Chapter XVII
A wedding among the Ibandru is celebrated by twenty-four hours of feasting and rejoicing. All members of the tribe are invited, and all are expected to participate; no one is permitted to labor in the fields or at home; from dawn until dawn the village is delivered into the hands of the merrymakers. Bonfires are lighted at night, and weird and picturesque dances executed; songs are sung by day, and races run, and games of strength and skill find favor; prayers are uttered, orations made, stories told, and poems intoned. And as the supreme mark of the occasion, a privilege that combines pleasure with consecration, the elders of the tribe pass the jugs of "sacru," a local intoxicant made from the roots of a starchy herb; and all are urged to drink out of respect for the wedded pair.
Judged by the quantity of "sacru" consumed when Yasma and I were married, the respect in which we were held was enormous. Had the beverage not been withheld during the first two or three hours of the festivities, many of the reverential ones would not have been in a condition to appreciate anything that went on.
For my own part, I had not the same capacity for pleasure as some of the others; indeed, rarely have I been so uncomfortable as on that day which should have been the happiest of my life. Not that I did not appreciate the importance of the occasion; or that I felt any desire to undo the bond now being irrevocably tied. But the crowds of idlers, staring and staring at Yasma and me as though to swallow us with their eyes, made me feel miserably out of place; and the ceremonies were so curious that I felt like an intruder.
When I awoke after a troubled sleep in the dusk of that unforgettable May morning, I was vaguely aware of the undercurrent of excitement in the village. Even at this hour, the people were abroad; I could hear them moving quickly about, could hear their chattering voices. Without delay, therefore, I arose and dressed in a bright blue and red native costume, Abthar's wedding gift, which he had urged upon me in place of my now ragged civilized garb; then somewhat timidly I stepped out of my cabin.
The first persons I met were Karem and his brother Barkodu, who were standing not twenty paces from my door, as though awaiting me. I observed that long ribbons and tassels of red and yellow hung from their heads and shoulders; while streamers of every conceivable hue—crimson and purple, orange, lavender and green—had been strung during the night from cabin to cabin, giving the village a fantastic and festal appearance.
My two friends greeted me enthusiastically; muttered congratulations; and led me to the cabin where Yasma was expecting my arrival. The bride-to-be was clad in a slender, specially woven robe of sky-blue; and ornaments of a stone like amethyst adorned her hair and shoulders. My heart leapt as she beamed her greeting to me—how dazzling, I thought, how dazzling beyond the most gaudy princess that ever graced a salon! She was paler today than ordinarily; her eyes shone with an unusual timidity; yet there was something ravishingly sweet about her expression, a childlike candor and smiling loveliness that reminded me of a flower just bursting into bloom.
But only for one instant I reveled in the sight of her. Then, though she lingered at my side, she might have been a thousand miles away. Together we were escorted to the open space in the center of the village, where we were hailed by scores of men and women, all bedecked with colored tassels and banners. Amid that staring multitude, each member of which came forth in turn to express the same felicitations in the same words, we had little chance to communicate with one another by so much as a meeting of fingers or a sidelong glance. As best we could, we endured the ordeal; but I could see that Yasma was being tired out by the innumerable bows she had to make and the innumerable expressions of thanks.
The sun had barely overtopped the eastern peaks when Hamul-Kammesh arrived and the ceremonies began. The soothsayer was especially apparelled for the occasion, and wore white robes that matched his beard, and a two-foot conical white hat that brought me frivolous remembrances. Yet he conducted himself with the august air of the wise men of old, and spoke in the sonorous and measured tones of a patriarch. He was especially impressive when he stationed himself on a little newly reared mound in the middle of the clearing, and, taking a small horn-like instrument from his cloak, blew a blast that brought the noisy, chattering assemblage instantly to order.
"Let us begin by offering thanks to Yulada!" he thundered, as soon as the spectators were giving him their undivided attention.
Instantly the three or four hundred men, women and children threw themselves down upon the ground; stretched themselves full-length with faces turned southward; and mumbled and muttered incoherently.
Of course, I had to prostrate myself along with the crowd, and to join in murmuring the unintelligible jargon. But how thankful I was when the ceremony was over! After this trial, it seemed a relief to listen to Hamul-Kammesh.
"My friends," he proclaimed, in the manner of one who relishes his own eloquence, "we are here today by the decree of Yulada, Yulada whose ways are inscrutable and whose will no man can oppose. Why she has brought us together I may not reveal, nor whether tomorrow she will scourge us with earthquake and lightning. All that she permits me to say is that this moment shall be one of rejoicing, for today we celebrate the union of one of our daughters with a stranger from the lands beyond the mountains. Never before have any of our maidens been wedded except to sons of our own tribe, but let us not question Yulada, who is wiser than all men; let us only give thanks, remembering that whatever she does is for our best."
It will be needless to repeat the remainder of the sermon. It would, in fact, be impossible to do so, for all that I can recall is that the speaker continuously praised Yulada, emphasizing and re-emphasizing his remarks until he had spoken for an hour and said the same thing in twenty ways. Yet the audience listened with mouths agape and staring eyes; and when he had finished, there was an uproar of approving yells and cheers.
Following this frightful pandemonium, Hamul-Kammesh prepared to tie the knot that would make Yasma my wife. In ringing tones he uttered first my name, then hers; and in single file we had to thread our way amid the squatting figures and take our places at the soothsayer's side on the central mound. This was embarrassing enough; but a more embarrassing experience awaited us upon our arrival at what I shall call the stage. No sooner were we within touching distance than the soothsayer, with a wide sweep of his arms, enfolded Yasma in a close embrace. Of course, I realized that this was held essential to the ceremony; but it did seem to me that Hamul-Kammesh was unnecessarily long about releasing Yasma. I was about to cough tactfully when he at length freed her, and, to my disgust, flung his arms in my direction, and for an instant I felt his bristly white beard against my face.
But this time the embrace was not protracted. Indeed, I had no more than realized what was happening, when it was over. And Hamul-Kammesh, with a wry grimace, was again addressing the audience:
"The bride and bridegroom have now been enfolded in the arms of Yulada. They are at last fit to leave their solitary paths; and I am therefore ready to declare their two souls immortally one. But first I must speak of their obligations. They must always hold the name of Yulada in awe, and their children and their children's children must have the fear of Yulada in their hearts. They must not fail in that worship which Yulada commands; they must do deference each year by taking the way of the southward-flying birds if but they hear the call; and, above all, they must not reveal any of Yulada's secrets, and must never approach within five stones' throws of the feet of the goddess. But during all the season of green leaves they must remain in Sobul, tilling the earth as Yulada wishes and roaming her mountains but never defiling her trees or wild things. If so, long life will be theirs, unless—unless—" Here Hamul-Kammesh hesitated, and something menacing came into his tone.—"Unless Yulada should not choose to revoke her old prophecy, but, for reasons which only she can fathom, should send some portent of her wrath."
Crowning this address, Hamul-Kammesh stretched his arms imploringly toward Yulada, and, with eyes upturned, mumbled a prayer. And, after completing his incoherent mutterings, he took my right hand in his left, and Yasma's left hand in his right, and joined our two hands in a not unwilling clasp.
For a moment I fancied that this completed the ceremony, and that, according to the law of Sobul, Yasma and I were now man and wife. But I quickly perceived my error. While my betrothed and I stood with hands interlocked, the soothsayer reached into the folds of his garments and withdrew two little ruby-red stones, which he exhibited high in air.
"Here are the life-stones," he explained, "the gems that show the fusion of the heart's blood. These, in the eyes of Yulada, are the symbols of your union; and these Yulada shall now bestow upon you."
There followed an impressive silence, while Hamul-Kammesh carefully examined the red trinkets. Then, turning to me and holding out the larger of the two tokens, he asked, "Do you, the bridegroom, desire this life-stone? Will you cherish it and preserve it, the sign and consecration of your marriage, the gift of Yulada on your wedding day?"
"I shall be glad to do so."
"Then for you Yulada has tied the cord that cannot be broken!" And, by means of a little projecting hook, the old man fastened the red stone just above my heart.
Then, while the audience stood looking on breathlessly, he turned to Yasma, held forth the second little jewel, and repeated the questions he had asked me.
But what a startling change had come over Yasma! Her face had grown tense and white; her eyes were distended; suddenly she seemed smitten dumb. After Hamul-Kammesh had put the final question, she remained simply staring at him—staring without a word!
"Will you cherish and preserve this life-stone?" repeated Hamul-Kammesh, still displaying the ornament.
But still she could not reply. Her shoulders twitched, and a shudder ran through her body; her lips trembled, but not a sound came forth.
"For the third time," repeated the soothsayer, in impressive tones, "I ask whether you wish the life-stone? You are not compelled to answer, but unless you do answer you cannot be married. If for the third time you fail to reply, your silence will mean refusal, and there must be no further festivities today; but the guests must leave, and no suitor must seek your favor for another year. And so for the last time I put the question—"
"Yes, yes, give me the life-stone!" sighed Yasma, in a broken voice, as she reached toward the red trifle.
Without delay, Hamul-Kammesh hung the symbol of our union about her neck.
As soon as Yasma and I had received our life-stones, the "sacru" was passed and became the center of attention. The occasion was more than welcome to me, not because of the liquor, which I scarcely tasted, but for the sake of Yasma, with whom I desired an occasional word on this our bridal day. While the men and women were crowding forward for their share of the drink, I recognized my opportunity; and, motioning Yasma to follow me, I threaded my way to the edge of the crowd and beyond the furthest cabin to a trail winding through the woods. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice our departure, for the enchantment of the "sacru" was already at work.
Yasma seemed glad enough to accompany me; but though she shared in my relief at breaking free from the crowd, her conduct was still peculiar. She did not show any of the happiness natural to a bride, but was moody and sad. She answered my questions and remarks only with monosyllables, yet was by no means cold or indifferent, and gave evidence of her affection by the clinging closeness with which she held my arm.
Having reached the woods, we seated ourselves side by side on a log at the borders of some fragrant white-flowering bushes; and there we began our wedded life in an unlooked-for fashion.
"Well, Yasma, we have come to the end of our separate roads," I reminded her, patting her hand and trying to conceal my anxiety. "From now on we shall follow one path together. Surely, it shall always make us happy to look back upon this day. Shall it not, Yasma?"
Yasma's response was far from reassuring. A long silence intervened, while she sat with head bent low and eyes averted. Suddenly, as I sought to draw her close, I became aware that her whole form was quivering.
"Yasma!" I cried, dismayed and bewildered, as I took the weeping girl into my arms. "Yasma, Yasma dear, what is wrong?"
"Oh, I'm so afraid, so afraid!" she wailed, as she clung to me, her face still turned away. "Please, please take good care of me! I'm so afraid—I don't know why—I can't help it!"
Almost desperately she held me, and buried her face against my breast, and sobbed and sobbed while I strove in vain to console her.
"But what can be the matter, Yasma?" I asked, beseechingly, when the storm was beginning to spend itself. "I don't understand—I don't understand at all!"
"Oh, I don't understand, either!" she burst forth, vehemently. "It's silly of me, simply silly! There's no reason, not the least! Oh, you shouldn't care for me, you shouldn't, you shouldn't!"
And the tears came in a renewed torrent, and it was minutes before they had subsided again.
"Don't pay any attention to me—I'm too foolish!" she murmured, as she sat clinging to me, her face still pitifully moist. "I know I shouldn't act like this, but everything seems so strange and new. And I keep thinking that what we've done today can never be taken back, never, never! That thought frightens me. What if—what if Yulada should still be angry with us?"
Of course, I strove my best to soothe away her fears. I told her that we had nothing to dread from Yulada; that we had acted wisely and should always be glad of it. Yet, even as I spoke, I could not be convinced of the truth of my own words. And I am afraid that I did not convince her. For she cut me short with an outburst such as I had not expected even from her.
"Oh, let's forget Yulada—forget everything! Forget everything but you and me! Nothing, nothing else can matter! I have you, and that is all I want. That is all I ever want! Oh, stay with me, stay with me, my beloved, and I do not care what Yulada may do—no, I do not care what may happen in the whole world!"
Her words ended in another sobbing crescendo; but this time it was not so hard to console her. Soon, calmed by my coaxing, she dried her tears, and looked up into my face, timidly smiling; and at this I forgot all my misgivings, and told her how blessed she was making me; and she answered with a coy tossing of the head, and murmured things that my memory will treasure always but that may not be repeated.
It was almost dusk when we returned to the village. From afar we could hear the shouts and cries of the revelers, the booming of drums, the shrilling of horns; and, upon approaching, we found the people riotously absorbed in their games. Some were engaged in feats of wrestling and jumping; some were racing about after little wooden balls; some were juggling with pebbles, and some twisting their bodies into fantastic contortions; some were dancing in a long writhing serpentine; some scuttled to and fro like children in games of hide-and-seek; some staggered aimlessly hither and thither with the weight of too much "sacru."
So preoccupied were the people that our return was scarcely noted; indeed, it was not apparent that our absence had even been observed. But we did not care; we were glad enough to be left alone; and, after satisfying our hunger from the fruits and dainties being passed about on wooden platters, we withdrew to a secluded corner to await the firelight festivities. Gladly we would have left entirely; but we must be present later in the evening, when, in the midst of the cheering, congratulatory throng, we would be escorted to my cabin, which had been bedecked with ribbons and equipped with household supplies by our friends, and which would be the stage for a second and briefer ceremony under the auspices of Hamul-Kammesh.
But before that ceremony could take place, there was to be an unscheduled exhibition. The sunset fires had barely died and the bright yellow full moon peeped above the eastern ranges, when an uncanny ruddy light flared beneath the moon; a great ball of fire blazed into sight, soaring high with startling swiftness, like a projectile shot out of some colossal gun. Sultry red with a glare that drowned out the luster of the moon and stars, it went hurtling in a long curve across the heavens and beyond the western peaks; and as it swept out of view, sputtering and scintillating like a burning rocket, an unearthly hissing came to our ears; while, after the specter had retreated, a long copper furrow remained to mark its pathway, glowing and smoldering and only gradually fading out amid the thin starlight.
The effect upon the Ibandru was overpowering. Within a few seconds the celestial visitant had flashed into life and vanished; but for hours the wedding guests could only gape and stare, muttering in alarm, walking about as if distracted, prostrating themselves upon the ground and praying to Yulada. All merrymaking was over for the night; no one even thought of further festivities. "A portent! A portent!" cried the people; and no words of mine could dissuade them. Useless to tell them that they had observed merely a great meteor,—they were convinced that Yulada had sent them a message, a warning; convinced that my marriage was an unhallowed thing, and that only misfortune could follow. Even Yasma shared in the general panic; her fears of a few hours before were revived; and as she huddled against me, huddled desperately as a child in need of comfort, I could feel her whole body quaking; and I had the impression that I was holding not a woman but a caged bird suddenly conscious of its bars.