembered that it was necessary to
hide myself, in case the Indians should be still in the
neighbourhood and pay the wood a visit. Slowly and painfully I
crept away into the forest, and there sat for several hours,
scarcely thinking at all, in a half-stupefied condition. At noon
the sun shone out and dried the wood. I felt no hunger, only a
vague sense of bodily misery, and with it the fear that if I left
my hiding-place I might meet some human creature face to face.
This fear prevented me from stirring until the twilight came,
when I crept forth and made my way to the border of the forest,
to spend the night there. Whether sleep visited me during the
dark hours or not I cannot say: day and night my condition seemed
the same; I experienced only a dull sensation of utter misery
which seemed in spirit and flesh alike, an inability to think
clearly, or for more than a few moments consecutively, about
anything. Scenes in which I had been principal actor came and
went, as in a dream when the will slumbers: now with devilish
ingenuity and persistence I was working on Managa's mind; now
standing motionless in the forest listening for that sweet,
mysterious melody; now staring aghast at old Cla-cla's wide-open
glassy eyes and white hair dabbled in blood; then suddenly, in
the cave at Riolama, I was fondly watching the slow return of
life and colour to Rima's still face.
When morning came again, I felt so weak that a vague fear of
sinking down and dying of hunger at last roused me and sent me
forth in quest of food. I moved slowly and my eyes were dim to
see, but I knew so well where to seek for small morsels--small
edible roots and leaf-stalks, berries, and drops of congealed
gum--that it would have been strange in that rich forest if I had
not been able to discover something to stay my famine. It was
little, but it sufficed for the day. Once more Nature was
merciful to me; for that diligent seeking among the concealing
leaves left no interval for thought; every chance morsel gave a
momentary pleasure, and as I prolonged my search my steps grew
firmer, the dimness passed from my eyes. I was more forgetful of
self, more eager, and like a wild animal with no thought or
feeling beyond its immediate wants. Fatigued at the end, I fell
asleep as soon as darkness brought my busy rambles to a close,
and did not wake until another morning dawned.
My hunger was extreme now. The wailing notes of a pair of small
birds, persistently flitting round me, or perched with gaping
bills and wings trembling with agitation, served to remind me
that it was now breeding-time; also that Rima had taught me to
find a small bird's nest. She found them only to delight her
eyes with the sight; but they would be food for me; the crystal
and yellow fluid in the gem-like, white or blue or red-speckled
shells would help to keep me alive. All day I hunted, listening
to every note and cry, watching the motions of every winged
thing, and found, besides gums and fruits, over a score of nests
containing eggs, mostly of small birds, and although the labour
was great and the scratches many, I was well satisfied with the
result.
A few days later I found a supply of Haima gum, and eagerly began
picking it from the tree; not that it could be used, but the
thought of the brilliant light it gave was so strong in my mind
that mechanically I gathered it all. The possession of this gum,
when night closed round me again, produced in me an intense
longing for artificial light and warmth. The darkness was harder
than ever to endure. I envied the fireflies their natural
lights, and ran about in the dusk to capture a few and hold them
in the hollow of my two hands, for the sake of their cold, fitful
flashes. On the following day I wasted two or three hours trying
to get fire in the primitive method with dry wood, but failed,
and lost much time, and suffered more than ever from hunger in
consequence. Yet there was fire in everything; even when I
struck at hard wood with my knife, sparks were emitted. If I
could only arrest those wonderful heat- and light-giving sparks!
And all at once, as if I had just lighted upon some new,
wonderful truth, it occurred to me that with my steel
hunting-knife and a piece of flint fire could be obtained.
Immediately I set about preparing tinder with dry moss, rotten
wood, and wild cotton; and in a short time I had the wished fire,
and heaped wood dry and green on it to make it large. I nursed
it well, and spent the night beside it; and it also served to
roast some huge white grubs which I had found in the rotten wood
of a prostrate trunk. The sight of these great grubs had
formerly disgusted me; but they tasted good to me now, and stayed
my hunger, and that was all I looked for in my wild forest food.
For a long time an undefined feeling prevented me from going near
the site of Nuflo's burnt lodge. I went there at last; and the
first thing I did was to go all round the fatal spot, cautiously
peering into the rank herbage, as if I feared a lurking serpent;
and at length, at some distance from the blackened heap, I
discovered a human skeleton, and knew it to be Nuflo's. In his
day he had been a great armadillo-hunter, and these quaint
carrion-eaters had no doubt revenged themselves by devouring his
flesh when they found him dead--killed by the savages.
Having once returned to this spot of many memories, I could not
quit it again; while my wild woodland life lasted, here must I
have my lair, and being here I could not leave that mournful
skeleton above ground. With labour I excavated a pit to bury it,
careful not to cut or injure a broad-leafed creeper that had
begun to spread itself over the spot; and after refilling the
hole I drew the long, trailing stems over the mound.
"Sleep well, old man," said I, when my work was done; and these
few words, implying neither censure nor praise, was all the
burial service that old Nuflo had from me.
I then visited the spot where the old man, assisted by me, had
concealed his provisions before starting for Riolama, and was
pleased to find that it had not been discovered by the Indians.
Besides the store of tobacco leaf, maize, pumpkin, potatoes, and
cassava bread, and the cooking utensils, I found among other
things a chopper--a great acquisition, since with it I would be
able to cut down small palms and bamboos to make myself a hut.
The possession of a supply of food left me time for many things:
time in the first place to make my own conditions; doubtless
after them there would be further progression on the old
lines--luxuries added to necessaries; a healthful, fruitful life
of thought and action combined; and at last a peaceful,
contemplative old age.
I cleared away ashes and rubbish, and marked out the very spot
where Rima's separate bower had been for my habitation, which I
intended to make small. In five days it was finished; then,
after lighting a fire, I stretched myself out in my dry bed of
moss and leaves with a feeling that was almost triumphant. Let
the rain now fall in torrents, putting out the firefly's lamp;
let the wind and thunder roar their loudest, and the lightnings
smite the earth with intolerable light, frightening the poor
monkeys in their wet, leafy habitations, little would I heed it
all on my dry bed, under my dry, palm-leaf thatch, with glorious
fire to keep me company and protect me from my ancient enemy,
Darkness.
From that first sleep under shelter I woke refreshed, and was not
driven by the cruel spur of hunger into the wet forest. The
wished time had come of rest from labour, of leisure for thought.
Resting here, just where she had rested, night by night clasping
a visionary mother in her arms, whispering tenderest words in a
visionary ear, I too now clasped her in my arms--a visionary
Rima. How different the nights had seemed when I was without
shelter, before I had rediscovered fire! How had I endured it?
That strange ghostly gloom of the woods at night-time full of
innumerable strange shapes; still and dark, yet with something
seen at times moving amidst them, dark and vague and strange
also--an owl, perhaps, or bat, or great winged moth, or nightjar.
Nor had I any choice then but to listen to the night-sounds of
the forest; and they were various as the day-sounds, and for
every day-sound, from the faintest lisping and softest trill to
the deep boomings and piercing cries, there was an analogue;
always with something mysterious, unreal in its tone, something
proper to the night. They were ghostly sounds, uttered by the
ghosts of dead animals; they were a hundred different things by
turns, but always with a meaning in them, which I vainly strove
to catch--something to be interpreted only by a sleeping faculty
in us, lightly sleeping, and now, now on the very point of
awaking!
Now the gloom and the mystery were shut out; now I had that which
stood in the place of pleasure to me, and was more than pleasure.
It was a mournful rapture to lie awake now, wishing not for sleep
and oblivion, hating the thought of daylight that would come at
last to drown and scare away my vision. To be with Rima
again--my lost Rima recovered--mine, mine at last! No longer the
old vexing doubt now--"You are you, and I am I--why is it?"--the
question asked when our souls were near together, like two
raindrops side by side, drawing irresistibly nearer, ever nearer:
for now they had touched and were not two, but one inseparable
drop, crystallized beyond change, not to be disintegrated by
time, nor shattered by death's blow, nor resolved by any alchemy.
I had other company besides this unfailing vision and the bright
dancing fire that talked to me in its fantastic fire language.
It was my custom to secure the door well on retiring; grief had
perhaps chilled my blood, for I suffered less from heat than from
cold at this period, and the fire seemed grateful all night long;
I was also anxious to exclude all small winged and creeping
night-wanderers. But to exclude them entirely proved impossible:
through a dozen invisible chinks they would find their way to me;
also some entered by day to lie concealed until after nightfall.
A monstrous hairy hermit spider found an asylum in a dusky corner
of the hut, under the thatch, and day after day he was there, all
day long, sitting close and motionless; but at dark he invariably
disappeared--who knows on what murderous errand! His hue was a
deep dead-leaf yellow, with a black and grey pattern, borrowed
from some wild cat; and so large was he that his great outspread
hairy legs, radiating from the flat disk of his body, would have
covered a man's open hand. It was easy to see him in my small
interior; often in the night-time my eyes would stray to his
corner, never to encounter that strange hairy figure; but
daylight failed not to bring him. He troubled me; but now, for
Rima's sake, 1 could slay no living thing except from motives of
hunger. I had it in my mind to injure him--to strike off one of
his legs, which would not be missed much, as they were many--so
as to make him go away and return no more to so inhospitable a
place. But courage failed me. He might come stealthily back at
night to plunge his long, crooked farces into my throat,
poisoning my blood with fever and delirium and black death. So I
left him alone, and glanced furtively and fearfully at him,
hoping that he had not divined any thoughts; thus we lived on
unsocially together. More companionable, but still in an
uncomfortable way, were the large crawling, running
insects--crickets, beetles, and others. They were shapely and
black and polished, and ran about here and there on the floor,
just like intelligent little horseless carriages; then they would
pause with their immovable eyes fixed on me, seeing or in some
mysterious way divining my presence; their pliant horns waving up
and down, like delicate instruments used to test the air.
Centipedes and millipedes in dozens came too, and were not
welcome. I feared not their venom, but it was a weariness to see
them; for they seemed no living things, but the vertebrae of
snakes and eels and long slim fishes, dead and desiccated, made
to move mechanically over walls and floor by means of some
jugglery of nature. I grew skilful at picking them up with a
pair of pliant green twigs, to thrust them into the outer
darkness.
One night a moth fluttered in and alighted on my hand as I sat by
the fire, causing me to hold my breath as I gazed on it. Its
fore-wings were pale grey, with shadings dark and light written
all over in finest characters with some twilight mystery or
legend; but the round under-wings were clear amber-yellow, veined
like a leaf with red and purple veins; a thing of such exquisite
chaste beauty that the sight of it gave me a sudden shock of
pleasure. Very soon it flew up, circling about, and finally
lighted on the palm-leaf thatch directly over the fire. The
heat, I thought, would soon drive it from the spot; and, rising,
I opened the door, so that it might find its way out again into
its own cool, dark, flowery world. And standing by the open door
I turned and addressed it: "O night-wanderer of the pale,
beautiful wings, go forth, and should you by chance meet her
somewhere in the shadowy depths, revisiting her old haunts, be my
messenger--" Thus much had I spoken when the frail thing loosened
its hold to fall without a flutter, straight and swift, into the
white blaze beneath. I sprang forward with a shriek and stood
staring into the fire, my whole frame trembling with a sudden
terrible emotion. Even thus had Rima fallen--fallen from the
great height- -into the flames that instantly consumed her
beautiful flesh and bright spirit! O cruel Nature!
A moth that perished in the flame; an indistinct faint sound; a
dream in the night; the semblance of a shadowy form moving
mist-like in the twilight gloom of the forest, would suddenly
bring back a vivid memory, the old anguish, to break for a while
the calm of that period. It was calm then after the storm.
Nevertheless, my health deteriorated. I ate little and slept
little and grew thin and weak. When I looked down on the dark,
glassy forest pool, where Rima would look no more to see herself
so much better than in the small mirror of her lover's pupil, it
showed me a gaunt, ragged man with a tangled mass of black hair
falling over his shoulders, the bones of his face showing through
the dead-looking, sun-parched skin, the sunken eyes with a gleam
in them that was like insanity.
To see this reflection had a strangely disturbing effect on me.
A torturing voice would whisper in my ear: "Yes, you are
evidently going mad. By and by you will rush howling through the
forest, only to drop down at last and die; and no person will
ever find and bury your bones. Old Nuflo was more fortunate in
that he perished first."
"A lying voice!" I retorted in sudden anger. "My faculties were
never keener than now. Not a fruit can ripen but I find it. If
a small bird darts by with a feather or straw in its bill I mark
its flight, and it will be a lucky bird if I do not find its nest
in the end. Could a savage born in the forest do more? He would
starve where I find food!"
"Ay, yes, there is nothing wonderful in that," answered the
voice. "The stranger from a cold country suffers less from the
heat, when days are hottest, than the Indian who knows no other
climate. But mark the result! The stranger dies, while the
Indian, sweating and gasping for breath, survives. In like
manner the low-minded savage, cut off from all human fellowship,
keeps his faculties to the end, while your finer brain proves
your ruin."
I cut from a tree a score of long, blunt thorns, tough and black
as whalebone, and drove them through a strip of wood in which I
had burnt a row of holes to receive them, and made myself a comb,
and combed out my long, tangled hair to improve my appearance.
"It is not the tangled condition of your hair," persisted the
voice, "but your eyes, so wild and strange in their expression,
that show the approach of madness. Make your locks as smooth as
you like, and add a garland of those scarlet, star-shaped
blossoms hanging from the bush behind you--crown yourself as you
crowned old Cla-cla--but the crazed look will remain just the
same."
And being no longer able to reply, rage and desperation drove me
to an act which only seemed to prove that the hateful voice had
prophesied truly. Taking up a stone, I hurled it down on the
water to shatter the image I saw there, as if it had been no
faithful reflection of myself, but a travesty, cunningly made of
enamelled clay or some other material, and put there by some
malicious enemy to mock me.
CHAPTER XXI
Many days had passed since the hut was made--how many may not be
known, since I notched no stick and knotted no cord--yet never in
my rambles in the wood had I seen that desolate ash-heap where
the fire had done its work. Nor had I looked for it. On the
contrary, my wish was never to see it, and the fear of coming
accidentally upon it made me keep to the old familiar paths. But
at length, one night, without thinking of Rima's fearful end, it
all at once occurred to me that the hated savage whose blood I
had shed on the white savannah might have only been practicing
his natural deceit when he told me that most pitiful story. If
that were so--if he had been prepared with a fictitious account
of her death to meet my questions--then Rima might still exist:
lost, perhaps, wandering in some distant place, exposed to perils
day and night, and unable to find her way back, but living still!
Living! her heart on fire with the hope of reunion with me,
cautiously threading her way through the undergrowth of
immeasurable forests; spying out the distant villages and hiding
herself from the sight of all men, as she knew so well how to
hide; studying the outlines of distant mountains, to recognize
some familiar landmark at last, and so find her way back to the
old wood once more! Even now, while I sat there idly musing, she
might be somewhere in the wood--somewhere near me; but after so
long an absence full of apprehension, waiting in concealment for
what tomorrow's light might show.
I started up and replenished the fire with trembling hands, then
set the door open to let the welcoming stream out into the wood.
But Rima had done more; going out into the black forest in the
pitiless storm, she had found and led me home. Could I do less!
I was quickly out in the shadows of the wood. Surely it was more
than a mere hope that made my heart beat so wildly! How could a
sensation so strangely sudden, so irresistible in its power,
possess me unless she were living and near? Can it be, can it be
that we shall meet again? To look again into your divine
eyes--to hold you again in my arms at last! I so changed--so
different! But the old love remains; and of all that has happened
in your absence I shall tell you nothing--not one word; all shall
be forgotten now--sufferings, madness, crime, remorse! Nothing
shall ever vex you again--not Nuflo, who vexed you every day; for
he is dead now--murdered, only I shall not say that--and I have
decently buried his poor old sinful bones. We alone together in
the wood--OUR wood now! The sweet old days again; for I know
that you would not have it different, nor would I.
Thus I talked to myself, mad with the thoughts of the joy that
would soon be mine; and at intervals I stood still and made the
forest echo with my calls. "Rima! Rima!" I called again and
again, and waited for some response; and heard only the familiar
night-sounds--voices of insect and bird and tinkling tree-frog,
and a low murmur in the topmost foliage, moved by some light
breath of wind unfelt below. I was drenched with dew, bruised
and bleeding from falls in the dark, and from rocks and thorns
and rough branches, but had felt nothing; gradually the
excitement burnt itself out; I was hoarse with shouting and ready
to drop down with fatigue, and hope was dead: and at length I
crept back to my hut, to cast myself on my grass bed and sink
into a dull, miserable, desponding stupor.
But on the following morning I was out once more, determined to
search the forest well; since, if no evidence of the great fire
Kua-ko had described to me existed, it would still be possible to
believe that he had lied to me, and that Rima lived. I searched
all day and found nothing; but the area was large, and to search
it thoroughly would require several days.
On the third day I discovered the fatal spot, and knew that never
again would I behold Rima in the flesh, that my last hope had
indeed been a vain one. There could be no mistake: just such an
open place as the Indian had pictured to me was here, with giant
trees standing apart; while one tree stood killed and blackened
by fire, surrounded by a huge heap, sixty or seventy yards
across, of prostrate charred tree-trunks and ashes. Here and
there slender plants had sprung up through the ashes, and the
omnipresent small-leaved creepers were beginning to throw their
pale green embroidery over the blackened trunks. I looked long
at the vast funeral tree that had a buttressed girth of not less
than fifty feet, and rose straight as a ship's mast, with its top
about a hundred and fifty feet from the earth. What a distance
to fall, through burning leaves and smoke, like a white bird shot
dead with a poisoned arrow, swift and straight into that sea of
flame below! How cruel imagination was to turn that desolate
ash-heap, in spite of feathery foliage and embroidery of
creepers, into roaring leaping flames again--to bring those dead
savages back, men, women, and children--even the little ones I
had played with--to set them yelling around me: "Burn! burn!"
Oh, no, this damnable spot must not be her last resting-place!
If the fire had not utterly consumed her, bones as well as sweet
tender flesh, shrivelling her like a frail white-winged moth into
the finest white ashes, mixed inseparably with the ashes of stems
and leaves innumerable, then whatever remained of her must be
conveyed elsewhere to be with me, to mingle with my ashes at
last.
Having resolved to sift and examine the entire heap, I at once
set about my task. If she had climbed into the central highest
branch, and had fallen straight, then she would have dropped into
the flames not far from the roots; and so to begin I made a path
to the trunk, and when darkness overtook me I had worked all
round the tree, in a width of three to four yards, without
discovering any remains. At noon on the following day I found
the skeleton, or, at all events, the larger bones, rendered so
fragile by the fierce heat they had been subjected to, that they
fell to pieces when handled. But I was careful--how careful!--to
save these last sacred relics, all that was now left of
Rima!--kissing each white fragment as I lifted it, and gathering
them all in my old frayed cloak, spread out to receive them. And
when I had recovered them all, even to the smallest, I took my
treasure home.
Another storm had shaken my soul, and had been succeeded by a
second calm, which was more complete and promised to be more
enduring than the first. But it was no lethargic calm; my brain
was more active than ever; and by and by it found a work for my
hands to do, of such a character as to distinguish me from all
other forest hermits, fugitives from their fellows, in that
savage land. The calcined bones I had rescued were kept in one
of the big, rudely shaped, half-burnt earthen jars which Nuflo
had used for storing grain and other food-stuff. It was of a
wood-ash colour; and after I had given up my search for the
peculiar fine clay he had used in its manufacture--for it had
been in my mind to make a more shapely funeral urn myself--I set
to work to ornament its surface. A portion of each day was given
to this artistic labour; and when the surface was covered with a
pattern of thorny stems, and a trailing creeper with curving leaf
and twining tendril, and pendent bud and blossom, I gave it
colour. Purples and black only were used, obtained from the
juices of some deeply coloured berries; and when a tint, or
shade, or line failed to satisfy me I erased it, to do it again;
and this so often that I never completed my work. I might, in
the proudly modest spirit of the old sculptors, have inscribed on
the vase the words: Abel was doing this. For was not my ideal
beautiful like theirs, and the best that my art could do only an
imperfect copy--a rude sketch? A serpent was represented wound
round the lower portion of the jar, dull-hued, with a chain of
irregular black spots or blotches extending along its body; and
if any person had curiously examined these spots he would have
discovered that every other one was a rudely shaped letter, and
that the letters, by being properly divided, made the following
words:
Sin vos y siu dios y mi.
Words that to some might seem wild, even insane in their
extravagance, sung by some ancient forgotten poet; or possibly
the motto of some love-sick knight-errant, whose passion was
consumed to ashes long centuries ago. But not wild nor insane to
me, dwelling alone on a vast stony plain in everlasting twilight,
where there was no motion, nor any sound; but all things, even
trees, ferns, and grasses, were stone. And in that place I had
sat for many a thousand years, drawn up and motionless, with
stony fingers clasped round my legs, and forehead resting on my
knees; and there would I sit, unmoving, immovable, for many a
thousand years to come--I, no longer I, in a universe where she
was not, and God was not.
The days went by, and to others grouped themselves into weeks and
months; to me they were only days--not Saturday, Sunday, Monday,
but nameless. They were so many and their sum so great that all
my previous life, all the years I had existed before this
solitary time, now looked like a small island immeasurably far
away, scarcely discernible, in the midst of that endless desolate
waste of nameless days.
My stock of provisions had been so long consumed that I had
forgotten the flavour of pulse and maize and pumpkins and purple
and sweet potatoes. For Nuflo's cultivated patch had been
destroyed by the savages--not a stem, not a root had they left:
and I, like the sorrowful man that broods on his sorrow and the
artist who thinks only of his art, had been improvident and had
consumed the seed without putting a portion into the ground.
Only wild food, and too little of that, found with much seeking
and got with many hurts. Birds screamed at and scolded me;
branches bruised and thorns scratched me; and still worse were
the angry clouds of waspish things no bigger than flies.
Buzz--buzz! Sting- -sting! A serpent's tooth has failed to kill
me; little do I care for your small drops of fiery venom so that
I get at the spoil--grubs and honey. My white bread and purple
wine! Once my soul hungered after knowledge; I took delight in
fine thoughts finely expressed; I sought them carefully in
printed books: now only this vile bodily hunger, this eager
seeking for grubs and honey, and ignoble war with little things!
A bad hunter I proved after larger game. Bird and beast despised
my snares, which took me so many waking hours at night to invent,
so many daylight hours to make. Once, seeing a troop of monkeys
high up in the tall trees, I followed and watched them for a long
time, thinking how royally I should feast if by some strange
unheard-of accident one were to fall disabled to the ground and
be at my mercy. But nothing impossible happened, and I had no
meat. What meat did I ever have except an occasional fledgling,
killed in its cradle, or a lizard, or small tree-frog detected,
in spite of its green colour, among the foliage? I would roast
the little green minstrel on the coals. Why not? Why should he
live to tinkle on his mandolin and clash his airy cymbals with no
appreciative ear to listen? Once I had a different and strange
kind of meat; but the starved stomach is not squeamish. I found
a serpent coiled up in my way in a small glade, and arming myself
with a long stick, I roused him from his siesta and slew him
without mercy. Rima was not there to pluck the rage from my
heart and save his evil life. No coral snake this, with slim,
tapering body, ringed like a wasp with brilliant colour; but
thick and blunt, with lurid scales, blotched with black; also a
broad, flat, murderous head, with stony, ice-like, whity-blue
eyes, cold enough to freeze a victim's blood in its veins and
make it sit still, like some wide-eyed creature carved in stone,
waiting for the sharp, inevitable stroke--so swift at last, so
long in coming. "O abominable flat head, with icy-cold,
humanlike, fiend-like eyes, I shall cut you off and throw you
away!" And away I flung it, far enough in all conscience: yet I
walked home troubled with a fancy that somewhere, somewhere down
on the black, wet soil where it had fallen, through all that
dense, thorny tangle and millions of screening leaves, the white,
lidless, living eyes were following me still, and would always be
following me in all my goings and comings and windings about in
the forest. And what wonder? For were we not alone together in
this dreadful solitude, I and the serpent, eaters of the dust,
singled out and cursed above all cattle? HE would not have
bitten me, and I--faithless cannibal!--had murdered him. That
cursed fancy would live on, worming itself into every crevice of
my mind; the severed head would grow and grow in the night-time
to something monstrous at last, the hellish white lidless eyes
increasing to the size of two full moons. "Murderer! murderer!"
they would say; "first a murderer of your own fellow
creatures--that was a small crime; but God, our enemy, had made
them in His image, and He cursed you; and we two were together,
alone and apart--you and I, murderer! you and I, murderer!"
I tried to escape the tyrannous fancy by thinking of other things
and by making light of it. "The starved, bloodless brain," I
said, "has strange thoughts." I fell to studying the dark,
thick, blunt body in my hands; I noticed that the livid, rudely
blotched, scaly surface showed in some lights a lovely play of
prismatic colours. And growing poetical, I said: "When the wild
west wind broke up the rainbow on the flying grey cloud and
scattered it over the earth, a fragment doubtless fell on this
reptile to give it that tender celestial tint. For thus it is
Nature loves all her children, and gives to each some beauty,
little or much; only to me, her hated stepchild, she gives no
beauty, no grace. But stay, am I not wronging her? Did not
Rima, beautiful above all things, love me well? said she not
that I was beautiful?"
"Ah, yes, that was long ago," spoke the voice that mocked me by
the pool when I combed out my tangled hair. "Long ago, when the
soul that looked from your eyes was not the accursed thing it is
now. Now Rima would start at the sight of them; now she would
fly in terror from their insane expression."
"O spiteful voice, must you spoil even such appetite as I have
for this fork-tongued spotty food? You by day and Rima by
night--what shall I do--what shall I do?"
For it had now come to this, that the end of each day brought not
sleep and dreams, but waking visions. Night by night, from my
dry grass bed I beheld Nuflo sitting in his old doubled-up
posture, his big brown feet close to the white ashes--sitting
silent and miserable. I pitied him; I owed him hospitality; but
it seemed intolerable that he should be there. It was better to
shut my eyes; for then Rima's arms would be round my neck; the
silky mist of her hair against my face, her flowery breath mixing
with my breath. What a luminous face was hers! Even with
closeshut eyes I could see it vividly, the translucent skin
showing the radiant rose beneath, the lustrous eyes, spiritual
and passionate, dark as purple wine under their dark lashes.
Then my eyes would open wide. No Rima in my arms! But over
there, a little way back from the fire, just beyond where old
Nuflo had sat brooding a few minutes ago, Rima would be standing,
still and pale and unspeakably sad. Why does she come to me from
the outside darkness to stand there talking to me, yet never once
lifting her mournful eyes to mine? "Do not believe it, Abel; no,
that was only a phantom of your brain, the What-I-was that you
remember so well. For do you not see that when I come she fades
away and is nothing? Not that--do not ask it. I know that I
once refused to look into your eyes, and afterwards, in the cave
at Riolama, I looked long and was happy--unspeakably happy! But
now--oh, you do not know what you ask; you do not know the sorrow
that has come into mine; that if you once beheld it, for very
sorrow you would die. And you must live. But I will wait
patiently, and we shall be together in the end, and see each
other without disguise. Nothing shall divide us. Only wish not
for it soon; think not that death will ease your pain, and seek
it not. Austerities? Good works? Prayers? They are not seen;
they are not heard, they are less-than nothing, and there is no
intercession. I did not know it then, but you knew it. Your life
was your own; you are not saved nor judged! acquit
yourself--undo that which you have done, which Heaven cannot
undo--and Heaven will say no word nor will I. You cannot, Abel,
you cannot. That which you have done is done, and yours must be
the penalty and the sorrow--yours and mine--yours and mine--yours
and mine."
This, too, was a phantom, a Rima of the mind, one of the shapes
the ever-changing black vapours of remorse and insanity would
take; and all her mournful sentences were woven out of my own
brain. I was not so crazed as not to know it; only a phantom, an
illusion, yet more real than reality--real as my crime and vain
remorse and death to come. It was, indeed, Rima returned to tell
me that I that loved her had been more cruel to her than her
cruellest enemies; for they had but tortured and destroyed her
body with fire, while I had cast this shadow on her soul--this
sorrow transcending all sorrows, darker than death, immitigable,
eternal.
If I could only have faded gradually, painlessly, growing feebler
in body and dimmer in my senses each day, to sink at last into
sleep! But it could not be. Still the fever in my brain, the
mocking voice by day, the phantoms by night; and at last I became
convinced that unless I quitted the forest before long, death
would come to me in some terrible shape. But in the feeble
condition I was now in, and without any provisions, to escape
from the neighbourhood of Parahuari was impossible, seeing that
it was necessary at starting to avoid the villages where the
Indians were of the same tribe as Runi, who would recognize me as
the white man who was once his guest and afterwards his
implacable enemy. I must wait, and in spite of a weakened body
and a mind diseased, struggle still to wrest a scanty subsistence
from wild nature.
One day I discovered an old prostrate tree, buried under a thick
growth of creeper and fern, the wood of which was nearly or quite
rotten, as I proved by thrusting my knife to the heft in it. No
doubt it would contain grubs--those huge, white wood-borers which
now formed an important item in my diet. On the following day I
returned to the spot with a chopper and a bundle of wedges to
split the trunk up, but had scarcely commenced operations when an
animal, startled at my blows, rushed or rather wriggled from its
hiding-place under the dead wood at a distance of a few yards
from me. It was a robust, round-headed, short-legged creature,
about as big as a good-sized cat, and clothed in a thick,
greenish-brown fur. The ground all about was covered with
creepers, binding the ferns, bushes, and old dead branches
together; and in this confused tangle the animal scrambled and
tore with a great show of energy, but really made very little
progress; and all at once it flashed into my mind that it was a
sloth--a common animal, but rarely seen on the ground--with no
tree near to take refuge in. The shock of joy this discovery
produced was great enough to unnerve me, and for some moments I
stood trembling, hardly able to breathe; then recovering I
hastened after it, and stunned it with a blow from my chopper on
its round head.
"Poor sloth!" I said as I stood over it. "Poor old lazy-bones!
Did Rima ever find you fast asleep in a tree, hugging a branch as
if you loved it, and with her little hand pat your round,
human-like head; and laugh mockingly at the astonishment in your
drowsy, waking eyes; and scold you tenderly for wearing your
nails so long, and for being so ugly? Lazybones, your death is
revenged! Oh, to be out of this wood--away from this sacred
place--to be anywhere where killing is not murder!"
Then it came into my mind that I was now in possession of the
supply of food which would enable me to quit the wood. A noble
capture! As much to me as if a stray, migratory mule had rambled
into the wood and found me, and I him. Now I would be my own
mule, patient, and long-suffering, and far-going, with naked feet
hardened to hoofs, and a pack of provender on my back to make me
independent of the dry, bitter grass on the sunburnt savannahs.
Part of that night and the next morning was spent in curing the
flesh over a smoky fire of green wood and in manufacturing a
rough sack to store it in, for I had resolved to set out on my
journey. How safely to convey Rima's treasured ashes was a
subject of much thought and anxiety. The clay vessel on which I
had expended so much loving, sorrowful labour had to be left,
being too large and heavy to carry; eventually I put the
fragments into a light sack; and in order to avert suspicion from
the people I would meet on the way, above the ashes I packed a
layer of roots and bulbs. These I would say contained medicinal
properties, known to the white doctors, to whom I would sell them
on my arrival at a Christian settlement, and with the money buy
myself clothes to start life afresh.
On the morrow I would bid a last farewell to that forest of many
memories. And my journey would be eastwards, over a wild savage
land of mountains, rivers, and forests, where every dozen miles
would be like a hundred of Europe; but a land inhabited by tribes
not unfriendly to the stranger. And perhaps it would be my good
fortune to meet with Indians travelling east who would know the
easiest routes; and from time to time some compassionate voyager
would let me share his wood-skin, and many leagues would be got
over without weariness, until some great river, flowing through
British or Dutch Guiana, would be reached; and so on, and on, by
slow or swift stages, with little to eat perhaps, with much
labour and pain, in hot sun and in storm, to the Atlantic at
last, and towns inhabited by Christian men.
In the evening of that day, after completing my preparations, I
supped on the remaining portions of the sloth, not suitable for
preservation, roasting bits of fat on the coals and boiling the
head and bones into a broth; and after swallowing the liquid I
crunched the bones and sucked the marrow, feeding like some
hungry carnivorous animal.
Glancing at the fragments scattered on the floor, I remembered
old Nuflo, and how I had surprised him at his feast of rank
coatimundi in his secret retreat. "Nuflo, old neighbour," said
I, "how quiet you are under your green coverlet, spangled just
now with yellow flowers! It is no sham sleep, old man, I know.
If any suspicion of these curious doings, this feast of flesh on
a spot once sacred, could flit like a small moth into your mouldy
hollow skull you would soon thrust out your old nose to sniff the
savour of roasting fat once more."
There was in me at that moment an inclination to laughter; it
came to nothing, but affected me strangely, like an impulse I had
not experienced since boyhood--familiar, yet novel. After the
good-night to my neighbour, I tumbled into my straw and slept
soundly, animal-like. No fancies and phantoms that night: the
lidless, white, implacable eyes of the serpent's severed head
were turned to dust at last; no sudden dream-glare lighted up old
Cla-cla's wrinkled dead face and white, blood-dabbled locks; old
Nuflo stayed beneath his green coverlet; nor did my mournful
spirit-bride come to me to make my heart faint at the thought of
immortality.
But when morning dawned again, it was bitter to rise up and go
away for ever from that spot where I had often talked with
Rima--the true and the visionary. The sky was cloudless and the
forest wet as if rain had fallen; it was only a heavy dew, and it
made the foliage look pale and hoary in the early light. And the
light grew, and a whispering wind sprung as I walked through the
wood; and the fast-evaporating moisture was like a bloom on the
feathery fronds and grass and rank herbage; but on the higher
foliage it was like a faint iridescent mist--a glory above the
trees. The everlasting beauty and freshness of nature was over
all again, as I had so often seen it with joy and adoration
before grief and dreadful passions had dimmed my vision. And now
as I walked, murmuring my last farewell, my eyes grew dim again
with the tears that gathered to them.
CHAPTER XXII
Before that well-nigh hopeless journey to the coast was half over
I became ill--so ill that anyone who had looked on me might well
have imagined that I had come to the end of my pilgrimage. That
was what I feared. For days I remained sunk in the deepest
despondence; then, in a happy moment, I remembered how, after
being bitten by the serpent, when death had seemed near and
inevitable, I had madly rushed away through the forest in search
of help, and wandered lost for hours in the storm and darkness,
and in the end escaped death, probably by means of these frantic
exertions. The recollection served to inspire me with a new
desperate courage. Bidding good-bye to the Indian village where
the fever had smitten me, I set out once more on that apparently
hopeless adventure. Hopeless, indeed, it seemed to one in my
weak condition. My legs trembled under me when I walked, while
hot sun and pelting rain were like flame and stinging ice to my
morbidly sensitive skin.
For many days my sufferings were excessive, so that I often
wished myself back in that milder purgatory of the forest, from
which I had been so anxious to escape. When I try to retrace my
route on the map, there occurs a break here--a space on the chart
where names of rivers and mountains call up no image to my mind,
although, in a few cases, they were names I seem to have heard in
a troubled dream. The impressions of nature received during that
sick period are blurred, or else so coloured and exaggerated by
perpetual torturing anxiety, mixed with half-delirious
night-fancies, that I can only think of that country as an
earthly inferno, where I fought against every imaginable
obstacle, alternately sweating and freezing, toiling as no man
ever toiled before. Hot and cold, cold and hot, and no medium.
Crystal waters; green shadows under coverture of broad, moist
leaves; and night with dewy fanning winds--these chilled but did
not refresh me; a region in which there was no sweet and pleasant
thing; where even the ita palm and mountain glory and airy
epiphyte starring the woodland twilight with pendent blossoms had
lost all grace and beauty; where all brilliant colours in earth
and heaven were like the unmitigated sun that blinded my sight
and burnt my brain. Doubtless I met with help from the natives,
otherwise I do not see how I could have continued my journey; yet
in my dim mental picture of that period I see myself incessantly
dogged by hostile savages. They flit like ghosts through the
dark forest; they surround me and cut off all retreat, until I
burst through them, escaping out of their very hands, to fly over
some wide, naked savannah, hearing their shrill, pursuing yells
behind me, and feeling the sting of their poisoned arrows in my
flesh.
This I set down to the workings of remorse in a disordered mind
and to clouds of venomous insects perpetually shrilling in my
ears and stabbing me with their small, fiery needles.
Not only was I pursued by phantom savages and pierced by phantom
arrows, but the creations of the Indian imagination had now
become as real to me as anything in nature. I was persecuted by
that superhuman man-eating monster supposed to be the guardian of
the forest. In dark, silent places he is lying in wait for me:
hearing my slow, uncertain footsteps he starts up suddenly in my
path, outyelling the bearded aguaratos in the trees; and I stand
paralysed, my blood curdled in my veins. His huge, hairy arms
are round me; his foul, hot breath is on my skin; he will tear my
liver out with his great green teeth to satisfy his raging
hunger. Ah, no, he cannot harm me! For every ravening beast,
every cold-blooded, venomous thing, and even the frightful
Curupita, half brute and half devil, that shared the forest with
her, loved and worshipped Rima, and that mournful burden I
carried, her ashes, was a talisman to save me. He has left me,
the semi-human monster, uttering such wild, lamentable cries as
he hurries away into the deeper, darker woods that horror changes
to grief, and I, too, lament Rima for the first time: a memory of
all the mystic, unimaginable grace and loveliness and joy that
had vanished smites on my heart with such sudden, intense pain
that I cast myself prone on the earth and weep tears that are
like drops of blood.
Where in the rude savage heart of Guiana was this region where
the natural obstacles and pain and hunger and thirst and
everlasting weariness were terrible enough without the imaginary
monsters and legions of phantoms that peopled it, I cannot say.
Nor can I conjecture how far I strayed north or south from my
course. I only know that marshes that were like Sloughs of
Despond, and barren and wet savannahs, were crossed; and forests
that seemed infinite in extent and never to be got through; and
scores of rivers that boiled round the sharp rocks, threatening
to submerge or dash in pieces the frail bark canoe--black and
frightful to look on as rivers in hell; and nameless mountain
after mountain to be toiled round or toiled over. I may have
seen Roraima during that mentally clouded period. I vaguely
remember a far-extending gigantic wall of stone that seemed to
bar all further progress--a rocky precipice rising to a
stupendous height, seen by moonlight, with a huge sinuous rope of
white mist suspended from its summit; as if the guardian camoodi
of the mountain had been a league-long spectral serpent which was
now dropping its coils from the mighty stone table to frighten
away the rash intruder.
That spectral moonlight camoodi was one of many serpent fancies
that troubled me. There was another, surpassing them all, which
attended me many days. When the sun grew hot overhead and the
way was over open savannah country, I would see something moving
on the ground at my side and always keeping abreast of me. A
small snake, one or two feet long. No, not a small snake, but a
sinuous mark in the pattern on a huge serpent's head, five or six
yards long, always moving deliberately at my side. If a cloud
came over the sun, or a fresh breeze sprang up, gradually the
outline of that awful head would fade and the well-defined
pattern would resolve itself into the motlings on the earth. But
if the sun grew more and more hot and dazzling as the day
progressed, then the tremendous ophidian head would become
increasingly real to my sight, with glistening scales and
symmetrical markings; and I would walk carefully not to stumble
against or touch it; and when I cast my eyes behind me I could
see no end to its great coils extending across the savannah.
Even looking back from the summit of a high hill I could see it
stretching leagues and leagues away through forests and rivers,
across wide plains, valleys and mountains, to lose itself at last
in the infinite blue distance.
How or when this monster left me--washed away by cold rains
perhaps--I do not know. Probably it only transformed itself into
some new shape, its long coils perhaps changing into those
endless processions and multitudes of pale-faced people I seem to
remember having encountered. In my devious wanderings I must
have reached the shores of the undiscovered great White Lake, and
passed through the long shining streets of Manoa, the mysterious
city in the wilderness. I see myself there, the wide
thoroughfare filled from end to end with people gaily dressed as
if for some high festival, all drawing aside to let the wretched
pilgrim pass, staring at his fever- and famine-wasted figure, in
its strange rags, with its strange burden.
A new Ahasuerus, cursed by inexpiable crime, yet sustained by a
great purpose.
But Ahasuerus prayed ever for death to come to him and ran to
meet it, while I fought against it with all my little strength.
Only at intervals, when the shadows seemed to lift and give me
relief, would I pray to Death to spare me yet a little longer;
but when the shadows darkened again and hope seemed almost
quenched in utter gloom, then I would curse it and defy its
power. Through it all I clung to the belief that my will would
conquer, that it would enable me to keep off the great enemy from
my worn and suffering body until the wished goal was reached;
then only would I cease to fight and let death have its way.
There would have been comfort in this belief had it not been for
that fevered imagination which corrupted everything that touched
me and gave it some new hateful character. For soon enough this
conviction that the will would triumph grew to something
monstrous, a parent of monstrous fancies. Worst of all, when I
felt no actual pain, but only unutterable weariness of body and
soul, when feet and legs were numb so that I knew not whether I
trod on dry hot rock or in slime, was the fancy that I was
already dead, so far as the body was concerned--had perhaps been
dead for days--that only the unconquerable will survived to
compel the dead flesh to do its work.
Whether it really was will--more potent than the bark of barks
and wiser than the physicians--or merely the vis medicatrix with
which nature helps our weakness even when the will is suspended,
that saved me I cannot say; but it is certain that I gradually
recovered health, physical and mental, and finally reached the
coast comparatively well, although my mind was still in a gloomy,
desponding state when I first walked the streets of Georgetown,
in rags, half-starved and penniless.
But even when well, long after the discovery that my flesh was
not only alive, but that it was of an exceedingly tough quality,
the idea born during the darkest period of my pilgrimage, that
die I must, persisted in my mind. I had lived through that which
would have killed most men--lived only to accomplish the one
remaining purpose of my life. Now it was accomplished; the
sacred ashes brought so far, with such infinite labour, through
so many and such great perils, were safe and would mix with mine
at last. There was nothing more in life to make me love it or
keep me prisoner in its weary chains. This prospect of near
death faded in time; love of life returned, and the earth had
recovered its everlasting freshness and beauty; only that feeling
about Rima's ashes did not fade or change, and is as strong now
as it was then. Say that it is morbid--call it superstition if
you like; but there it is, the most powerful motive I have known,
always in all things to be taken into account--a philosophy of
life to be made to fit it. Or take it as a symbol, since that
may come to be one with the thing symbolized. In those darkest
days in the forest I had her as a visitor--a Rima of the mind,
whose words when she spoke reflected my despair. Yet even then I
was not entirely without hope. Heaven itself, she said, could
not undo that which I had done; and she also said that if I
forgave myself, Heaven would say no word, nor would she. That is
my philosophy still: prayers, austerities, good works--they avail
nothing, and there is no intercession, and outside of the soul
there is no forgiveness in heaven or earth for sin. Nevertheless
there is a way, which every soul can find out for itself--even
the most rebellious, the most darkened with crime and tormented
by remorse. In that way I have walked; and, self-forgiven and
self-absolved, I know that if she were to return once more and
appear to me--even here where her ashes are--I know that her
divine eyes would no longer refuse to look into mine, since the
sorrow which seemed eternal and would have slain me to see would
not now be in them.