There was a welcome change in the weather when I rose early next
morning; the sky was without cloud and had that purity in its colour
and look of infinite distance seen only when the atmosphere is free from
vapour. The sun had not yet risen, but old Nuflo was already among the
ashes, on his hands and knees, blowing the embers he had uncovered to a
flame. Then Rima appeared only to pass through the room with quick light
tread to go out of the door without a word or even a glance at my face.
The old man, after watching at the door for a few minutes, turned
and began eagerly questioning me about my adventures on the previous
evening. In reply I related to him how the girl had found me in the
forest lost and unable to extricate myself from the tangled undergrowth.
He rubbed his hands on his knees and chuckled. “Happy for you, senor,”
he said, “that my granddaughter regards you with such friendly eyes,
otherwise you might have perished before morning. Once she was at your
side, no light, whether of sun or moon or lantern, was needed, nor that
small instrument which is said to guide a man aright in the desert, even
in the darkest night--let him that can believe such a thing!”
“Yes, happy for me,” I returned. “I am filled with remorse that it was
all through my fault that the poor child was exposed to such weather.”
“O senor,” he cried airily, “let not that distress you! Rain and wind
and hot suns, from which we seek shelter, do not harm her. She takes no
cold, and no fever, with or without ague.”
After some further conversation I left him to steal away unobserved on
his own account, and set out for a ramble in the hope of encountering
Rima and winning her to talk to me.
My quest did not succeed: not a glimpse of her delicate shadowy form did
I catch among the trees; and not one note from her melodious lips came
to gladden me. At noon I returned to the house, where I found food
placed ready for me, and knew that she had come there during my absence
and had not been forgetful of my wants. “Shall I thank you for this?” I
said. “I ask you for heavenly nectar for the sustentation of the higher
winged nature in me, and you give me a boiled sweet potato, toasted
strips of sun-dried pumpkins, and a handful of parched maize! Rima!
Rima! my woodland fairy, my sweet saviour, why do you yet fear me? Is it
that love struggles in you with repugnance? Can you discern with clear
spiritual eyes the grosser elements in me, and hate them; or has some
false imagination made me appear all dark and evil, but too late for
your peace, after the sweet sickness of love has infected you?”
But she was not there to answer me, and so after a time I went forth
again and seated myself listlessly on the root of an old tree not
far from the house. I had sat there a full hour when all at once Rima
appeared at my side. Bending forward, she touched my hand, but without
glancing at my face; “Come with me,” she said, and turning, moved
swiftly towards the northern extremity of the forest. She seemed to
take it for granted that I would follow, never casting a look behind nor
pausing in her rapid walk; but I was only too glad to obey and, starting
up, was quickly after her. She led me by easy ways, familiar to her,
with many doublings to escape the undergrowth, never speaking or pausing
until we came out from the thick forest, and I found myself for the
first time at the foot of the great hill or mountain Ytaioa. Glancing
back for a few moments, she waved a hand towards the summit, and then
at once began the ascent. Here too it seemed all familiar ground to her.
From below, the sides had presented an exceedingly rugged appearance--a
wild confusion of huge jagged rocks, mixed with a tangled vegetation
of trees, bushes, and vines; but following her in all her doublings, it
became easy enough, although it fatigued me greatly owing to our rapid
pace. The hill was conical, but I found that it had a flat top--an
oblong or pear-shaped area, almost level, of a soft, crumbly sandstone,
with a few blocks and boulders of a harder stone scattered about--and no
vegetation, except the grey mountain lichen and a few sere-looking dwarf
shrubs.
Here Rima, at a distance of a few yards from me, remained standing still
for some minutes, as if to give me time to recover my breath; and I was
right glad to sit down on a stone to rest. Finally she walked slowly
to the centre of the level area, which was about two acres in extent;
rising, I followed her and, climbing on to a huge block of stone, began
gazing at the wide prospect spread out before me. The day was windless
and bright, with only a few white clouds floating at a great height
above and casting travelling shadows over that wild, broken country,
where forest, marsh, and savannah were only distinguishable by their
different colours, like the greys and greens and yellows on a map. At
a great distance the circle of the horizon was broken here and there by
mountains, but the hills in our neighbourhood were all beneath our feet.
After gazing all round for some minutes, I jumped down from my stand
and, leaning against the stone, stood watching the girl, waiting for her
to speak. I felt convinced that she had something of the very highest
importance (to herself) to communicate, and that only the pressing
need of a confidant, not Nuflo, had overcome her shyness of me; and I
determined to let her take her own time to say it in her own way. For a
while she continued silent, her face averted, but her little movements
and the way she clasped and unclasped her fingers showed that she was
anxious and her mind working. Suddenly, half turning to me, she began
speaking eagerly and rapidly.
“Do you see,” she said, waving her hand to indicate the whole circuit of
earth, “how large it is? Look!” pointing now to mountains in the west.
“Those are the Vahanas--one, two, three--the highest--I can tell you
their names--Vahana-Chara, Chumi, Aranoa. Do you see that water? It is
a river, called Guaypero. From the hills it comes down, Inaruna is their
name, and you can see them there in the south--far, far.” And in this
way she went on pointing out and naming all the mountains and rivers
within sight. Then she suddenly dropped her hands to her sides and
continued: “That is all. Because we can see no further. But the world is
larger than that! Other mountains, other rivers. Have I not told you of
Voa, on the River Voa, where I was born, where mother died, where the
priest taught me, years, years ago? All that you cannot see, it is so
far away--so far.”
I did not laugh at her simplicity, nor did I smile or feel any
inclination to smile. On the contrary, I only experienced a sympathy so
keen that it was like pain while watching her clouded face, so changeful
in its expression, yet in all changes so wistful. I could not yet form
any idea as to what she wished to communicate or to discover, but seeing
that she paused for a reply, I answered: “The world is so large, Rima,
that we can only see a very small portion of it from any one spot. Look
at this,” and with a stick I had used to aid me in my ascent I traced
a circle six or seven inches in circumference on the soft stone, and in
its centre placed a small pebble. “This represents the mountain we
are standing on,” I continued, touching the pebble; “and this
line encircling it encloses all of the earth we can see from the
mountain-top. Do you understand?--the line I have traced is the blue
line of the horizon beyond which we cannot see. And outside of this
little circle is all the flat top of Ytaioa representing the world.
Consider, then, how small a portion of the world we can see from this
spot!”
“And do you know it all?” she returned excitedly. “All the world?”
waving her hand to indicate the little stone plain. “All the mountains,
and rivers, and forests--all the people in the world?”
“That would be impossible, Rima; consider how large it is.”
“That does not matter. Come, let us go together--we two and
grandfather--and see all the world; all the mountains and forests, and
know all the people.”
“You do not know what you are saying, Rima. You might as well say:
‘Come, let us go to the sun and find out everything in it.’”
“It is you who do not know what you are saying,” she retorted, with
brightening eyes which for a moment glanced full into mine. “We have no
wings like birds to fly to the sun. Am I not able to walk on the earth,
and run? Can I not swim? Can I not climb every mountain?”
“No, you cannot. You imagine that all the earth is like this little
portion you see. But it is not all the same. There are great rivers
which you cannot cross by swimming; mountains you cannot climb; forests
you cannot penetrate--dark, and inhabited by dangerous beasts, and so
vast that all this space your eyes look on is a mere speck of earth in
comparison.”
She listened excitedly. “Oh, do you know all that?” she cried, with a
strangely brightening look; and then half turning from me, she added,
with sudden petulance: “Yet only a minute ago you knew nothing of the
world--because it is so large! Is anything to be gained by speaking to
one who says such contrary things?”
I explained that I had not contradicted myself, that she had not rightly
interpreted my words. I knew, I said, something about the principal
features of the different countries of the world, as, for instance, the
largest mountain ranges, and rivers, and the cities. Also something,
but very little, about the tribes of savage men. She heard me with
impatience, which made me speak rapidly, in very general terms; and to
simplify the matter I made the world stand for the continent we were
in. It seemed idle to go beyond that, and her eagerness would not have
allowed it.
“Tell me all you know,” she said the moment I ceased speaking. “What is
there--and there--and there?” pointing in various directions. “Rivers
and forests--they are nothing to me. The villages, the tribes, the
people everywhere; tell me, for I must know it all.”
“It would take long to tell, Rima.”
“Because you are so slow. Look how high the sun is! Speak, speak! What
is there?” pointing to the north.
“All that country,” I said, waving my hands from east to west, “is
Guayana; and so large is it that you could go in this direction, or in
this, travelling for months, without seeing the end of Guayana. Still
it would be Guayana; rivers, rivers, rivers, with forests between,
and other forests and rivers beyond. And savage people, nations
and tribes--Guahibo, Aguaricoto, Ayano, Maco, Piaroa, Quiriquiripo,
Tuparito--shall I name a hundred more? It would be useless, Rima; they
are all savages, and live widely scattered in the forests, hunting with
bow and arrow and the zabatana. Consider, then, how large Guayana is!”
“Guayana--Guayana! Do I not know all this is Guayana? But beyond, and
beyond, and beyond? Is there no end to Guayana?”
“Yes; there northwards it ends at the Orinoco, a mighty river, coming
from mighty mountains, compared with which Ytaioa is like a stone on the
ground on which we have sat down to rest. You must know that guayana is
only a portion, a half, of our country, Venezuela. Look,” I continued,
putting my hand round my shoulder to touch the middle of my back, “there
is a groove running down my spine dividing my body into equal parts.
Thus does the great Orinoco divide Venezuela, and on one side of it is
all Guayana; and on the other side the countries or provinces of Cumana,
Maturm, Barcelona, Bolivar, Guarico, Apure, and many others.” I then
gave a rapid description of the northern half of the country, with its
vast llanos covered with herds in one part, its plantations of coffee,
rice, and sugar-cane in another, and its chief towns; last of all
Caracas, the gay and opulent little Paris in America.
This seemed to weary her; but the moment I ceased speaking, and before
I could well moisten my dry lips, she demanded to know what came after
Caracas--after all Venezuela.
“The ocean--water, water, water,” I replied.
“There are no people there--in the water; only fishes,” she remarked;
then suddenly continued: “Why are you silent--is Venezuela, then, all
the world?”
The task I had set myself to perform seemed only at its commencement
yet. Thinking how to proceed with it, my eyes roved over the level area
we were standing on, and it struck me that this little irregular plain,
broad at one end and almost pointed at the other, roughly resembled the
South American continent in its form.
“Look, Rima,” I began, “here we are on this small pebble--Ytaioa; and
this line round it shuts us in--we cannot see beyond. Now let us imagine
that we can see beyond--that we can see the whole flat mountaintop; and
that, you know, is the whole world. Now listen while I tell you of all
the countries, and principal mountains, and rivers, and cities of the
world.”
The plan I had now fixed on involved a great deal of walking about and
some hard work in moving and setting up stones and tracing boundary
and other lines; but it gave me pleasure, for Rima was close by all
the time, following me from place to place, listening to all I said in
silence but with keen interest. At the broad end of the level summit I
marked out Venezuela, showing by means of a long line how the Orinoco
divided it, and also marking several of the greater streams flowing
into it. I also marked the sites of Caracas and other large towns
with stones; and rejoiced that we are not like the Europeans, great
city-builders, for the stones proved heavy to lift. Then followed
Colombia and Ecuador on the west; and, successively, Bolivia, Peru,
Chile, ending at last in the south with Patagonia, a cold arid land,
bleak and desolate. I marked the littoral cities as we progressed
on that side, where earth ends and the Pacific Ocean begins, and
infinitude.
Then, in a sudden burst of inspiration, I described the Cordilleras to
her--that world-long, stupendous chain; its sea of Titicaca, and wintry,
desolate Paramo, where lie the ruins of Tiahuanaco, older than Thebes.
I mentioned its principal cities--those small inflamed or festering
pimples that attract much attention from appearing on such a body.
Quito, called--not in irony, but by its own people--the Splendid and
the Magnificent; so high above the earth as to appear but a little way
removed from heaven--“de Quito al cielo,” as the saying is. But of its
sublime history, its kings and conquerors, Haymar Capac the Mighty,
and Huascar, and Atahualpa the Unhappy, not one word. Many words--how
inadequate!--of the summits, white with everlasting snows, above
it--above this navel of the world, above the earth, the ocean, the
darkening tempest, the condor’s flight. Flame-breathing Cotopaxi,
whose wrathful mutterings are audible two hundred leagues away, and
Chimborazo, Antisana, Sarata, Illimani, Aconcagua--names of mountains
that affect us like the names of gods, implacable Pachacamac and
Viracocha, whose everlasting granite thrones they are. At the last I
showed her Cuzco, the city of the sun, and the highest dwelling-place of
men on earth.
I was carried away by so sublime a theme; and remembering that I had no
critical hearer, I gave free reins to fancy, forgetting for the moment
that some undiscovered thought or feeling had prompted her questions.
And while I spoke of the mountains, she hung on my words, following me
closely in my walk, her countenance brilliant, her frame quivering with
excitement.
There yet remained to be described all that unimaginable space east of
the Andes; the rivers--what rivers!--the green plains that are like
the sea--the illimitable waste of water where there is no land--and the
forest region. The very thought of the Amazonian forest made my spirit
droop. If I could have snatched her up and placed her on the dome of
Chimborazo she would have looked on an area of ten thousand square miles
of earth, so vast is the horizon at that elevation. And possibly her
imagination would have been able to clothe it all with an unbroken
forest. Yet how small a portion this would be of the stupendous
whole--of a forest region equal in extent to the whole of Europe! All
loveliness, all grace, all majesty are there; but we cannot see, cannot
conceive--come away! From this vast stage, to be occupied in the distant
future by millions and myriads of beings, like us of upright form, the
nations that will be born when all the existing dominant races on the
globe and the civilizations they represent have perished as utterly as
those who sculptured the stones of old Tiahuanaco--from this theatre
of palms prepared for a drama unlike any which the Immortals have yet
witnessed--I hurried away; and then slowly conducted her along the
Atlantic coast, listening to the thunder of its great waves, and pausing
at intervals to survey some maritime city.
Never probably since old Father Noah divided the earth among his
sons had so grand a geographical discourse been delivered; and having
finished, I sat down, exhausted with my efforts, and mopped my brow, but
glad that my huge task was over, and satisfied that I had convinced her
of the futility of her wish to see the world for herself.
Her excitement had passed away by now. She was standing a little apart
from me, her eyes cast down and thoughtful. At length she approached me
and said, waving her hand all round: “What is beyond the mountains over
there, beyond the cities on that side--beyond the world?”
“Water, only water. Did I not tell you?” I returned stoutly; for I had,
of course, sunk the Isthmus of Panama beneath the sea.
“Water! All round?” she persisted.
“Yes.”
“Water, and no beyond? Only water--always water?”
I could no longer adhere to so gross a lie. She was too intelligent, and
I loved her too much. Standing up, I pointed to distant mountains and
isolated peaks.
“Look at those peaks,” I said. “It is like that with the world--this
world we are standing on. Beyond that great water that flows all round
the world, but far away, so far that it would take months in a big boat
to reach them, there are islands, some small, others as large as this
world. But, Rima, they are so far away, so impossible to reach, that it
is useless to speak or to think of them. They are to us like the sun and
moon and stars, to which we cannot fly. And now sit down and rest by my
side, for you know everything.”
She glanced at me with troubled eyes.
“Nothing do I know--nothing have you told me. Did I not say that
mountains and rivers and forests are nothing? Tell me about all the
people in the world. Look! there is Cuzco over there, a city like no
other in the world--did you not tell me so? Of the people nothing. Are
they also different from all others in the world?”
“I will tell you that if you will first answer me one question, Rima.”
She drew a little nearer, curious to hear, but was silent.
“Promise that you will answer me,” I persisted, and as she continued
silent, I added: “Shall I not ask you, then?”
“Say,” she murmured.
“Why do you wish to know about the people of Cuzco?”
She flashed a look at me, then averted her face. For some moments she
stood hesitating; then, coming closer, touched me on the shoulder and
said softly: “Turn away, do not look at me.”
I obeyed, and bending so close that I felt her warm breath on my neck,
she whispered: “Are the people in Cuzco like me? Would they understand
me--the things you cannot understand? Do you know?”
Her tremulous voice betrayed her agitation, and her words, I imagined,
revealed the motive of her action in bringing me to the summit of
Ytaioa, and of her desire to visit and know all the various peoples
inhabiting the world. She had begun to realize, after knowing me, her
isolation and unlikeness to others, and at the same time to dream that
all human beings might not be unlike her and unable to understand her
mysterious speech and to enter into her thoughts and feelings.
“I can answer that question, Rima,” I said. “Ah, no, poor child, there
are none there like you--not one, not one. Of all there--priests,
soldiers, merchants, workmen, white, black, red, and mixed; men and
women, old and young, rich and poor, ugly and beautiful--not one would
understand the sweet language you speak.”
She said nothing, and glancing round, I discovered that she was walking
away, her fingers clasped before her, her eyes cast down, and looking
profoundly dejected. Jumping up, I hurried after her. “Listen!” I said,
coming to her side. “Do you know that there are others in the world like
you who would understand your speech?”
“Oh, do I not! Yes--mother told me. I was young when you died, but, O
mother, why did you not tell me more?”
“But where?”
“Oh, do you not think that I would go to them if I knew--that I would
ask?”
“Does Nuflo know?”
She shook her head, walking dejectedly along.
“But have you asked him?” I persisted.
“Have I not! Not once--not a hundred times.”
Suddenly she paused. “Look,” she said, “now we are standing in Guayana
again. And over there in Brazil, and up there towards the Cordilleras,
it is unknown. And there are people there. Come, let us go and seek for
my mother’s people in that place. With grandfather, but not the dogs;
they would frighten the animals and betray us by barking to cruel men
who would slay us with poisoned arrows.”
“O Rima, can you not understand? It is too far. And your grandfather,
poor old man, would die of weariness and hunger and old age in some
strange forest.”
“Would he die--old grandfather? Then we could cover him up with palm
leaves in the forest and leave him. It would not be grandfather; only
his body that must turn to dust. He would be away--away where the stars
are. We should not die, but go on, and on, and on.”
To continue the discussion seemed hopeless. I was silent, thinking of
what I had heard--that there were others like her somewhere in that vast
green world, so much of it imperfectly known, so many districts never
yet explored by white men. True, it was strange that no report of such a
race had reached the ears of any traveller; yet here was Rima herself at
my side, a living proof that such a race did exist. Nuflo probably knew
more than he would say; I had failed, as we have seen, to win the secret
from him by fair means, and could not have recourse to foul--the rack
and thumbscrew--to wring it from him. To the Indians she was only
an object of superstitious fear--a daughter of the Didi--and to them
nothing of her origin was known. And she, poor girl, had only a vague
remembrance of a few words heard in childhood from her mother, and
probably not rightly understood.
While these thoughts had been passing through my mind, Rima had been
standing silent by, waiting, perhaps, for an answer to her last words.
Then stooping, she picked up a small pebble and tossed it three or four
yards away.
“Do you see where it fell?” she cried, turning towards me. “That is on
the border of Guayana--is it not? Let us go there first.”
“Rima, how you distress me! We cannot go there. It is all a savage
wilderness, almost unknown to men--a blank on the map--”
“The map?--speak no word that I do not understand.”
In a very few words I explained my meaning; even fewer would have
sufficed, so quick was her apprehension.
“If it is a blank,” she returned quickly, “then you know of nothing
to stop us--no river we cannot swim, and no great mountains like those
where Quito is.”
“But I happen to know, Rima, for it has been related to me by old
Indians, that of all places that is the most difficult of access. There
is a river there, and although it is not on the map, it would prove
more impassable to us than the mighty Orinoco and Amazon. It has vast
malarious swamps on its borders, overgrown with dense forest, teeming
with savage and venomous animals, so that even the Indians dare not
venture near it. And even before the river is reached, there is a range
of precipitous mountains called by the same name--just there where your
pebble fell--the mountains of Riolama--”
Hardly had the name fallen from my lips before a change swift as
lightning came over her countenance; all doubt, anxiety, petulance,
hope, and despondence, and these in ever-varying degrees, chasing each
other like shadows, had vanished, and she was instinct and burning with
some new powerful emotion which had flashed into her soul.
“Riolama! Riolama!” she repeated so rapidly and in a tone so sharp that
it tingled in the brain. “That is the place I am seeking! There was
my mother found--there are her people and mine! Therefore was I called
Riolama--that is my name!”
“Rima!” I returned, astonished at her words.
“No, no, no--Riolama. When I was a child, and the priest baptized me, he
named me Riolama--the place where my mother was found. But it was long
to say, and they called me Rima.”
Suddenly she became still and then cried in a ringing voice:
“And he knew it all along--that old man--he knew that Riolama was
near--only there where the pebble fell--that we could go there!”
While speaking she turned towards her home, pointing with raised hand.
Her whole appearance now reminded me of that first meeting with her
when the serpent bit me; the soft red of her irides shone like fire, her
delicate skin seemed to glow with an intense rose colour, and her frame
trembled with her agitation, so that her loose cloud of hair was in
motion as if blown through by the wind.
“Traitor! Traitor!” she cried, still looking homewards and using quick,
passionate gestures. “It was all known to you, and you deceived me all
these years; even to me, Rima, you lied with your lips! Oh, horrible!
Was there ever such a scandal known in Guayana? Come, follow me, let us
go at once to Riolama.” And without so much as casting a glance behind
to see whether I followed or no, she hurried away, and in a couple of
minutes disappeared from sight over the edge of the flat summit. “Rima!
Rima! Come back and listen to me! Oh, you are mad! Come back! Come
back!”
But she would not return or pause and listen; and looking after her,
I saw her bounding down the rocky slope like some wild, agile creature
possessed of padded hoofs and an infallible instinct; and before many
minutes she vanished from sight among crabs and trees lower down.
“Nuflo, old man,” said I, looking out towards his lodge, “are there no
shooting pains in those old bones of yours to warn you in time of the
tempest about to burst on your head?”
Then I sat down to think.