CHAPTER XIV
Had it been possible to consult Abthar immediately in the effort to fathom Yasma's strange conduct, I would have wasted only so much time as was necessary to take me to the father's cabin. But, unfortunately, I must remain in suspense. So far as I knew, Abthar had not yet returned to the village; and none of the townsfolk seemed sure when he would be back. "He will come before the last blossom buds on the wild rose," was the only explanation they would offer; and knowing that it was not the way of the Ibandru to be definite, I had to be content with this response.
True, I might have followed Yasma's suggestion and sought advice of Hamul-Kammesh, since already that Rip Van Winkle figure was to be seen shuffling about the village. But ever since the time, months before, when he had visited my sick-room and denounced me to the people, I had disliked him profoundly; and I would about as soon have thought of consulting a hungry tiger.
And so my only choice was to wait for Abthar's return. The interval could not have been more than a week; but during all that time I suffered torments. How to approach him, after his return, was a question that occupied me continually. Should I ask him bluntly what secret there was connected with Yasma? Or should I be less direct but more open, and frankly describe my feelings? It was only after much thought that I decided that it would be best to come to him candidly as a suitor in quest of his daughter's hand.
I well remember with what mixed feelings I recognized Abthar's tall figure once more in the village. What if, not unlike some western fathers, he should be outraged at the idea of uniting his daughter to an alien? Or what if he should mention some tribal law that forbade my alliance to Yasma? or should inform me that she was already betrothed? These and other possibilities presented themselves in a tormenting succession ... so that, when at length I did see Abthar, I was hampered by a weight of imaginary ills.
As on a previous occasion, I found the old man working among his vines. Bent over his hoe, he was uprooting the weeds so diligently that at first he did not appear to see me; and I had to hail him loudly before he looked up with a start and turned upon me those searching proud brown eyes of his.
We exchanged greetings as enthusiastically as old friends who have not met for some time; while, abandoning his hoe, Abthar motioned me to a seat beside him on a little mound of earth.
For perhaps a quarter of an hour our conversation consisted mostly of questions on his part and answers on mine; for he was eager to know how I had passed the winter, and had no end of inquiries to make.
For my own part, I refrained from asking that question which bewildered me most of all: how had he and his people passed the winter? It was with extreme difficulty that I halted the torrent of his solicitous queries, and informed him that I had a confession to offer and a request to make.
Abthar looked surprised, and added to my embarrassment by stating how gratified he felt that I saw fit to confide in him.
I had to reply, of course, that there was a particular reason for confiding in him, since my confession concerned his daughter Yasma.
"My daughter Yasma?" he repeated, starting up as though I had dealt him a blow. And he began stroking his long grizzled beard solemnly, and the keen inquiring eyes peered at me as though they would bore their way straight through me and ferret out my last thought.
"What about my daughter Yasma?" he asked, after a pause, and in tones that seemed to bristle with just a trace of hostility.
As tranquilly as I could, I explained how much Yasma had come to mean to me; how utterly I was captivated by her, how desirous of making her my wife. And, concluding with perhaps more tact than accuracy, I remarked that in coming to him to request the hand of his daughter, I was taking the course considered proper in my own country.
In silence Abthar heard me to the last word. He did not interrupt when I paused as if anxious for comment; did not offer so much as a syllable's help when I hesitated or stammered; did not permit any emotion to cross his weather-beaten bronzed features. But he gazed at me with a disquieting fixity and firmness; and the look in his alert stern eyes showed that he had not missed a gesture or a word.
Even after I had finished, he sat regarding me contemplatively without speaking. Meanwhile my fingers twitched; my heart thumped at a telltale speed; I felt like a prisoner arraigned before the bar. But he, the judge, appeared unaware of my agitation, and would not break my suspense until he had fully decided upon his verdict.
Yet his first words were commonplace enough.
"I had never expected anything at all like this," he said, in low sad tones. "Nothing like this has ever been known among our people. We Ibandru have seen little of strangers; none of our young people have ever taken mates outside the tribe. And so your confession comes as a shock."
"It should not come as a shock," was all I could mumble in reply.
"Were I as other fathers," continued the old man, suavely, "I might rise up and order you expelled from our land. Or I might grow angry and shout, and forbid you to see my daughter again. Or I might be crafty, and ask you to engage in feats of prowess with the young men of the town—and so might prove your unworthiness. Or I might send your request to the tribal council, which would decide against you. But I shall do none of these things. Once I too was young, and once I too—" here his voice faltered, and his eyes grew soft with reminiscence—"once I too knew what it was to love. So I shall try not to be too harsh, my friend. But you ask that which I fear is impossible. For your sake, I am sorry that it is impossible. But it is my duty to show you why."
During this speech my heart had sunk until it seemed dead and cold within me. It was as if a world had been shattered before my eyes; as if in the echoes of my own thoughts I heard that fateful word, "Impossible, impossible, impossible!"
"There are so many things to consider, so many things you cannot even know," Abthar proceeded, still stroking his beard meditatively, while my restless fingers toyed with the clods of earth, and my eyes followed absently the wanderings of an ant lost amid those mountainous masses. "But let me explain as well as I can. I shall try to talk to you as a friend, and forget for the time that I am Yasma's father. I shall say nothing of my hopes for her, and how I always thought to see her happy with some sturdy young tribesman, with my grandchildren upon her knee. I shall say nothing of the years that are past, and how I have tried to do my best for her, a motherless child; how sometimes I blundered and sometimes misunderstood, and was more anxious about her and more blest by her than you or she will ever know. Let that all be forgotten. What concerns us now is that you are proposing to make both her and yourself more unhappy than any outcast."
"Unhappy!" I exclaimed, with an unconscious gesture to the blue skies to witness how I was misjudged. "Unhappy! May the lightning strike me down if I don't want to make her happier than a queen!"
"So you say," replied the old man, with just the hint of a cynical smile, "and so you no doubt believe. We all set out in life to make ourselves and others happy—and how many of us succeed? Just now, Yasma's blackest enemy could not do her greater mischief."
"Oh, don't say that!" I protested, clenching my fists with a show of anger. "Have you so far misunderstood me? Do you believe that I—that I—"
"I believe your motives are of the worthiest," interrupted Abthar, quietly. "But let us be calm. It is not your fault that your union with Yasma would be a mistake; circumstances beyond all men's control would make it so."
"What circumstances?"
"Many circumstances. Some of them concern only you; some only Yasma. But suppose we begin with you. I will forget that Yasma and I really know very little about you; about your country, your people, your past. I am confident of your good faith; and for that reason, and because I consider you my friend, I do not want to see you beating your heart out on the rocks. Yet what would happen? Either you would find your way back to your own land and take Yasma with you, or else you would live with her in Sobul. And either course would be disastrous.
"Let us first say that you took her with you to your own country. I have heard only vague rumors as to that amazing land; but I am certain what its effect would be. Have you ever seen a wild duck with a broken wing, or a robin in a cage? Have you ever thought how a doe must feel when it can no longer roam the fields, or an eagle when barred from the sky? Think of these, and then think how Yasma will be when the lengthening days can no longer bring her back to Sobul!"
The old man paused, and with an eloquent gesture pointed to the jagged, snow-streaked circle of the peaks and to the far-off, mysterious figure of Yulada.
"Yes, yes, I have thought of that," I groaned.
"Then here is what we must expect. If you should take Yasma with you to your own country, she would perish—yes, she would perish no matter how kind you were to her, for endless exile is an evil that none of us Ibandru can endure. Yet if you remained with her in Sobul, you would be exiled from your own land and people."
"That is only too true," I sighed, for the thought was not exactly new to me.
But at that instant I chanced to catch a distant glimpse of an auburn-haired figure lithely skirting the further fields; and the full enchantment of Yasma was once more upon me.
"It would be worth the exile!" I vowed, madly. "Well, well worth it! For Yasma's sake, I'd stay here gladly!"
"Yes, gladly," repeated the old man, with a sage nod. "I know you would stay here gladly—for a while. But it would not take many years, my friend, not many years before you would be weary almost to death of this quiet little valley and its people. Why, you would be weary of us now were it not for Yasma. And then some day, when unexpectedly you found the route back to your own world, you would pick up your things and silently go."
"Never! By all I have ever loved, I could not!" I swore. "Not while Yasma remained!"
"Very well, let us suppose you would stay here," conceded Abthar, hastily, as though skimming over a distasteful topic. "Then if your life were not ruined, Yasma's would be. There are reasons you may not be aware of."
"There seems to be much here that I am not aware of."
"No doubt," Abthar admitted, in matter-of-fact tones. And then, with a gesture toward the southern peak, "Yulada has secrets not for every man's understanding."
For an instant he paused, in contemplation of the statue-like figure; then quickly continued, "Now here, my friend, is the thing to remember. Take the migration from which we are just returning. Do not imagine that we make such a pilgrimage only once in a lifetime. Every autumn, when the birds fly south, we follow in their wake; and every spring we return with the northward-winging flocks."
"Every autumn—and every spring!" I gasped, in dismay, for Abthar had confirmed my most dismal surmises.
"Yes, every autumn and every spring. How would you feel, my friend, with a wife that left you five months or six every year? How do you think your wife would feel when she had to leave?"
"But would she have to leave? Why would she? After we were married, would she not be willing to stay here?"
"She might be willing—but would she be able?" asked Abthar, pointedly. "This is no matter of choice; it is a law of her nature. It is a law of the nature of all Ibandru to go every autumn the way of the southward-speeding birds. Could you ask the sap to stop flowing from the roots of the awakening tree in April? Could you ask the fountains not to pour down from the peaks when spring thaws the snow? Then ask one of us Ibandru to linger in Sobul when the frosty days have come and the last November leaf flutters earthward."
Abthar's words bewildered me utterly, as all reference to the flight of the Ibandru had bewildered me before. But I did not hesitate to admit my perplexity. "Your explanation runs contrary to all human experience," I argued. "During my studies and travels, I have heard of many races of men who differed much in habits and looks; but all were moved by the same impulses, the same natural laws. You Ibandru alone seem different. You disappear and reappear like phantoms, and claim to do so because of an instinct never found in the natural world."
My companion sat staring at me quizzically. There was just a little of surprise in his manner, just a little of good-natured indulgence, and something of the smiling tolerance which one reserves for the well-meaning and simple-minded.
"In spite of your seeming knowledge, my friend," he remarked at length, "I see that you are really quite childish in your views. You are mistaken in believing that we Ibandru do not follow natural laws. We are guided not by an instinct unknown in the great world around us, but by one that rules the lives of countless living things: the birds in the air and the fishes in the streams, and even, if I am to believe the tales I have heard, is found among certain furry animals in the wide waters and at times among swarms of butterflies."
"But if you feel the same urge as these creatures, then why should only you out of all men feel it?"
"No doubt it exists elsewhere, although weakened by unnatural ways of life. Did it ever occur to you that it may have been common to all men thousands of years ago? Did you never stop to think that you civilized folk may have lost it, just as you have lost your keenness of scent and sense of direction? while we Ibandru have preserved it by our isolation and the simplicity of our lives? As your own fathers may have been five hundred generations ago, so we Ibandru are today."
"But if your migration be a natural thing," I asked, remembering the sundry mysteries of Sobul, "why make a secret of it? Why not tell me where you go in winter? Indeed, why not take me with you?"
A strange light came into Abthar's eyes. There was something a little secretive and yet something a little exalted in his manner as he lifted both hands ardently toward Yulada, and declared, "There are truths of which I dare not speak, truths that the tradition of my tribe will not let me reveal. But do not misunderstand me, my friend; we must keep our secrets for the sake of our own safety as well as because of Yulada. If all that we do were known to the world, would we not be surrounded by curious and unkindly throngs? Hence our ancient sages ordained that when we Ibandru go away at the time of falling leaves we must go alone, unless there be with us some understanding stranger—one who has felt the same inspiration as we. But such a stranger has never appeared. And until he does appear, Yulada will weave dread spells over him who betrays her secrets!"
The old man paused, and I had no response to make.
"But all this is not what you came to see me about," he continued. "Let us return to Yasma. Now that I have told you of our yearly migration, you can judge of the folly you were contemplating. But let me mention another fact, which even by itself would make your marriage foolhardy."
"What fact can that be?" I demanded, feeling as if a succession of hammer strokes had struck me on the head.
"Again I must go out of my way to explain. For many generations, as far back as our traditions go, there has been one of our number known as a soothsayer, a priest of Yulada. His mission is to read the omens of earth and sky, to scan the clouds and stars, and to tell us Yulada's will. Sometimes his task has been difficult, for often Yulada has hidden behind a mist; but at other times his duty has been clear as light, and we have profited greatly from his wisdom. Yulada has never been known to betray her worshipper; all those who have heeded her have been blest, and all the scorners have lived to rue their scorn. And so, for hundreds of years, as far back as we can remember, whenever Hamul-Kammesh has foretold—"
"But how old under heaven is Hamul-Kammesh?"
"As old as the Ibandru," stated Abthar, simply. "As old as Yulada herself. The physical form changes, but Hamul-Kammesh is always the same. The father dies, and the son takes his place; but still we call him Hamul-Kammesh, for still he is the mouthpiece of Yulada."
"Maybe so," I conceded. "But what has all this to do with Yasma?"
"More than I wish it had! More than I wish!" declared Yasma's father, gloomily. "At the time of her birth a prophecy was made—"
"Prophecy?"
"Yes, a bitter prophecy! I well recall the day; the wild geese were flying south, and Yulada's head and shoulders were hooded in gray cloud. In that cloud a slit appeared and vanished; but we could see that it took the form of a man—a man striding toward us from across the mountains. At the same time, a flock of seventeen birds went winging above the peak; so that Hamul-Kammesh, reflecting upon these omens, was led to foretell a sad fate for the babe born on that day. After seventeen summers, he said, a stranger would come to us from beyond the mountains; and he would mean us no harm, and would have to be respected, yet would work grievous ill; for his fate was darkly connected with that of Yasma, my child. How it was connected, Hamul-Kammesh did not say; but the sun that day at twilight was strangely red through the western mist; and in the deep crimson dusk the soothsayer saw disaster. Nevertheless, he warned us that we could not struggle against that disaster; it was foreordained, and was the will of Yulada!"
A long, painful silence followed, which I did not choose to break. For Abthar had spoken in the tones of one who dwells on tragedy that has been no less than on tragedy to be; and his eyes, so keen and alert before, now bore the weary look of one who tells for the hundredth time an old hopeless tale.
"For years I rarely thought of that prediction," he finally resumed. "We are all apt to forget the fate that hovers above us. Even when you were first carried into our midst, I did not connect your arrival with Hamul-Kammesh's prophecy. In fact, no one connected the two events until the soothsayer himself spoke of you as the stranger whose coming he had divined long ago. Then to the old forecasts he added new ... but these I need not mention. The meaning of it all, is this: should you wed Yasma, you will court your own doom. That is all I need to say. If, knowing what you know, you must persist in your madness, I will lift my voice no further; but the blame for your sufferings will not be mine."
"Oh, but how can you expect me to believe such predictions?" I protested, more impressed than I would have admitted even to myself. "How can you—"
I could proceed no further. "That is all, my friend," said Abthar, with decision. "Perhaps some other time we shall have further talk."
Solemnly he arose, and slowly went ambling away among the green rows of vines, his great graying head bent sadly and thoughtfully over his long lanky form.