Whatever the strange and terrible outbreak of the Mountain of Fire could
have meant, the people had no thought of abandoning the land. Within a few
days they were repairing or rebuilding their huts and returning to the
habits of their daily life. Centuries might pass, more than one such
calamity might befall the village, but there would still be men living on
the same spot where their forefathers lived, on the slopes of the Mountain
of Fire.
All the same, a great change had taken place, and they felt it more as
time went on. They began to see that the land that had once brought forth
food for them all would not now feed them with any such abundance. They
would be lucky if they could secure enough food to keep them alive. Some
of the fields were burned over by the lava stream; some were ruined by the
dammed-up river. Cattle and sheep had been killed or had run away. Much of
the grain and wool and other provision for the future had been destroyed.
It was a very hard winter.
Yet rather than leave their homes and be strangers and outcasts without a
country, they endured cold and scarcity and every kind of discomfort, even
suffering. Outside the land they knew were unknown terrors,—races who did
not speak their language or worship their gods; soil whose ways they did
not understand, and very likely far worse troubles than had come upon them
here. Most of the people simply made up their minds that what must be,
they must endure, because anything else would only be a change for the
worse.
There were a few, however, who did not take this view. The first to
suggest that some might go away was Marcus Colonus. He spoke of it to a
little group of his friends while they were in the forest cutting wood.
Sylvius, whose wife and children were killed when the stones fell, and
Urso the shaggy hunter, who never feared anything, man or beast, and
Muraena the metal-worker, a restless fellow who knew that he could get a
living wherever men used plows and weapons, all agreed that if Colonus
went they would go. If ten heads of households joined the party, it would
make a clan. But first the head of the village must be consulted.
Old Vitalos was the grandfather of Marcus Colonus and related in one way
or another to nearly every person in the village. When his grandson came
to him and told what he had in mind, the old chief stroked his long white
beard and did not answer at once. He seemed to be thinking, and he thought
for a long time.
Before written histories, or pictured records, or even songs telling the
history of a people, were in use, the memories of the old folk formed the
only source of information that there was. As old men will, they told what
they knew over and over again, and those who heard, even if they did not
know they were remembering it, often remembered a story and told it over
again, when their time came. The experiences and the wisdom that old
Vitalos had gathered in the eighty years of his useful life were stored in
his mind in layers, like silt in the bed of a river. Now he was digging
down into his memory for something that had happened a long time ago.
When he had done thinking, he spoke.
“My son,” he said, “you tell me that you desire to go forth and make your
home in another land.”
“I desire it not, my father,” said Colonus, “unless it is the will of the
gods. I have thought that it may be best.”
He did not know it, but while the old man’s mind was busy with the past,
his keen old eyes were busy with the strong, well-built figure, the
stubborn chin and the fearless eye of this man of his own blood. Colonus
walked with the long, sure step of the man who knows where he is going.
The fingers of his hand were square-tipped and rugged, the kind that can
work. He was Saturn’s own man, made to work the land and produce food for
his people. He would not give up easily, nor would he be dismayed by
difficulties.
“And where will you go?” was the chief’s next question.
“That I do not know,” said Colonus. “Yet something I do know. The mountain
folk are not friends to us, and we should have to fight them. Their land
is all one fortress, not easy to take. To the sea we will not go, for we
know nothing of the ways of the sea-tamers. Perhaps our gods would not
help us in those things, which are strange to our lives. There remains the
plain beyond the marsh, where the river runs out of the valley. I have
been there only once, but I remember it. Around it are mountains, and the
plain itself is broken by low hills, as we have seen from our heights. In
such a land we might live according to customs of our forefathers. The
little hills can be defended, and if enemies come we can see them from far
off. Is this a good plan that we make, my father?”
The patriarch looked at the fire on the altar, which burned in his house
as in every other house of the village; then he looked keenly at his
grandson.
[Illustration: The patriarch looked at the fire on the altar]
“There are two ways of living in a strange place, Marcus Colonus,” he
said. “One is, to live after the manner of those who are born there, obey
their gods, learn their law, eat their food, work as they do, join in
their feasts and their games. The other is to fight them, and drive them
away, or make them your servants. Which is your choice?”
Colonus hesitated. “My father,” he said, “to take the first path, I must
change my nature and become another man, which I would not do even if I
could. Here or in another country, or in the moon if men could go there, I
should be Colonus, the farmer,—not a sailor, or a trader, or any other
man. To take the second way I must be leader of many fighting men, and
this is not possible, since if we go we must take our wives and children.
It is in my mind, my father, that there may be a middle way. If we hold to
our own customs and are faithful to our own gods and to one another,
surely the gods should keep faith with us. If we hurt not the people of
the land where we go, but stand ready to defend ourselves against any who
try to attack us, they may allow us to live as we please. If not, then
must we fight for the right to live.”
The old chief smiled. “My son,” he said, “you are wise with the wisdom of
youth. Yet sometimes that is better than the unbelief of age. It is better
to die fighting strangers than to die by starvation, or to fall upon one
another, and I have had fear that one or the other might happen here, for
truly the land is changed. It may be that this plan of yours shall end in
new branching out of our people, the Ramnes, and in new power to our
gods,—and if so, surely the gods will lead you.
“Now I have a story to tell you, and you will give careful heed to it, and
not speak of it lightly, but store it away in the secret places of your
mind. Sit down here, close to me, for I do not wish to be heard by any
listener.
“Many years ago, before you were born, or ever the road was made over the
marsh or the bridge across the river, our people were at war with a
strange people from the north. My son, whom you resemble, went to fight
against them and did not come back. Whether he died in battle and was left
on some unknown field we did not know. We never knew, until in after
years, one who was taken prisoner with him came back, his hair white as
snow, and told what he had seen.
“In that country of which you have spoken, where a plain stretches away
toward the sea, and is guarded with mountains and divided by a yellow
river, there are people who speak a language like ours and are sons of
Mars, as we are. Some live in the hills and some in the plain, and some on
the Long White Mountain. Beyond the river the people are strange in every
way and their gods are also strange and terrible.
“Now among the people of the Long White Mountain was a chief with two
sons, and when he died the elder should have been ruler in his place. But
the younger one, an evil man, stole into his brother’s place and killed
his sons, and forbade his daughter to marry. Here my son was taken as a
captive, and he became a servant to that chief.
“The daughter of the elder brother was a fair woman, and my son was a
strong and comely man, and in secret they married. Then did my son escape,
thinking to come back with an army and bring away his wife with their twin
boys. But the wicked chief discovered what had been done, and killed the
mother and the children, and sent a war party after my son to kill him
also. He could have escaped even then, for he crossed a river in flood by
swimming. But when they called to him that his wife and her two sons were
dead, he returned across the river and fought his pursuers until they
killed him. Then he went to find his beloved in that unknown country which
is neither land nor water and is full of ghosts.
“Now it is in my mind that if that evil chief is dead, the people of his
country may welcome you among them. Or if he is not dead, and the elder
brother still lives, he may be your friend, since we are of one race and
speak one language. In any case it is well for you to know what has
happened there in other days, for before we plant a field we desire to
know whether wheat, or lentils, or thistles, or salt was last sown there.
I was told also that the evil man who killed the mother and the babes
declared that the father of the children was the god Mars himself, not
wishing that any kinswoman of his should be known to be a wife to a
captive and a stranger. Now, my son, go, and peace go with you.”
Colonus rose and bowed to the old man, and went home.
Now the way was clear to prepare for the emigration, and from time to time
others came to talk about it and join the company. Besides the four men
who had made the plan in the first place, there were finally seven
others,—Tullius, who knew all the ancient laws and customs well, Piscinus
the fisherman, Pollio the leather worker, Cossus, an old and wary fighter,
the two Nasos, quiet and able farmers (all of whose children had the big
nose that marked the family), and Calvo, whose great-grandfather had
bequeathed to his descendants a tendency to grow bald young. Calvo already
had a little thin spot on the crown of his head, though he was not much
over thirty. Among them they had all the most necessary trades and could
supply most things they needed. But every one of them was also a good
farmer; in fact, in such migrations the settlers were most generally known
as _coloni_ or farmers. They had to understand the care of the land in
order to get through the first years without starving to death, for there
were no cities where they went.
Muraena could make unusually fine weapons, and he took care that each of
the party should be provided with the best that he could make. The grain
was chosen with care, for when they found the place for their settlement
they would want it for seed. The finest animals were chosen to stock the
farms. The women who were not going made gifts of their best weaving to
the housewives who were. The lads who were old enough to fight gave
especial attention to their bows and their slings, and spent a good deal
of time practicing.
All the men who had agreed to go had sons and daughters except Sylvius,
and most of the children were old enough to do something to help. They
were very much excited, and secretly most of them were rather scared.
There was no priest in the company; that is to say, there was no man who
had nothing else to do, for that was not the custom among the Ramnes. They
chose a man they all trusted for this office. Tullius was chosen priest by
the _coloni_. It was due to his advice that the water jars and the leather
bottles for water-carrying were well selected, strong and numerous. It was
a hobby of his, the drinking of pure water, and he believed it had more to
do with health than any other one thing. He also believed that the gods do
not protect the careless and the lazy. For instance, if a man were to pray
to Mars to keep his house from being destroyed by fire, and then burn
brush on a windy day in summer, when the wind was blowing that way, and a
spark happened to light on the thatch, Mars would not be likely to put it
out. He would let it burn. If the gods went to the trouble of saving
people from the consequences of not using common sense, they would show
themselves to be fools, and not in the least god-like. Tullius prayed at
all proper times, but when he was working he worked with his head as well
as with his hands. He said that that was what heads were for.