Chapter X
As October drifted by and November loomed within two weeks' beckoning, a striking change came over Sobul. The very elements seemed to feel and to solemnize that change, which was as much in the spirit of things as in their physical aspect; and the slow-dying autumn seemed stricken with a bitter foretaste of winter. Cold winds began to blow, and even in the seclusion of the valley they shrieked and wailed with demonic fury; torn and scattered clouds scudded like great shadows over granite skies, and occasionally gave token of their ill will in frantic outbursts of rain; ominous new white patches were forming about the peaks, to vanish within a few hours, and appear again and vanish once more; and daily the dead leaves came drifting down in swarms and showers of withered brown and saffron and mottled red, while daily the flocks of winged adventurers went darting and screeching overhead on their way beyond the mountains.
But the stormy days, with all the wildness and force and passionate abandon of wind and rain, were less impressive for me than the days of calm. Then, when the placid sky shone in unbroken blue, all nature seemed sad with a melancholy I had never felt among my native hills. There was something tragic about the tranquil, ragged forest vistas, shot through as with an inner light of deep golden and red, and standing bared in mute resignation to the stroke of doom. But there was something more than tragic; there was something spectral about those long waiting lines of trees, with their foliage that at times appeared to reflect the sunset, and at times seemed like the painted tapestries of some colossal dream pageant. More and more, as I gazed in a charmed revery at the gaudy death-apparel of the woods, I was obsessed with the sense of some immanent presence, some weird presence that hovered intangibly behind the smoldering autumn fires, some presence that I could not think of without a shudder and that filled me with an unreasonable awe.
Certainly my feelings, uncanny as they were, were to be justified only too fully by time. Already I had more than a suspicion that the season of southward-flying birds was a season of mystic meaning for the Ibandru, but little did I understand just how important it was. Only by degrees did realization force itself upon me; and then I could only gape, and rub my eyes, and ask if I were dreaming. Stranger than any tale I had ever read in the Arabian Nights, stranger than any fancy my fevered mind had ever beckoned forth, was the reality that set the Ibandru apart from all other peoples on earth.
As the weeks went by, the agitation I had noted among the natives was intensified rather than lessened. I was aware of a sense of waiting which grew until the very atmosphere seemed anxious and strained; and I observed that the men and women no longer went as usual about their tasks, but flitted to and fro aimlessly or nervously or excitedly, as though they had no definite place in the world and were hesitating on the brink of some fearful decision.
And then, one day when October was a little beyond mid-career, I thought I detected another change. At first I was not sure, and accused my imagination of playing pranks; but it was not long before I ceased to have any doubts. The population of Sobul was dwindling! Not half so many children as before were romping in the open among the houses, not half so many women could be seen bustling about the village, or so many men roaming the fields—the entire place wore a sudden air of desolation. And in more than one cabin, previously the home of a riotous family, the doors swung no longer upon their wooden hinges, but through the open window-places I caught glimpses of bare floors and dark walls innocent of human occupancy.
When had the people gone? And where? I had not seen anyone leave, nor been told that anyone was to leave; and I witnessed no ceremonies of farewell. Could the missing ones be victims of some terror that came down "like a wolf on the fold" and snatched them away in the night? Or were they merely visiting some other tribe in some other secluded valley?
These problems puzzled me incessantly; but when I turned to the Ibandru for information, their answers were tantalizing. They did not deny that some of their tribesmen had left, and did not claim that this had been unexpected or mystifying; but they were either unable or unwilling to furnish any details; and I was not sure whether they felt that I was probing impertinently into their affairs, or whether some tribal or religious mandate sealed their lips.
I particularly remember the answers of Karem and Yasma. The former, with his usual jovial way of avoiding the issue, advised me to have no worries; the whole matter was really no concern of mine, and I might be assured that the missing ones were not badly off or unhappy. By this time I must have learned that the Ibandru had queer ways, and I must prepare for things queerer still; but, until I was one with the tribe at heart, I must not expect to understand.
Yasma's answer, though vague enough, was more definite.
"Our absent friends," she said, while by turns a sad and an exalted light played across her mobile features, "have gone the way of the birds that fly south. Yulada has beckoned them, and they have escaped the winter's loneliness and cold, and have hastened where the bright flowers are, and the butterflies and bees. See!"—Ecstatically she pointed to a triangle of swift-moving dots that glided far above through the cloudless blue.—"They are like the wild geese! They flee from the biting gales and the frost, and will not return till the warm days are here again and the leaves come back to the trees. We must all go like them—all of us, all, all!"
"And I too—must I go?" I asked, never thinking of taking her words literally.
Yasma hesitated. The light faded from her eyes; an expression of sorrow, almost of compassion, flooded her face.
"That I cannot say," she returned, sadly. "You must feel the call within you, feel it as the birds do, drawing you on to lands where robins sing and the lilac blooms. No one can tell you how to feel it; it must come from within or not at all, and you yourself must recognize it. But oh, you cannot help recognizing it! It is so strong, so very strong!—and it takes your whole body and soul with it, draws you like a rainbow or a beautiful sunset; and bears you along as the wind bears a dead leaf. You cannot resist it any more than you can resist a terrible hunger—you must submit, or it will hurl you under!"
"I do not understand," said I, for despite the ardor of her words, I had only the dimmest idea of the overmastering force she described.
"Perhaps," she returned, gently, "you cannot know. You may be like a color-blind man trying to understand color. But oh, I hope not! I hope—ever and ever so much—that you'll hear the call thundering within you. Otherwise, you'll have to stay here by yourself the whole winter, while the snow falls and the wolves howl, and you won't see us again till spring!"
Her emotion seemed to be overcoming her. Fiercely she wiped a tear from her cheek; then turned from me, to give way to her misgivings in the seclusion of her father's cabin.
But I was not without my own misgivings. Her words had revived haunting premonitions; it was as if some sinister shadow hovered over me, all the more dread because formless. What unhallowed people were these Ibandru, to go slinking away like specters in the night? Were they a tribe of outlaws or brigands, hiding from justice in these impenetrable fastnesses? Or were they the sole survivors of some ancient race, endowed with qualities not given to ordinary humans? With new interest I recalled the stories told me by the Afghan guides before my fateful adventure: the reports that the Ibandru were a race of devils, winged like birds and with the power of making themselves invisible. Absurd as this tale appeared, might there not be the ghost of an excuse for it?
As for Yasma's predictions and warnings—what meaning had there been in them? Was it indeed possible that I might be left alone all winter in this desolate place? And was that why Abthar had advised me to make ready for the cold season while his own people had apparently done nothing to prepare? But, even so, how could they escape the winter? Was it not a mere poetic vagary to say, as Yasma had done, that they went to lands where robins sang and the lilac bloomed—how cross the interminable mountain reaches to the semi-torrid valleys of India or the warm Arabian plains? Or was it that, like the bears, they hibernated in caves? Or, like the wild geese that they watched so excitedly, were they swayed by some old migratory instinct, some impulse dormant or dead in most men but preserved for them by a long succession of nomad ancestors? Although reason scoffed at the idea, I had visions of them trekking each autumn across four or five hundred miles of wilderness to the borders of the Arabian Sea, surviving on provisions they had secreted along the route, and returning with the spring to their homes in Sobul.
Unlikely as this explanation appeared, nothing more plausible occurred to me. But as the days went by, my sense of mystery increased. The people were fleeing almost as though Sobul were plague-ridden—of that there could be no further doubt! Daily now I missed some familiar face; first a child who had come to me of evenings to run gay races in the fields; then an old woman who had sat each morning in the sun before her cabin; then Yasma's brother, Barkodu, whose tall sturdy form I had frequently observed in the village. And then one evening when I inquired for Karem, I was told that he was not to be seen; and the people's peculiar reserved expression testified that he had gone "the way of the birds that fly south." And, a day later, when I wished to see Abthar in the hope that he would relieve my perplexed mind, I found no one in the cabin except Yasma; and she murmured that her father would not be back till spring.
But did I make no effort to solve the enigma? Did I not strive to find out for myself where the absent ones had gone? Yes! I made many attempts—and with bewildering results. Even today I shudder to think of the ordeal I underwent; the remembrance of eerie midnights and strange shadows that flickered and vanished comes back to me after these many, many months; I feel again the cool, forest-scented breeze upon my nostrils as I crouch among the deep weeds at the village edge, or as I glide phantom-like beneath the trees in the cold starlight. For it was mainly at night that I wrestled with the Unknown; and it was at night that I received the most persuasive and soul-disturbing proof of the weirdness of the ways of Sobul.
My plans may not have been well laid, but they were the best I could conceive. From the fact that I had never seen any of the Ibandru leaving, and that more than once in the morning I had missed some face that had greeted me twelve hours before, I concluded that the people invariably fled by night. Acting on this view, I hid one evening in a clump of bushes on the outskirts of the village, resolved to wait if need be until dawn. True, no one might choose tonight for the migration; but in that case I should lie in hiding tomorrow night, and if necessary again on the night after.
As I lay sprawled among the bushes, whose dry leaves and twigs pricked and irritated my skin, I was prey to countless vexations. The night was cold, and I shivered as the wind cut through my thin garments; the night was long, and I almost groaned with impatience while the slow constellations crawled across the heavens; the night was dark, and fantastic fears flitted through my mind as I gazed through the gloom toward the ghostly line of the trees and cabins. Every now and then, when some wild creature called out querulously from the woods, I was swept by desire to flee; and more than once some harmless small beast, rustling a few yards off, startled me to alarm. But in the village nothing stirred, and the aloof, shadowy huts, scattered here and there like the monsters of a nightmare, seemed to bristle with unspeakable menace.
Yet nothing menacing became visible as the long reaches of the night dragged by and the constellations still swung monotonously between the faint black line of the eastern ranges and the equally faint black peaks to the west. At length, lulled by the sameness and the silence, I must have forgotten myself, must have drowsed a bit, for I have a recollection of coming to myself with a start, bewildered and with half clouded senses.... The night was as tranquil as before, the trees and houses as dark; but as I glanced skyward I detected the merest touch of gray. And, at the same time, I had a singular sense that I was no longer alone. Intently I gazed into the gloom—still nothing visible. But all the while that same shuddery feeling persisted, as if unseen eyes were watching me, unseen ears listening to my every motion. Again I felt an impulse to flee; my limbs quivered; my heart pounded; instinctively I crawled deeper into the bushes. And, as I did so, I saw that which made me catch my breath in horror.
From behind one of the nearer cabins, two long lithe shadows darted, gliding noiselessly toward me through the darkness. No ghost could have shown dimmer outlines, or walked on more silent feet, or flooded my whole being with more uncanny sensations. Straight toward me they strode, looming gigantic in my tortured imagination; and as they approached I hugged the bushes more closely, trembling lest the phantoms discover me. Then suddenly they swerved aside, and passed at a dozen paces; and through the stillness of the night came the dull rhythm of sandalled feet.
For a minute I watched in silence. Then, encouraged by the pale radiance which was swallowing the feebler stars and softening the blackness above, I choked down my fears and crept stealthily out of the thicket. Before me the two shadows were still vaguely visible, gliding rapidly toward the southern woods. Like a detective trailing his prey, I stumbled among the weeds and rocks in their wake. But, all the time, I felt that I was pursuing mere wraiths; and, though I walked my swiftest, I found it impossible to gain upon them. They were several hundred yards ahead, and several hundred yards ahead they remained, while I put forth my utmost effort and they appeared to make no effort at all. And at last, to my dismay, they reached the shaggy boundary of the woods; merged with it; and were blotted out.
With what poor patience I could still command, I took the only possible course. While dawn lent gradual color to the skies, I hovered at the forest edge; and in the first dismal twilight I began to inspect the ground, hopeful of discovering some telltale evidence.
But no evidence was to be had. I did indeed find the footprints I was looking for; the trouble was that I found too many footprints. Not two persons but twenty had passed on this path, which I recognized as a trail leading toward Yulada. But all the tracks were new-made, and all equally obscured by the others; and it was impossible to say which were the freshest, or to follow any in particular.
When I returned to the village, not a person was stirring among the cabins; an unearthly stillness brooded over the place, and I could have imagined it to be a town of the dead. Had I not been utterly fatigued by my night in the open, I might have been struck even more strongly by the solitude, and have paused to investigate; as it was, I made straight for my own hut, flung myself down upon my straw couch, and sank into a sleep from which I did not awaken until well past noon.
After a confused and hideous dream, in which I lay chained to a glacier while an arctic wind blew through my garments, I opened my eyes with the impression that the nightmare had been real. A powerful windwasblowing! I could hear it blustering and wailing among the treetops; through my open window it flickered and sallied with a breath that seemed straight from the Pole. Leaping to my feet, I hastily closed the great shutters I had constructed of pine wood; and, at the same time, I caught glimpses of gray skies with a scudding rack of clouds, and of little white flakes driving and reeling down.
In my surprise at this change in the weather, I was struck by premonitions as bleak as the bleak heavens. What of Yasma? How would she behave in the storm?—she who was apparently unprepared for the winter! Though I tried to convince myself that there was no cause for concern, an unreasoning something within me insisted that there was cause indeed. It was not a minute, therefore, before I was slipping on my goatskin coat.
But I might have spared my pains. At this instant there came a tapping from outside, and my heart began to beat fiercely as I shouted, "Come in!"
The log door moved upon its hinges, and a short slim figure slipped inside.
"Yasma!" I cried, surprised and delighted, as I forced the door shut in the face of the blast. But my surprise was swiftly to grow, and my delight to die; at sight of her wild, sad eyes, I started back in wonder and dismay. In part they burned with a mute resignation, and in part with the unutterable pain of one bereaved; yet at the same time her face was brightened with an indefinable exultation, as though beneath that vivid countenance some secret ecstasy glowed and smoldered.
"I have come to say good-bye," she murmured, in dreary tones. "I have come to say good-bye."
"Good-bye!"—It was as though I had heard that word long ago in a bitter dream. Yet how could I accept the decree? Passion took fire within me as I seized Yasma and pressed her to me.
"Do not leave me!" I pleaded. "Oh, why must you go away? Where must you go? Tell me, Yasma, tell me! Why must I stay here alone the whole winter long? Why can't I go with you? Or why can't you stay with me? Stay here, Yasma! We could be so happy together, we two!"
Tears came into her eyes at this appeal.
"You make me sad, very sad," she sighed, as she freed herself from my embrace. "I do not want to leave you here alone—and yet, oh what else can I do? The cold days have come, and my people call me, and I must go where the flowers are. Oh, you don't know how gladly I'd have you come with us; but you don't understand the way, and can't find it, and I can't show it to you. So I must go now, I must go, I must! for soon the last bird will have flown south."
Again she held out her hands as for a friendly greeting, and again I took her into my arms, this time with all the desperation of impending loss, for I was filled with a sense of certainties against which it was useless to struggle, and felt as if by instinct that she would leave despite all I could do or say.
But I did not realize quite how near the moment was. Slipping from my clasp, she flitted to the door, forcing it slightly open, so that the moaning and howling of the gale became suddenly accentuated. "Until the spring!" she cried, in mournful tones that seemed in accord with the tumult of the elements. "Until the spring!"—And a smile of boundless yearning and compassion glimmered across her face. Then the door rattled to a close, and I stood alone in that chilly room.
Blindly, like one bereft of his senses, I plunged out of the cabin, regardless of the gale, regardless of the snow that came wheeling down in dizzy flurries. But Yasma was not to be seen. For a moment I stood staring into the storm; then time after time I called out her name, to be answered only by the wind that sneered and snorted its derision. And at length, warmed into furious action, I set out at a sprint for her cabin, racing along unconscious of the buffeting blast and the beaten snow that pricked and stung my face.
All in vain! Arriving at Yasma's home, I flung open the great pine door without ceremony—to be greeted by the emptiness within. For many minutes I waited; but Yasma did not come, and the tempest shrieked and chuckled more fiendishly than ever.
At last, when the early twilight was dimming the world, I threaded a path back along the whitening ground, and among cabins with roofs like winter. Not a living being greeted me; and through the wide-open windows of the huts I had glimpses of naked and untenanted logs.