Day by day you tortured us—Grind, grind, grind.Holi! Holi!Huqui! Huqui!Grind, grind, grind.Bring to us the torturers—Grind, grind, grind.Let them feel our power now—Grind.Grind.GRIND!
Day by day you tortured us—Grind, grind, grind.Holi! Holi!Huqui! Huqui!Grind, grind, grind.Bring to us the torturers—Grind, grind, grind.Let them feel our power now—Grind.Grind.GRIND!
Day by day you tortured us—Grind, grind, grind.
Day by day you tortured us—
Grind, grind, grind.
Holi! Holi!Huqui! Huqui!Grind, grind, grind.
Holi! Holi!
Huqui! Huqui!
Grind, grind, grind.
Bring to us the torturers—Grind, grind, grind.
Bring to us the torturers—
Grind, grind, grind.
Let them feel our power now—Grind.Grind.GRIND!
Let them feel our power now—
Grind.Grind.GRIND!
So the metates turned and turned, going round and round without hands, and presently an Elbow-room-er that was struggling with a corn-grinder stumbled, and both fell between the grinding stones and in a moment were crushed to powder. In a flash house utensils and animals learned the new trick, and in every house manikins were pushed into the grinding stones. Then sparks began to fly and roofs to catch on fire and manikins bolted here and there in confusion, sometimes jamming in doorways, there were so many and all in such disorder. Then came dazzling, flickering lightning and a great rain, so that for very safety the manikins fled to the forest and climbed the trees. And there they have lived ever since, for they grew hair and became monkeys. But the remembrance of all that passed stayed with them, and in their hearts to this very day is no love for man, and for that very reason when a Christian passes through a forest he must look well to himself, lest the manikins in revenge try to hurt him by casting nuts and branches at his head.
RAIRU AND THE STAR MAIDEN
PERHAPS my friend Pedro of Brazil told me the story of Rairu and the Star Maiden for much the same reason that hungry men fall to talk of meals that they have eaten. When I say hungry men I do not mean men with an appetite, but men who have long been on the verge of starvation—shipwrecked sailors, men lost in the desert, and such like. The truth is that what the heart hungers for, the tongue talks of. So my friend Pedro told me many tales of his own warm land where spice-laden breezes blow gently soft, and at the time he told me his tales we two were in the midst of the snows of Tierra del Fuego, when the winds shrieked like a thousand demons and the frost-giant had bound river and lake.
We were gold digging on the upper Santa Maria and there came without warning a fierce blizzard, the snow falling for the best part of two days and two nights, and in the morning we could not move from our tent, though we had pitched it in a quiet nook of the hills. We had little to eat, nothing to read, and no light but the fire-glow, and the world seemed to narrow about us, the mountains to close in and the leaden sky to drop. And all the while Pedro talked of his gentler land, telling me the glory of hills all purple and green, of sunlit waters and flower-crowned children. So, soon we forgot the black south wind and the destroying cold. Pedro half forgot, I think, that hope which led him to the Far South; it was a hope long cherished, that he might find gold enough to enable him to live in quiet in his own land among the books that he loved.
However, you may think this wearisome talk, judging it better that I tell the tale told by Pedro. But I have felt it best to set it down as I have, because Pedro never saw his own land again; so the writing of the story is in some measure done in affection for my friend. As soon as the snow ceased to fall he went away on foot, our horses having wandered before the storm, and his intention was to win his way to a shack some eight miles away where he might get some food which we needed sorely enough. I in the meantime, we agreed, would take my rifle and try to shoot a huanaco or some other thing. But another storm came on and it was not until five days had passed in search that I found Pedro. And he was frozen.
As I write I see the scene again—the snow-swept hills, the gray sky, the white-laden bushes, and Pedro. I made what haste I could to bury him in the ice-bound earth and put up a rough cross to mark the place, and I had barely finished when a white storm swept up and hid both mound and cross.
Here is the tale he told, one of many, and he said that he had heard it often and often when he was a child.
Of all things, nothing pleased Rairu more than to watch the ways of the living things of the forest, to bend over a flower and drink in its beauty, to lie by the side of a leaf-hidden pool and follow some shaft of sunshine as it shot to the depth, or to stand breathless when a wild bird broke into song. His father, very bitter against what he deemed idleness, often said harsh things, telling Rairu that he would do well to attend to matters more enduring. Still, Rairu was what he was. Before the sunlight came over the world he would seek the forest deeps and there, hidden in green thickets, would lose himself in the music of the birds. And as time passed and Rairu grew into young manhood another joy came to him, and the glory of the star-sprinkled sky filled him with wonder. Night after night he would wait in a favourite place by a little cascade, a place bare of trees, eagerly impatient for the soft light of the first star in the violet sky.
Watching thus Rairu found a thought rise in his mind, a thought that the world would be well only when that order was among men which was in the skies. More, it seemed to him that of all living creatures that walked the earth man was the most destructive, the most wasteful, and the most untrustful. Then one night as he lay at the foot of a palm tree, his heart was full of gladness because of the song of a night-bird, and it came to him somehow to believe that the stars sang to the bird as the bird sang to the stars, so he looked up to find, if possible, which star heard that bird, and he saw one that hung low, one far more beautiful than her fellows. Thereafter, when the sky grew soft and dark, his eyes sought the Silver One and he waited until the night-bird sang. Like jewels, like living sparks of sound, the music went up, and like a maiden the Silver One listened. When the star dropped in the west and the song-bird ceased, then Rairu was sad and alone, alone as one in a seagirt land whom none may visit.
One day, it was a day of cloud-flecked sky and humming life, Rairu met an old man, thin-haired and bearded, and the stranger hailed him, calling him by name. After some talk, much of which seemed riddlesome to the lad, the old man asked him what of all things, had he his wish, would he choose.
After thinking awhile, Rairu said:
“If the Silver One would come from her place in the sky and go with me so that I might admire her beauty both day and night, I would be the happiest man on earth.”
Hearing that, the old man bade Rairu go to sleep that night on a high hill which was not far away. “And,” said he, “if it be that you desire the Silver One for her beauty alone and not that others may envy you in your possession, then it may be that your wish shall be granted.” No more he said, but walked away, singing to himself softly as he went.
All that day Rairu spent in the forest, eager for the night and the stars, and in the noonday heat sat in the shade of the trees with eyes fast closed, trying to make a song in which he might tell the world of the Silver One and her great beauty, for it vexed him that so few looked to her; but no words came to him to satisfy. Only this, which he thought but a poor thing:
When men sorrow and rage,When the hearts of men grieve,When arrows of sharp words wound,When there is none to pity pain,In the order of heaven there is sweet delight.In the night hushed and still,When is neither weeping nor laughter,In the night-time between two empty days,The Silver One is riding in the skySinging hand in hand with her sister stars,Singing, because the life of men is an empty dream.
When men sorrow and rage,When the hearts of men grieve,When arrows of sharp words wound,When there is none to pity pain,In the order of heaven there is sweet delight.In the night hushed and still,When is neither weeping nor laughter,In the night-time between two empty days,The Silver One is riding in the skySinging hand in hand with her sister stars,Singing, because the life of men is an empty dream.
When men sorrow and rage,When the hearts of men grieve,When arrows of sharp words wound,When there is none to pity pain,In the order of heaven there is sweet delight.
When men sorrow and rage,
When the hearts of men grieve,
When arrows of sharp words wound,
When there is none to pity pain,
In the order of heaven there is sweet delight.
In the night hushed and still,When is neither weeping nor laughter,In the night-time between two empty days,The Silver One is riding in the skySinging hand in hand with her sister stars,Singing, because the life of men is an empty dream.
In the night hushed and still,
When is neither weeping nor laughter,
In the night-time between two empty days,
The Silver One is riding in the sky
Singing hand in hand with her sister stars,
Singing, because the life of men is an empty dream.
When darkness was about to spread he went up the rocky path to the hilltop, as the old man had bidden him, and lay there looking at the opal fires in the western sky, watching the change to sea-green and gold, from orange to pink, and waiting, waiting until the stars should come forth. Now and then he sang the lines of the song he had made, the last lines:
In the night-time between two empty days,The Silver One riding in the skySinging hand in hand with her sister stars,Singing, because the life of men is an empty dream.
In the night-time between two empty days,The Silver One riding in the skySinging hand in hand with her sister stars,Singing, because the life of men is an empty dream.
In the night-time between two empty days,The Silver One riding in the skySinging hand in hand with her sister stars,Singing, because the life of men is an empty dream.
In the night-time between two empty days,
The Silver One riding in the sky
Singing hand in hand with her sister stars,
Singing, because the life of men is an empty dream.
When at last the stars pricked the dark, great was his grief to find that the Silver One was not among them. He searched well, thinking that she hid perhaps behind a leaf, but soon he knew that her sisters went their way alone. Long and long he looked, and at last, wearied and sad at heart, fell asleep, weeping that he had lost the thing to him most dear.
As he slept he dreamed that the earth was bathed in a great white light, a light that was both light and music, at which he became wonderfully happy. He dreamed that he was lifted up as on a cloud, lifted up high into the heavens and could see, far below him, countless sweetly turning spheres of light; and across great dark spaces and gulfs of blackness were other and new stars; and from the edge of nothingness to the edge of nothingness all was a-tune. Still, for all that, his heart was heavy, because in all that stardust there was no Silver One. What was most strange was this: though his heart was heavy, yet a joy was in him, a sad joy for that he felt himself as a tight-stretched golden string that quivered in tune with the music all about. So he awoke and saw standing by his side a maiden clothed in white, whose eyes looked into his heart with deep love.
“Arise, Rairu,” said she, “for I have come to cheer and to comfort. I am the Silver One and you may keep me with you.” So saying she became small, small but none the less beautiful, so small indeed that she might have stood in the palm of Rairu’s hand.
Then Rairu was the happiest of mortals. He cast about him for a casket in which to keep his treasure, but finding none worthy, bethought him of his gourd, a thing which he had carved and adorned with much excellent skill. Having cleaned it well, so well that not a grain of dust was in it, he set it on the ground on its side in a clean place and the Silver One stepped into it, resting lightly on a bed of light-green moss. All that day Rairu went about, now and then taking the cover from the gourd to look within and gaze with delight at the eyes of the Silver One looking up at him. Whenever he did that, from the gourd there came a sound of melting music, so entrancing a sound that Rairu felt himself to be a part of all things—a part of the very heavens and the stars and the sun and the moon. Even of the forest with its animals and birds, its trees and its pools, he was a part.
Day and night strange things the Silver One told Rairu, and of those things that which he found most sad was her telling that when the day came on which he took his eyes from her and thought of other things on which she would not look, things which hid from her in dark places and under roofs, then there would be a dividing and she would become to him but as an aching memory. At that Rairu, after pondering awhile, always laughed, telling her that no sword could sever the thread that bound them.
There came a day when the Silver One told Rairu that it would be well if they visited the sky-world for a season, and to do that Rairu was quite willing. So at her bidding Rairu sat among the leaves of a palm tree and the Silver One crept out of the gourd and took her place by his side. With a little stick she touched the tree, and at that it grew rapidly, grew until it carried them into a place all bare and treeless, without birds or flowers. The Silver One told Rairu to wait a while and she would return. She sped away and Rairu kept her in his sight, for her light did not dim.
Soon, to his astonishment he saw, close at hand, a beautiful city with shining towers and moving lights of many colours, and about it went a joyful procession of young men and maidens, dancing and singing and playing instruments. Many beckoned to him to follow them, which he did. Soon he came to a great hall, and as he entered a great burst of music sounded, whereupon all there fell to dancing, whirling wildly. Wilder and more wild grew the music; it became a welter of sound, a boiling flood of strange noise that set his brain on fire. From corners leaped evil and ugly things, bats, swine, evil-eyed carrion-birds, blunt-tailed and mud-coloured serpents and great white toads, soft and clammy. In the wild dance they joined and the din grew louder, so that it seemed to Rairu that his ears must crack. But more fearful things there were, so that Rairu fled to the place where he had stood when the Silver One left him.
She was there waiting for him, but her eyes, though still full of love, were filled with sad tears. Very gently she chided him for his disobedience, and Rairu hung his head in sorrow and shame, knowing that he must leave the Silver One for a season. It needed no words to tell that the thread was broken. Hand clasped hand then, the more passionately because they knew that there would be a parting.
“Go then, Rairu,” said she. “But mind well that a little toil, a little striving, and thou shalt find me again. In the darkness lean on me, the more because thou knowest thyself to be weak. Under the shadow of death, dear Rairu, a fainting love is revived.”
So Rairu returned to earth, but great was his desire to find again that which he had lost. And he told his fellow-men of all that he had seen, saying that he must again find his star. Soon, with searching, he found his Silver One and the clear light led him, clothing all that he said and did with beauty.
THE CAT AND THE DREAM MAN
THIS is a tale that I heard when I was gold digging in Tierra del Fuego, and if you want to get to the tale and skip the introduction, you may. To do that, stop here—and pass over everything until you come to the three stars * * * and begin at “Many years ago.” But if you want information and all that kind of thing, read straight on and learn that the man who told me the tale was named Soto, Adolpho Soto. He called himself a Bolivian and said that it was a tale of Bolivia, but he had never been to that country. His parents were Bolivian, but he had been born and reared in inland Patagonia, on the east side of the Cordilleras and north of the great shallow gulf that runs inland from the Strait of Magellan. Anyway, he had heard the tale from others who knew all about the three great stones and how they looked. Certainly he had not read the story, for books meant nothing to him and he would not as much as look at a picture. And it was quite clear to me that he believed every word of the tale. Indeed, I am almost sure that he was doubtful in his mind as to the wisdom of telling me all of it, thinking that I would not believe it. Perhaps that is why he told me the tale in two parts, as if in some manner I might thus get used to the shock of it. Mind you, on the other hand, I am certain that he did not believe all that I told him, though he was too polite to express unbelief. For instance, he could not quite see how carriages went without horses, nor how men sent messages over miles of wire, nor how the sound of a human voice could come from a little box, without magic; for in the country that Adolpho came from there were no railways, no telegraphs, and no phonographs. So to the tale, or rather the first part of it, if you choose to hear it.
* * *
Many years ago, said Soto, there came into the world a cat. It was in the days when all creatures were harmless; when the teeth and claws of the jaguar did not hurt; when the fang of the serpent was not poisonous; when the very bushes had no thorns. But this cat was of evil heart and unmerciful and a curse to the world, for she went about teaching creatures to scratch and to bite, to tear and to kill, to hide in shady places and leap out on unsuspecting things. Even a sheep she did not leave to its own ways, but commenced to teach that gentle thing to fight by butting with its head, though as it came to pass most luckily, the cat came to a place where its mischief was stopped, as you shall hear soon, so that señor sheep was left with his lesson half or less than half learned, so that the youngest child now need not fear a whole flock.
But for the most part the cat slept in the daytime, so did not make all the mischief that she might have made, although she dreamed mischief, let it be remembered. But this was the bad thing of it: her dream came to life and walked the earth in the shape of a man with a fox-face, and a very terrible monster was he, for being a dream man he could not be killed. That you may see for yourself.
Sometimes he appeared among men, dressed in fine robes in a way of a rich man, clothes wonderfully fine, as fine as those that you may see about the men pictured on the playing cards. Sometimes it was otherwise and he came as one all worn and travel-stained. Sometimes he came as a head without a body, making mouths or looking slantwise; sometimes he ran at people, did this dream man, ran with hooked fingers and claw nails and made it so that the one he chased could not run at all, or running, moved but slowly. For such must be the nature of the dreams of cats, as everyone knows who has seen a cat with a mouse. But whichever way the dream man came, mischief of some kind walked with him, and for the most part he did his evil work by granting men their wishes. For you must know that no man knows the thing that is best for him and for his welfare, and many are apt to see some little things as desirable, the which in time work out for their own undoing. Thus, once there was a man who was a woodcutter, and growing weary of hard work he sat him down under a tree and sighed, saying that though he worked hard, yet his work was never done, and there were many mouths to feed. Then who should appear before him but the fox-faced man, which of course was but the cat-dream come to life, the cat meantime being asleep in the sun. So this happened:
“Why do you complain?” asked the fox-faced one, who knew very well what was afoot.
“All day I cut and chop, and chop and cut, but at the end of the day little is the work that I have done, and my very children for whom I toil, and for whom my wife toils, do but grumble that I am not rich,” answered the poor fellow, who was indeed a very worthy man.
“Lucky for you, then, is it that you have seen me,” said fox-face. “For know that I have it in my power to grant you a wish. What then would you have?”
Hearing that, the woodcutter was thoughtful, for, in the manner of those who see a dream man, everything seemed right and proper. Still, while he had in his life wished for many things from day to day, when the time came to make a wish he had none ready. Then his eye fell on his ax and he said without thinking: “For one thing I wish that my ax was an ax so that when I cut a stick or anything, I would have two as big as the first one.”
To be sure, had he given thought he might have seen how foolish a wish was that, as both cat and fox-face knew. But he spoke as the wind blew. Then fox-face said some words which the woodcutter did not understand, and added: “Try now your ax.”
So the man took a stick about the size of a man’s arm and brought down his ax in the middle of it, and lo, there were two sticks, each the size of a man’s arm, instead of two pieces each the half of that. The man looked up, open-mouthed and surprised, to say something, but fox-face had vanished, for the cat had wakened and so her dream ceased.
But greatly amazed was the man, for, as he soon saw, all his chopping was of no account, for a tree cut down became at once two trees and one of those trees cut in halves became two trees again. As for cutting smaller wood, that, too, soon became impossible, seeing that each stick grew to two sticks, so that soon he had to cease work because of the wood all about him. Worse still, as he went to the place where he lived, there came across his path a poisonous serpent, and forgetting for a moment the power of his ax he cut the snake in two, and there, hissing before him, were two snakes. So he fled to his people and told them the tale, at which they wondered greatly. But to make sure that the ax would do no mischief, and in truth somewhat fearing it, they hung it in a tree, and each man told his son the story of it, so that all might come to know it as a thing best left alone.
Now in the course of time there came to that place a very wise man who had seen many wonders. It had come to his ears that the cat was a creature of darkness, teaching harmless things evil tricks, but of the fox-faced man he knew nothing. The cat only, he considered. So the wise man walked the mountains for many days, and one day when the sky was low and it was a day of rain, an unpleasant day for the cat, he came upon the evil-minded creature hurrying somewhere.
“Why in so great a hurry?” asked the wise man. “Sit awhile with me and talk.”
“No. No,” said the cat. “I like not your water and I seek a place where there is shelter, so that I may be dry and warm.” Indeed, the cat looked very miserable indeed.
“Well, how would you like to have a house of stone?” asked the wise man.
“That I should like very much indeed,” answered the cat. “But it must be a house large enough for me, and with no room for any other creature, for I am not fond of company. But a house in which I could sit and dream, and where no noises might disturb, would be very pleasant. Make me such a one and I shall teach you something. Or how about a wish? Would you like to have claws like an owl? Or would you like to drink blood like a vampire bat? Or would you like to spit poison? Or would you like to bristle like a porcupine?”
“Thank you, no,” said the wise man. “I want nothing. But by to-morrow there shall be a house ready for you.”
“Where is it to be built?” asked the cat. “First, it must be in a quiet place where men do not go.”
“It shall be that,” answered the wise man. “But just now I do not know where the place may be. I must seek a proper place.”
“Then how shall I find it?” asked the cat.
“Attend,” said the wise man. “I shall put a thread about the world, a thread that no man may break with his hands, and when you see that thread, follow it and so come to the stone house.”
“Agreed,” said the cat. “But let the house be just big enough for me. Let it be in a quiet place. Also, let it be of such fashion that I can slip out backward or leap out forward should an enemy come.”
So that being said and no more to come, man and cat parted.
But mark well what followed. On the next day the cat chanced to see the thread and followed it, walking down hill and up hill, down mountain and up mountain, until she arrived at a high place where stood the wise man. At his feet were three flat stones, two standing upright, the third across the top of the two, so that it was like two sides of a little house, roofed and of a comfortable size for the cat. So after looking about carefully and suspiciously, the cat entered into it and coiled her tail about her, blinked her eyes once, twice, thrice, then slept. And as soon as she was well asleep the wise man fastened the thread about her neck, the same thread which went about the world and which no man could break with his hands, there being magic about it, and señora cat was bound for years, and would have been bound for ever, had it not been for Nasca, about whom you shall hear.
That ends the tale of the cat, though there is much more to come. And if you are in a hurry to get to the rest of the tale, you may skip from this—to the three stars * * * again, without losing much.
I said that it ended the tale of the cat, but it does not. It ends the first part only, for Adolpho went only thus far, and the telling took the whole of an evening, for there was much looping and winding in his telling and he added much that had nothing to do with the tale. Indeed, you should be very grateful indeed to me for trimming all the uninteresting stuff away. And let me tell you this: it was not at all easy to get Adolpho to tell the rest of the tale, and the place in which we sat when we talked was not comfortable. It was no house with radiators and electric lights, or bathtubs and bookshelves. Indeed, the only furniture that we had was a frying-pan without a handle and an iron pot. As for our house, it looked more like a short stout bottle than a dwelling. For the truth is that we were careless builders and had made our house out of sods of earth; but while we started to build a square house, we did not take care of the corners, and the house came roundish and the walls leaned inward as they went higher, so we left the top open by way of chimney, for our fire was built in the middle of the floor. Thus such was the shape of our house that we had to sleep curved and we had to stand curved, though we rarely stood, because of the smoke, I assure you.
Almost three weeks passed away before Adolpho told me the rest of the tale and it was a cold night in June when he did. After supper he commenced, perhaps because it was the kind of stew that he liked best. For the most of the stew was fish. I said “the most of the stew,” because our stews were different from those you have. If on Monday we had a piece of huanaco meat, we put it in the iron pot to stew. There would be something left over, for we always made a little more than we required and we never wasted food. So, supper being done, the iron pot with the remains of the stew was put aside. Perhaps next day we might have caught or shot a young goose, or something like that. Anyway, whatever we caught went into the pot by way of stew. So that day there would be goose stew with a flavour of huanaco. Next day we might add charqui, which is dried horse-flesh, to the stew, so while the chief thing would be charqui, there would be a decided flavour of goose and more than a trace of huanaco. But if we had fish on the fourth day, then of course it would be strongly fishy stew, with a kind of side taste of charqui, a flavour of goose, and a mild trace of huanaco. On the whole it was satisfactory, for toward the end of the week any one might find something to his liking, though on Saturday we always cleaned out the pot, as we needed it for our week’s washing. And so, as I say, when we came one evening to fish stew, Adolpho was in high good humour and told me the rest of the tale, and this is how his story ran.
* * *
Now, began Soto, you must remember all that I have told you about the cat bound on the mountain top, the magic ax hanging in the tree, and the hundreds and hundreds of years that passed, with the cat growing larger and larger. As the cat grew, so did the house, for the wise man had promised that it should be just big enough for the cat, and he kept his word. But you must also remember that the cat could not move, but could certainly dream. So she dreamed of many lands, and the dream man was very active indeed, though he vanished whenever the cat woke.
When you come to think of it, you will see that it was a most excellent thing that the cat was bound, for had she not been, she would have worked her mischief on the world and a sheep might have been as terrible as a wild boar or flies as annoying as mosquitoes or horses as bold as wild bulls or the very fish as poisonous as serpents. While the cat did not dream, of course the fox-faced man was nowhere, and then all went very well and trees put out their blossoms and fruits, the grass was softly green, the rain was like silver, and gentle were the hearts of men as they went about their affairs.
But there was a day on which the cat dreamed and the fox-faced fellow was busy. To the place where lived the people who guarded the magic ax, there came a stranger. His eyes were aslant and little, the hair of him was reddish, and he was in rags and tatters and altogether dirty in appearance. To be sure, no one would look twice at rags and tatters, for one coming through the forest must needs be torn by thorns and bushes in all that tangle, but dirt was quite another matter, especially when the dirt included blood stains, because in that place was much water and many running streams, nor was the water chill to the skin. So, because of the uncleanness of the man, people looked at him with unfriendly eyes, and though they were neither insolent nor rude they hoped that he would go farther and not stay there. Nor would it have been any great hardship for him to do so, seeing that it was a place of much fruit and of many berries, and roots pleasant to the taste and full of nourishment. As for the night, any man might well stretch himself under that star-sprinkled sky, nor except for the beasts that the cat had made unfriendly were there creatures to do harm. But the stranger had no notion of doing anything to please the people, nor indeed could he do anything, seeing that he was the creature of the cat’s dream, walking the world.
For a time then he stood under a tree bewailing his lot and crying out that all the world was against him and saying that none were kind to him. Strange things he did, too, as is the manner of dream people, making himself sometimes shoot far far away so that he looked small, then coming near again and getting big, or sometimes pointing his finger at someone, then throwing his arm round and round in great circles, the finger always pointing, the circles he made growing smaller and smaller, little by little, but his finger always pointing, until it came close to the watcher’s eyes. The people thought this an annoying thing for a stranger to do; but so it was. And always he woefully wailed. So those there stood about him in a little circle, none going close, but all wondering much at the great outcry, the like of which none there had heard before. Then he began to sing, noisily, wildly. This was his song:
“Over the world I walk,Alone, for ever alone.Trouble and trial and care,Alone, I bear alone.Torture and pain I bear,Alone, for ever alone.Wandering day and night,Alone, for ever alone.Sad and wretched my plight,Alone, for ever alone.”
“Over the world I walk,Alone, for ever alone.Trouble and trial and care,Alone, I bear alone.Torture and pain I bear,Alone, for ever alone.Wandering day and night,Alone, for ever alone.Sad and wretched my plight,Alone, for ever alone.”
“Over the world I walk,Alone, for ever alone.Trouble and trial and care,Alone, I bear alone.Torture and pain I bear,Alone, for ever alone.Wandering day and night,Alone, for ever alone.Sad and wretched my plight,Alone, for ever alone.”
“Over the world I walk,
Alone, for ever alone.
Trouble and trial and care,
Alone, I bear alone.
Torture and pain I bear,
Alone, for ever alone.
Wandering day and night,
Alone, for ever alone.
Sad and wretched my plight,
Alone, for ever alone.”
Then he gave a long, long cry, like a wolf:
“A—a—a—a—a——lone, Oo—oo—oo—oo!”
“A—a—a—a—a——lone, Oo—oo—oo—oo!”
“A—a—a—a—a——lone, Oo—oo—oo—oo!”
“A—a—a—a—a——lone, Oo—oo—oo—oo!”
Nor did he stop at that, for his song done, he began to act stupidly, leaping from side to side in rage and fury, mouthing and grimacing, opening and closing his fists, but making no noise. Then he talked again, but it was a jabber of idle words, so presently those about him shook their heads at one another, looking at him as one who had lost his wits, never thinking of course that he was a cat’s dream.
While all this was going on, there came from the little lake where he had been fishing a lad named Nasca, bearing a basket of fish, a happy fellow who always made music and song as he walked, and seeing the people gathered about the stranger he drew near. No sooner did the stranger clap eyes on the fish than he leaped at the basket and began devouring the silvery things, eating them raw, heads, bodies, and tails, for thus ran the cat’s dream and cattishness must out. But the meal being done, the stranger redoubled his lamentations, all the time swinging his arm in circles, sometimes great, sometimes small, with his finger pointed at the boy.
“A—a—a—a—a——lone, Oo—oo—oo—oo!” he screamed, and the boy thought that such a fellow well deserved to be alone, but he was too polite to say so.
“I am hungry and travel-worn,” the stranger went on. “Is there no one here who will give me shelter? Is there no one in this place with a kind heart to pity me?”
Hearing that, the heart of Nasca was touched, for never had he, nor never had his grandmother with whom he lived, turned a hungry creature away empty. Indeed, so gentle in spirit was Nasca that if the stem of a flower was broken by a heedless creature he was full of grief. Yet the doings of the stranger astonished him and troubled him, for the man without seeming to move his feet thrust his face close to the boy’s, then somehow took his face far off. That silly trick he did again and again as dream creatures do, so that seeing him Nasca was well nigh made dizzy. Then the lad, blushing red as fire because of all the people thereabouts who did not offer what he offered, said:
“Come home, then, with me. Our house is small but there is room enough. Believe me, it is not that these people are hard-hearted that they do not seem to welcome you, but more because you must have been too weary with walking to wash yourself. But behind the hill and under a tree near where we live is a still pool, and there doubtless you will clean yourself.”
Then Nasca led the way and the stranger went with him, yet not walking, but leaping up and down as he went, and sometimes not touching the ground at all. Nasca was not comfortable with the stranger by his side, for he felt him to be more like a shadow than a man, and a shadow that hung over him and tormented him, a shadow that might pounce upon him.
Having come to the place where his grandmother was, Nasca was sorely troubled to see the old woman fall to trembling when she heard the voice of the stranger, who was making an idle jabber of words again. Indeed, after a time she put her hands to her face and wept, though that was after the man having eaten had left the place to rest under a tree. Nasca comforted her as best he could, then asked her to tell him the cause of her grief. Be it remembered that she was very, very old and her eyes were weak and dim with age.
“Tell me,” she said, taking Nasca’s hand, “has this man eyes aslant, like the eyes of a fox?”
“Indeed and he has,” answered Nasca. Then his heart bade him say some good of the fellow, and he added: “Yet no man makes his own face, wherefore must some be pitied.”
“Tell me,” said the grandmother eagerly, “has he sharp teeth like a cat?”
“That he has,” said Nasca, then wondering, asked: “Have you seen this man, then, when your eyes were bright and strong?”
“No, Nasca,” she answered, “never have I set eyes on him, yet I greatly fear him; and long, long ago I heard stories about such a creature and it was said that much evil he wrought, yet none could slay him.” She was silent for a little, then again she asked this: “Did you see his ears, Nasca, and are they pointed, like those of a fox?”
“Yes,” said Nasca.
At that answer the old woman was sad again and Nasca had to comfort her with sweet words, telling her that she should come to no hurt, since he was there, for he would die defending her.
“That I know, Nasca,” she said. “If the hurt came to me alone, glad would I be, for I have seen my golden days and now there is little left for me but the brief sunset hour. But I fear for others. Of such a creature I have heard it said that he comes from nowhere and goes into nothing, but somehow looses evil upon men. Because of that I fear. So, Nasca, promise me that if this man asks anything of you, you will do nothing that promises hurt to any living thing.”
That Nasca promised gladly enough, then said: “Yet it may be that this man is not the evil creature you have heard of. It may well be some unfortunate whose wits are loose. True, his face is far from pleasant to see, but a rough face may go with a good heart, and a man’s face may change.”
“Yes, with wickedness,” said the old woman, “but in truth it has been said that a man’s face and his character both go with him to the grave, if indeed there is any grave for such as this.”
Now all that talk Nasca remembered well the next day when a strange thing happened. For the stranger went about among the people, asking this one and that what he most desired. But there were none to make a wish for a time, because life there was pleasant and easy and the possessions of men were few, so all that the stranger said went for nothing. Then, as it chanced, there came one of the people a little put out because he had lost sleep that morning. He was a man much given to rest and slumber, a slow and heavy man, and that morning he had been awakened by the singing of the birds. To make matters worse, going away from the place where he had lain, in too great a hurry, he chanced to scratch himself on some thorns. So, taking it all in all, his humour was not a pleasant one; yet had it not been for the stranger, he might have forgotten his troubles. As it was, he heard the stranger’s speech and the offer to grant any wish, so he spoke without considering his words.
“If you grant wishes, there is one that I would have,” he said, nodding to his friends in the manner of one who had a matter of weight to tell of.
“Say it,” said the stranger, and he grinned queerly so that his lip went up and his tusky teeth shone yellow.
“This morning I was disturbed by birds and scratched by thorns, so I wish that nothing might come near me to disturb me in the future.”
“As you wish,” said the stranger, and gabbled what seemed to be idle and meaningless words.
Then a strange thing happened, for as the man who had made the wish stood looking at the stranger, his mouth wide open, all living things about him suddenly fell away. Within the stretch of a man’s arm from him the grass yellowed and died, and the flowers shrank and withered, and a butterfly that fluttered over him fell to earth, dead. And the people cried out, seeing that, but soon it became clear that not even sounds could come within that magic circle. The air bore no noise to the charmed man, not even the sweet noise of the songs of birds nor the chirping of insects, and the man was, in very truth, in such case that nothing could be nigh him to disturb him. Indeed, as he moved, all things died within the stretch of his arms, seeing which his friends fled from him, all fearful of his nearness. Afraid of his loneliness the man walked to a tree, but no sooner did he touch it than the very leaves folded themselves and turned black, then dropped off and fluttered down, so that the arms of the good tree stood skeleton-bare against the sky. At that all hope in the man was gone and he turned and fled into the forest, a space opening before him as he ran, a track of death everywhere behind him.
Nasca saw all that, and his grandmother’s fears came to his mind. Indeed, he told many there of what the old woman had said, but some of them held that the stranger had but granted the wisher his wish, and if there was fault in the matter the fault lay with the wisher, not with the granter of the wish. As for the grandmother, when she heard the tale she was in great trouble and threw herself on the ground weeping, and though Nasca did what he could to comfort her, yet she wept and wept.
“Nasca,” she said presently, “surely we must do what we can to rid the place of this fearful creature. For it is as I thought, and he is a black-hearted thing, not of this world of men, and one who will assuredly bring hate and fear and trouble. Find, then, if there is any means by which he may be made to go away, even to the point of helping him, if need be, but see to it that you think not of yourself and your own gain, and see to it that anything that you do at his request will bring no harm to any living creature, even the smallest.”
All this Nasca promised, and in the early dawn of the next day went up to the hills to see the sun rise, as indeed did all brave and strong men and fair maidens in that place. Then he swam a little while, and ate some fruit and thought a while, and after sought out the stranger.
“Stranger,” said he, “be it known to you that there are many here who fear your presence among us and who would be glad to see you gone from here.”
“Ho! Ho! What bold words are these I hear?” roared fox-face, full of wrath at Nasca’s words.
“I speak but the truth,” said the lad boldly enough, though his heart beat against his ribs. “Tell me, then, what can be done so that you may be persuaded to leave us.”
Fox-face thought awhile, then he said: “On a far mountain is a gentle creature bound with a magic thread which no man’s hand can break. Yet magic fights magic, and the magic ax can sever the thread. Also, at the moment the thread is cut, so will the man who is prisoned in air be free, but not before. Now the bound creature is my companion and no fierce thing at all. Come with me, Nasca, bringing the magic ax, and when you have seen the cat, then perchance shall the spell be broken.”
All of that seeming fair to Nasca, he went to the tree where hung the magic ax, though he had much ado to climb through the tangle all about the tree, for no man had been there for many a year. He took the ax and fastened it well in his sash, and returned to the side of the stranger. Then fox-face took a mat made of feathers of the night owl and the hair of the skunk, and spread it on the ground, but it was so small that there was scarce place for Nasca and the man too, so the lad cut it with the magic ax and there were two mats, which was more to Nasca’s taste, for he had no liking to stand on the mat and hold on to fox-face. No sooner had they taken their places on the mats than they rose in the air, and in a swift moment both of them were so high that the country lay spread at their feet with trees like grass and with rivers that looked like silver threads. Nor could the swiftest condor move with the speed with which they flew through the air. So at last they came to a place where everywhere were bare rocks and hard stone, with no blade of grass to be seen, and it was a place among mountain peaks, with stony ridge rising above stony ridge, and on a mountain peak the two rested.
“Now look away to the far hill,” said the stranger, and while the place to which he pointed was very far off, yet because of the clearness of the air it seemed but a short distance away. Looking steadily Nasca saw the three great rocks, for they were tremendously grown now, after so many hundreds of years, but to Nasca they seemed no higher than a man’s knee, and sitting under them was the cat.
“That is the companion I seek,” said fox-face. “By magic she is bound and by magic only can she be loosed, and I promise you that if you will but loose her I shall be seen no more in your land.”
“Fair enough,” said Nasca. “But I must be assured of a return to my own place, for it is far from home on these hills.”
“That is well enough,” answered fox-face. “Have you not your flying mat? Though to be sure, as soon as you take your foot from it it will vanish.”
Nasca thought for a little while, and the more he thought the more it seemed to him to be a good thing and not an evil to loose the cat, so he asked the stranger to show him the bond that held her. At that fox-face pointed, and there almost at his feet Nasca beheld a slender thread, like a hair, that ran this way and that as far as the eye could see. So with a blow of the magic ax he cut the thread, and there was a noise like thunder and the thread ends slid away like swift snakes. Nor did the stranger play Nasca false, for in a flash he found himself back again at the foot of the tree where the magic ax had hung, and so swiftly had the journey been made that a man who had stooped to fill his calabash at a pool when Nasca left, was even then straightening himself to go away, his calabash being filled. As for the fox-faced stranger, no one ever saw him again, for the cat being awakened, her dream had ended. And at the moment when the thread was cut, the man who had been bound in air came back again, his enchantment finished, and the things that had died about him, because of invisible forces, sprang to life again.
But what of the cat? For Nasca little thought that he had loosed a fearful thing on the world, a frightful form of giant mould of a size bigger than a bull. Nor did he know until one evening, as he sat by the fire, it being chill in that high place at times, he turned his head as the robe that hung at the door bulged into the house. He looked to see his grandmother, but instead a great cat filled the doorway, a cat with green eyes, each the size of an egg. Indeed so great was the cat that it had to crouch low to enter. And when within, the room was filled with it, a sight that made the heart of Nasca stand still. A gloomy terror it was, and most fiendish was the look that it gave the lad. But Nasca, though terror-stricken, yet showed no sign of fear. Instead, he made room for the cat by the fire as though he saw cats like that every day. So the cat sat by the fire and close to Nasca, sometimes looking at the blaze without winking, sometimes turning its great head to look for long and long at the boy. Once Nasca stood up, saying that he would go outside and bring in more wood for the fire, privately thinking to get out of the place in safety, but the great paw of the cat shot out with claws that looked like reaping hooks, whereupon Nasca sat down again saying that, after all, the fire would live awhile. But he thought and thought and the cat looked and looked, and the place was as still and quiet as a midnight pool.
Presently Nasca found heart to say something.
“If you want to stay here and rest,” he said to the cat, “I shall go away.”
“You must not go away,” said the cat in a soft voice, stretching out one of her paws with the cruel claws showing a little.
After that a long time passed and the fire flamed only a little, and the shadow of the cat was big and black on the wall, and Nasca thought and thought and the cat looked and looked. Then the firelight danced and the big black shadow seemed to leap and then grow small, and the cat’s eyes were full of a cold fire as they rested on Nasca.
Then suddenly Nasca broke into a laugh, though, to be sure, the laugh did not come from his heart.
“Why do you laugh?” said the cat.
“Because you are so big and I am so little, but for all that I can run ten times faster than you,” answered Nasca, and his words sounded bold enough. He added: “All living creatures would agree in that.”
“That is nonsense,” said the cat, her jealousy at once aroused. “I am the fastest creature on earth. I can leap over mountains and I take rivers at a step.”
“It does not matter what you can do,” said Nasca, growing bolder every second. “Let me tell you this: While a man stooped to fill his calabash, I went from this place to a far mountain, cut the thread that bound you, and returned before the man with the calabash had straightened himself, and if you do not believe it, I will bring the man.”
Nasca said all this with some idea of getting an excuse to go from there, but the words struck deep and the cat wondered.
“Why did you loose me?” asked the cat.
“Because I wanted to run a race with you,” answered Nasca.
“If we run a race it must be for a wager,” said the cat. “If you lose I make a meal of you. Is it agreed?”
“Fairly spoken,” said Nasca, “though to be sure if you lose I make no meal of you.”
“Let us run to-morrow then,” said Nasca. “And I shall sleep well under the tree and be fresh in the morning.”
“Not so,” said the cat. “If we run, we run at midnight and under the cold white moon.”
“So be it,” answered Nasca. “Where shall we run?”
“Across the mountains and back again, seven times,” said the cat, choosing the highlands, because she knew that she could leap over hills and cañons, while Nasca would have to climb up and down, and choosing night because she could see better in the dark than Nasca. For the cat was very wise. But Nasca on his part thought of little more than getting away from the cat for a while. So he told the cat that he would bring a basket of fish for her supper, which he did, and while the cat ate he went outside and sought his grandmother.
The wise old woman laughed when she heard the story. “To a cat her cattishness,” she said, “but to a woman her wit. All falls out well enough. Haste, run and bring me the magic ax.”
“But no,” said Nasca. “To use that would but make two terrible cats, and one is more than enough.”
“Heed me, Nasca, and bring the ax,” she repeated.
At that the boy ran swiftly and brought the ax.
“Now stand, Nasca, and fear not,” said the old woman, and lifted the ax. So the lad stood, closing his eyes when he saw her raise the ax to strike.
Then with a swift blow she brought the weapon down on Nasca’s head, cutting him in two, and in a moment there stood before her two Nascas, each as like the other as one blade of grass is like another. Surely and well had the ax done its work. One Nasca was as shapely as the other, one as fair-skinned as the other.
“Now,” said the old woman, “happy was I with one Nasca, so doubly happy shall I be with two. So stay you here, Nasca the first, and Nasca the second must come with me. Oh, a merry world and a glad will it be now, since joy and gladness are doubled.”
At that she remembered that she had told neither lad anything, in her delight, so she turned again to the first Nasca.
“Wait here for the great cat,” she said. “Go with her to the great cañon where the race must start, and when the cat makes to leap across, which she will do, do you climb down a little way, then hide yourself until the cat returns. Doubtless we shall be able to manage matters at the other end. But see to it that you chide the cat for her slowness when she returns after the first run, and we shall see what we shall see.”
Having said that, the old woman set off with Nasca the second, walking bravely over the ridges and hills that rose one behind the other like the waves of the sea. And when they had come to a far place where the mountain dropped down like a great stone wall to a fearful depth, they sat them down to wait, Nasca the second being in plain sight, the old woman hiding behind a rock.
But as soon as the moon rose the great cat walked to where Nasca the first stood, her eyes glaring terribly and her hair all a-bristle. So horrible a sight was she that for a moment Nasca went deadly pale, but he spoke boldly enough, nevertheless, for the brave one is not he that does not fear, but rather he that fears and yet does the thing that he has set out to do.
“One thing,” said Nasca to the cat. “Is it right that you should leap over the cañon, going from one side to the other like a bird, while I must climb down and then up again? Let us make things fairer in the race, and do you climb down and up the other side with me.” But all this he said in a kind of spirit of mischief, knowing full well that the cat would give him no chance at all.
“Ha! What is to do now?” said the cat with a hiss and a sneer. “Does your heart fail you already? Are you terror-tormented at the start? A fine racer, you, indeed! No, no, my fine lad. We race for a supper and you must supply the meal.”
To that Nasca answered nothing, so there was a little silence, broken only by the hooting of the owl who was, indeed, trying to tell the cat the truth of matters. But the cat was too full of her own notions and had no ear for others. She lay crouched on the ground, ready to make a spring, and Nasca wondered whether her jump would be at him or across the cañon. Suddenly, in a voice like thunder, the cat called: “START!” and at the word, leaped across the valley and was off and away, without as much as giving a glance at the lad. But he made a great deal of fuss on his part, climbing down the face of the cañon wall. The cat, on landing on the other side, looked back, then gave a cry of triumph, seeing the poor start that Nasca had made. “Come on! Come on!” she called. “The run will sharpen my appetite,” and even as she said that, she was a distance off, then bounding away up hill and down hill, over the ridges, over the rocks, over the streams, taking a hundred yards at a bound. So in a very short space of time she came to the place where Nasca the second stood, and was mightily astonished to see her opponent, as she thought, there before her.
“Too easy, señora cat, too easy,” said Nasca the second, speaking as the grandmother bade him. “I thought cats were swifter. Doubtless you play, though.”
Hearing that speech the cat was full of anger and in a voice that shook the mountains, she roared: “BACK! BACK AGAIN! I’ll show you.”
Off ran Nasca the second then, but the cat passed him like lightning, her very whiskers streaming behind, and as soon as she was over the first hill the lad went back to the place where his grandmother was. Señora cat knew nothing of that, though, and went bounding as before, tearing up hill and down hill, over the ridges, over the rocks, over the streams, taking two hundred yards at a leap, and at last came to the place of beginning, to behold Nasca, who stood smiling and wiping his brow lightly, as if he had been running.
“Much better, señora cat,” he said. “You almost caught me that time. A little faster and you would have won. But still I have more speed in me to let loose. Come on.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he started off, making as though to climb down the cañon wall, and the cat gave a screech that shook the very skies and made the pale moon quiver. So fast she went that the very trees and bushes that she passed were scorched, and as for the rocks over which she flew, they were melted by the heat of the air. Every leap that she took was four hundred yards. Up hill and down hill she went, over the ridges, over the rocks, over the streams, and so at last she came once more to where the second Nasca stood.
“A good run that, señora cat,” he said. “I think that we shall finish the race soon and in a way that I may live and be happy, though for me you must go supperless. Certainly I must try, for to lose will profit me nothing.”
But the cat was at her wits’ end, supposing that Nasca ran faster than she. She opened her mouth to shriek, but fast upon her came a great feebleness, and she faltered and reeled and then fell down in a faint, seeing nothing at all. No time then did the second Nasca and the old woman lose. Putting themselves to the task, they rolled the cat to the edge of the great rock wall that ran down straight. Then after a pause to gain breath they gave another push, and the body of the giant cat fell over the edge and was broken to pieces on the sharp rocks below. So that was the end of the cat and the end of her dreams.
The two Nascas and the old woman went to their own place and told the people all that had happened, so there was great rejoicing, and laughter and song and weaving of garlands, and everybody was happy. And ever since there has been kindness and good fellowship in that land. And for those who would see signs of the tale there stand the three great rocks on the highlands, each so heavy that two hundred men could not lift them, and wise men wonder much what manner of men put them there. But only those who are not wise and learned know the truth of the matter, as you may test for yourself by asking any very wise men who come to visit you.
THE END