SECRET DEPTHS
Natsatt opened his eyes and looked around the lodge. Yes, he had been
asleep, and it was only a dream after all. But the singing continued.
Was it the echo of that strange invisible world following him still into
the world of reality? The refrain was familiar, an old tune he had heard
years before. He glanced toward Owindia, and then all became clear.
Her head was bent, her cheeks were flushed, and she was singing as she
worked. For a time Natsatt made no movement. He was content to watch and
listen. That was happiness enough.
Klitonda sat in his former position, with his knees drawn up close to
his chin, gazing thoughtfully into the fire. He seemed to be paying
no heed to what was taking place around him. Ere long Natsatt ran his
hand beneath his own buck-skin jacket, and drew forth a small shining
mouth-organ. Placing this to his lips he began to play softly the tune
he had just heard. The effect was magical. Owindia started, dropped
her work, and let her hands fall into her lap. Her eyes, filled with
wonder, turned upon the player. The only musical instrument she knew
was the doleful Indian drum. But this! Her heart beat wildly, and a
new sensation thrilled her entire being. When the music ceased Natsatt
smiled as he noted the expression upon the maiden's face.
"You like it?" he asked.
"Ah, ah. Wonderful! Wonderful!" she sighed. "I didn't know there was
anything like it in the whole world. My mother often tried to tell me
about such things, but she said I would have to hear for myself before I
could really know."
"But where did you learn that song?" Natsatt questioned, speaking for
the first time in English. "I didn't know you understood the white man's
language."
"My mother taught it to me. She often sang it. She had such a nice
voice."
"And did your mother speak English?"
"Ah, ah. There was white blood in her veins."
"And she taught you the white man's tongue?"
"Ah, ah. Even when I was a baby she would talk to me in English, but
since she died I have not heard anyone speak it until you came."
"Do you know any other song?" Natsatt asked. "Did your mother teach you
anything else?"
"Ah, ah. But I have forgotten most of them. There is one I remember
quite well; it is so pretty."
"Will you sing it for me, please?"
Natsatt wished to hear her voice again, it was so perfectly natural.
His soul had always been stirred by the sighing of the wind, the ripple
of the brooks, or the spontaneous outpourings of the little feathered
songsters. And now this sweet, clear voice was thrilling him in a
similar manner.
"Our Northern skies are fresh and fair,
Our woodland trails are green;
I love the rock-ribbed mountains hoar,
And streams that race between.
For there upon a happy day,
When shadows danced and played,
There came a lover true and bold,
And found a dusky maid."
Placing the mouth-organ to his lips Natsatt accompanied her as she sang.
Never before had the little companion of his wandering life sounded so
sweet. How often had that frail instrument cheered his loneliness; what
solitudes had reverberated its voice down long sombre arches; and how
many trail-worn men, sitting around their camp fires at night had been
stirred by thoughts of other and happier days. It had done wonderful
things, that little mouth-organ, not because of any intrinsic value,
but by reason of the soul which poured forth its deep longings through
the simple mechanism. And Natsatt always played with much expression.
But now his instrument seemed to be a living thing, and when Owindia
had ceased singing the player drifted off upon various airs one after
another in rapid succession. It was the one way in which he could give
vent to his feelings. He could tell it exactly what was in his heart,
whether of joy or sorrow. It was all the outpouring of joy now, the
ecstasy of discovery, the feeling that another life of love had blended
with his.
"Do all of the white race play like that?" asked Klitonda when Natsatt
had ceased. "Can all make such wonderful sounds?"
"Not all," was the reply. "But you should hear some of them. They would
laugh at this," and Natsatt pointed to the mouth-organ. "There are as
many kinds of things upon which they make music as there are different
animals in the woods. There is one bigger than this lodge, which can
growl like a bear, roar like thunder, and warble like all the birds.
There is hardly any sound it cannot make."
"It must be wonderful," Klitonda sighed. "The white man can do so many
things, and you have seen them all. Klota used to tell me about them,
but somehow I did not believe her. I thought she must have dreamed them."
"I have not seen all the strange things myself," Natsatt responded, "but
I have listened to men who have. At first I did not believe all they
said, but now I know that they spoke true."
So sitting there in that quiet lodge he poured into the ears of his
eager listeners some of the marvels of the strange world beyond the
eastern mountains. He told them of cities, where houses stood closer
together than the trees of the thickest forest; of canoes as big as
hills; of railroads, horses, carriages; of other lands beyond the great
water, where people were as many as the snow flakes falling outside. He
told about the Queen mother, of her battle ships, her soldiers, how she
ruled such a large part of the world, and no one could conquer her.
To all this Klitonda listened with marked interest. But when Natsatt
spoke about the Queen's navy and army his eyes glowed with an intense
light.
"And is the Queen mother stronger than the Chilcats?" he asked. "Could
she conquer them?"
"Bah! The Chilcats are only rabbits to her," was the contemptuous reply.
"And will her warriors come to help the Ayana drive back the Chilcats,
and keep them beyond the Coast Range?" Klitonda eagerly questioned.
Natsatt looked thoughtfully at this worried chief for a while ere
replying. He knew what changes would take place in this northern region
if the white men came pouring in. Did he not know something of the
history of the Indians in other parts of Canada; how step by step they
were being forced from their ancestral hunting grounds, to find their
game slaughtered by white men, and they themselves treated as babies,
cooped up on reserves or falling a prey to the deadly fire-water. Should
he tell Klitonda how the Indians in Eastern Canada, and in the United
States had been treated by the white men until they had risen in their
fury in a vain attempt to drive the invaders back, and of the fearful
horrors which followed the bloody battles which had been fought? How
could he relate such things to this confiding chief? What would be the
use?
"Do you wish the white men to help you against the Chilcats?" he asked.
"Ah, ah. See," and Klitonda stretched out his arm to the left as he
spoke, "all this land belonged to the Ayana people. They hunted and
trapped in the forest, and fished in the streams as did their fathers
before them. They were strong, and their warriors feared no foe. But the
Chilcats beat them in a great battle, and the hearts of the Ayana became
weak. They run away; they hide in the woods, and mountains. They hear
the wolves of the coast coming, and they tremble. They trade their furs
and get little or nothing for them. The Chilcats steal the wives and
daughters of the Ayana. They tried to steal Owindia. Klota fought them,
and she died. Klitonda came suddenly from the forest. He killed one
Chilcat, and the other escaped."
The chief had risen to his feet, and was standing erect as he uttered
these words. The memory of that outrage was stirring his soul. His eyes
glowed, and his hands were hard-clenched by his side. Natsatt had caught
Klitonda's spirit. His heart beat in sympathy with the Indian's.
"And are the Chilcats such wolves?" he demanded.
"Ah, ah, much worse," the chief replied. "Wolves are sometimes
satisfied, but the Chilcats never. They are always hunting Klitonda.
They never stop. They would kill him, and steal Owindia. The son of the
Chilcat chief wants her. She is never safe."
Natsatt's heart now beat faster than ever, and he glanced toward Owindia
sitting quietly before him. She had been looking full into his face as
he talked with her father. She was leaning somewhat forward, her eyes
sparkling with animation, with her lips slightly parted. She had been
drinking in every word that had been said about the great world of the
white race. Her eyes dropped as they encountered those of the young
man, and a flush mantled her cheeks. Into Natsatt's heart shot a sudden
feeling of dread. He understood why the son of the Chilcat chief should
seek to obtain this maiden. Such beauty of features, and perfection of
form would be fatal gifts even in the world of civilisation. But here
in the wilderness where might was right, how hardly could she escape.
The thought of her danger grew stronger upon him. But what could he
do to save her? He must make an effort at any rate. He must not lose
her now. And yet his own position was as precarious as hers. If the
Chilcats were as ferocious as Klitonda had described they would not
long endure the presence of the white traders in the country. Even now,
no doubt, they knew about the Post, and were planning for its speedy
destruction. It would therefore be necessary for him to leave Owindia,
hurry down the river, and warn his companions of the danger to which
they were exposed. But how could he go away from this maiden, who all
unconsciously was exerting such a strong influence upon his restless
spirit? So impetuous was his nature that he did not stop to consider
what Owindia's feelings might be toward him. He thought merely of his
own happiness and what it meant to be near her, and to look upon her
face. In her presence there was fulness of life, such as he had never
known before. And to think that she was in danger from the Chilcats!
A flood of anger suddenly rushed upon him. Why did the Ayana allow
such tyrants to oppress them? They were strong enough to hurl back the
invaders, and why did they not do it?
"Have the Ayana no hearts?" he asked, turning toward Klitonda. "Can
nothing be done to arouse them to fight the Chilcats, and to drive them
back?"
"Nothing," was the sad reply. "Klitonda has gone from camp to camp, and
has said much. The Ayana talk, but do nothing."
"Are they all weak-hearted?" Natsatt demanded. "Are there none who will
stand by their chief?"
"There are some who are not cowards, but they are only a few. They would
follow Klitonda to the death if he called them."
Thus Natsatt learned that little help could be expected from the Ayana
Indians. The white traders had come into the country, and were they to
be driven back, probably killed, when spring came? No, such a thing must
not happen. As soon as the storm abated he would hurry back to the
Post. It would be necessary for him to leave Owindia for a while. To
remain would be worse than useless.
And thus throughout the short winter day the three sat quietly in the
lodge and talked of many things. The conversation was mostly between
Klitonda and Natsatt, but occasionally Owindia spoke, and her words were
always like the sweetest of music to the ardent young lover.