When Nuflo at length opened his eyes he found me sitting alone and
despondent by the fire, just returned from my vain chase. I had been
caught in a heavy mist on the mountain-side, and was wet through as well
as weighed down by fatigue and drowsiness, consequent upon the previous
day’s laborious march and my night-long vigil; yet I dared not think of
rest. She had gone from me, and I could not have prevented it; yet the
thought that I had allowed her to slip out of my arms, to go away alone
on that long, perilous journey, was as intolerable as if I had consented
to it.
Nuflo was at first startled to hear of her sudden departure; but he
laughed at my fears, affirming that after having once been over the
ground she could not lose herself; that she would be in no danger from
the Indians, as she would invariably see them at a distance and avoid
them, and that wild beasts, serpents, and other evil creatures would do
her no harm. The small amount of food she required to sustain life could
be found anywhere; furthermore, her journey would not be interrupted
by bad weather, since rain and heat had no effect on her. In the end he
seemed pleased that she had left us, saying that with Rima in the wood
the house and cultivated patch and hidden provisions and implements
would be safe, for no Indian would venture to come where she was. His
confidence reassured me, and casting myself down on the sandy floor of
the cave, I fell into a deep slumber, which lasted until evening; then
I only woke to share a meal with the old man, and sleep again until the
following day.
Nuflo was not ready to start yet; he was enamoured of the unaccustomed
comforts of a dry sleeping-place and a fire blown about by no wind and
into which fell no hissing raindrops. Not for two days more would he
consent to set out on the return journey, and if he could have persuaded
me our stay at Riolama would have lasted a week.
We had fine weather at starting; but before long it clouded, and then
for upwards of a fortnight we had it wet and stormy, which so hindered
us that it took us twenty-three days to accomplish the return journey,
whereas the journey out had only taken eighteen. The adventures we
met with and the pains we suffered during this long march need not be
related. The rain made us miserable, but we suffered more from hunger
than from any other cause, and on more than one occasion were reduced to
the verge of starvation. Twice we were driven to beg for food at Indian
villages, and as we had nothing to give in exchange for it, we got
very little. It is possible to buy hospitality from the savage without
fish-hooks, nails, and calico; but on this occasion I found myself
without that impalpable medium of exchange which had been so great
a help to me on my first journey to Parahuari. Now I was weak and
miserable and without cunning. It is true that we could have exchanged
the two dogs for cassava bread and corn, but we should then have been
worse off than ever. And in the end the dogs saved us by an occasional
capture--an armadillo surprised in the open and seized before it could
bury itself in the soil, or an iguana, opossum, or labba, traced by
means of their keen sense of smell to its hiding-place. Then Nuflo would
rejoice and feast, rewarding them with the skin, bones, and entrails.
But at length one of the dogs fell lame, and Nuflo, who was very hungry,
made its lameness an excuse for dispatching it, which he did apparently
without compunction, notwithstanding that the poor brute had served
him well in its way. He cut up and smoke-dried the flesh, and the
intolerable pangs of hunger compelled me to share the loathsome food
with him. We were not only indecent, it seemed to me, but cannibals to
feed on the faithful servant that had been our butcher. “But what does
it matter?” I argued with myself. “All flesh, clean and unclean, should
be, and is, equally abhorrent to me, and killing animals a kind of
murder. But now I find myself constrained to do this evil thing that
good may come. Only to live I take it now--this hateful strength-giver
that will enable me to reach Rima, and the purer, better life that is to
be.”
During all that time, when we toiled onwards league after league in
silence, or sat silent by the nightly fire, I thought of many things;
but the past, with which I had definitely broken, was little in my mind.
Rima was still the source and centre of all my thoughts; from her they
rose, and to her returned. Thinking, hoping, dreaming, sustained me in
those dark days and nights of pain and privation. Imagination was the
bread that gave me strength, the wine that exhilarated. What sustained
old Nuflo’s mind I know not. Probably it was like a chrysalis, dormant,
independent of sustenance; the bright-winged image to be called at some
future time to life by a great shouting of angelic hosts and noises of
musical instruments slept secure, coffined in that dull, gross nature.
The old beloved wood once more! Never did his native village in some
mountain valley seem more beautiful to the Switzer, returning, war-worn,
from long voluntary exile, than did that blue cloud on the horizon--the
forest where Rima dwelt, my bride, my beautiful--and towering over
it the dark cone of Ytaioa, now seem to my hungry eyes! How near at
last--how near! And yet the two or three intervening leagues to be
traversed so slowly, step by step--how vast the distance seemed! Even at
far Riolama, when I set out on my return, I scarcely seemed so far from
my love. This maddening impatience told on my strength, which was small,
and hindered me. I could not run nor even walk fast; old Nuflo, slow,
and sober, with no flame consuming his heart, was more than my equal in
the end, and to keep up with him was all I could do. At the finish he
became silent and cautious, first entering the belt of trees leading
away through the low range of hills at the southern extremity of the
wood. For a mile or upwards we trudged on in the shade; then I began
to recognize familiar ground, the old trees under which I had walked
or sat, and knew that a hundred yards further on there would be a first
glimpse of the palm-leaf thatch. Then all weakness forsook me; with a
low cry of passionate longing and joy I rushed on ahead; but I strained
my eyes in vain for a sight of that sweet shelter; no patch of pale
yellow colour appeared amidst the universal verdure of bushes, creepers,
and trees--trees beyond trees, trees towering above trees.
For some moments I could not realize it. No, I had surely made a
mistake, the house had not stood on that spot; it would appear in sight
a little further on. I took a few uncertain steps onwards, and then
again stood still, my brain reeling, my heart swelling nigh to bursting
with anguish. I was still standing motionless, with hand pressed to my
breast, when Nuflo overtook me. “Where is it--the house?” I stammered,
pointing with my hand. All his stolidity seemed gone now; he was
trembling too, his lips silently moving. At length he spoke: “They
have come--the children of hell have been here, and have destroyed
everything!”
“Rima! What has become of Rima?” I cried; but without replying he walked
on, and I followed.
The house, we soon found, had been burnt down. Not a stick remained.
Where it had stood a heap of black ashes covered the ground--nothing
more. But on looking round we could discover no sign of human beings
having recently visited the spot. A rank growth of grass and herbage now
covered the once clear space surrounding the site of the dwelling, and
the ash-heap looked as if it had been lying there for a month at least.
As to what had become of Rima the old man could say no word. He sat down
on the ground overwhelmed at the calamity: Runi’s people had been there,
he could not doubt it, and they would come again, and he could only look
for death at their hands. The thought that Rima had perished, that she
was lost, was unendurable. It could not be! No doubt the Indians tract
come and destroyed the house during our absence; but she had returned,
and they had gone away again to come no more. She would be somewhere in
the forest, perhaps not far off, impatiently waiting our return. The old
man stared at me while I spoke; he appeared to be in a kind of stupor,
and made no reply: and at last, leaving him still sitting on the ground,
I went into the wood to look for Rima.
As I walked there, occasionally stopping to peer into some shadowy glade
or opening, and to listen, I was tempted again and again to call the
name of her I sought aloud; and still the fear that by so doing I might
bring some hidden danger on myself, perhaps on her, made me silent. A
strange melancholy rested on the forest, a quietude seldom broken by a
distant bird’s cry. How, I asked myself, should I ever find her in that
wide forest while I moved about in that silent, cautious way? My only
hope was that she would find me. It occurred to me that the most likely
place to seek her would be some of the old haunts known to us both,
where we had talked together. I thought first of the mora tree, where
she had hidden herself from me, and thither I directed my steps. About
this tree, and within its shade, I lingered for upwards of an hour; and,
finally, casting my eyes up into the great dim cloud of green and purple
leaves, I softly called: “Rima, Rima, if you have seen me, and have
concealed yourself from me in your hiding-place, in mercy answer me--in
mercy come down to me now!” But Rima answered not, nor threw down
any red glowing leaves to mock me: only the wind, high up, whispered
something low and sorrowful in the foliage; and turning, I wandered away
at random into the deeper shadows.
By and by I was startled by the long, piercing cry of a wildfowl,
sounding strangely loud in the silence; and no sooner was the air still
again than it struck me that no bird had uttered that cry. The Indian
is a good mimic of animal voices, but practice had made me able to
distinguish the true from the false bird-note. For a minute or so I
stood still, at a loss what to do, then moved on again with greater
caution, scarcely breathing, straining my sight to pierce the shadowy
depths. All at once I gave a great start, for directly before me, on the
projecting root in the deeper shade of a tree, sat a dark, motionless
human form. I stood still, watching it for some time, not yet knowing
that it had seen me, when all doubts were put to flight by the form
rising and deliberately advancing--a naked Indian with a zabatana in
his hand. As he came up out of the deeper shade I recognized Piake, the
surly elder brother of my friend Kua-ko.
It was a great shock to meet him in the wood, but I had no time to
reflect just then. I only remembered that I had deeply offended him and
his people, that they probably looked on me as an enemy, and would
think little of taking my life. It was too late to attempt to escape by
flight; I was spent with my long journey and the many privations I had
suffered, while he stood there in his full strength with a deadly weapon
in his hand.
Nothing was left but to put a bold face on, greet him in a friendly way,
and invent some plausible story to account for my action in secretly
leaving the village.
He was now standing still, silently regarding me, and glancing round
I saw that he was not alone: at a distance of about forty yards on my
right hand two other dusky forms appeared watching me from the deep
shade.
“Piake!” I cried, advancing three or four steps.
“You have returned,” he answered, but without moving. “Where from?”
“Riolama.”
He shook his head, then asked where it was.
“Twenty days towards the setting sun,” I said. As he remained silent I
added: “I heard that I could find gold in the mountains there. An old
man told me, and we went to look for gold.”
“What did you find?”
“Nothing.”
“Ah!”
And so our conversation appeared to be at an end. But after a few
moments my intense desire to discover whether the savages knew aught of
Rima or not made me hazard a question.
“Do you live here in the forest now?” I asked.
He shook his head, and after a while said: “We come to kill animals.”
“You are like me now,” I returned quickly; “you fear nothing.”
He looked distrustfully at me, then came a little nearer and said: “You
are very brave. I should not have gone twenty days’ journey with no
weapons and only an old man for companion. What weapons did you have?”
I saw that he feared me and wished to make sure that I had it not in
my power to do him some injury. “No weapon except my knife,” I replied,
with assumed carelessness. With that I raised my cloak so as to let him
see for himself, turning my body round before him. “Have you found my
pistol?” I added.
He shook his head; but he appeared less suspicious now and came close up
to me. “How do you get food? Where are you going?” he asked.
I answered boldly: “Food! I am nearly starving. I am going to the
village to see if the women have got any meat in the pot, and to tell
Runi all I have done since I left him.”
He looked at me keenly, a little surprised at my confidence perhaps,
then said that he was also going back and would accompany me One of the
other men now advanced, blow-pipe in hand, to join us, and, leaving the
wood, we started to walk across the savannah.
It was hateful to have to recross that savannah again, to leave the
woodland shadows where I had hoped to find Rima; but I was powerless:
I was a prisoner once more, the lost captive recovered and not yet
pardoned, probably never to be pardoned. Only by means of my own cunning
could I be saved, and Nuflo, poor old man, must take his chance.
Again and again as we tramped over the barren ground, and when we
climbed the ridge, I was compelled to stand still to recover breath,
explaining to Piake that I had been travelling day and night, with no
meat during the last three days, so that I was exhausted. This was
an exaggeration, but it was necessary to account in some way for the
faintness I experienced during our walk, caused less by fatigue and want
of food than by anguish of mind.
At intervals I talked to him, asking after all the other members of the
community by name. At last, thinking only of Rima, I asked him if any
other person or persons besides his people came to the wood now or lived
there.
He said no. “Once,” I said, “there was a daughter of the Didi, a girl
you all feared: is she there now?”
He looked at me with suspicion and then shook his head. I dared not
press him with more questions; but after an interval he said plainly:
“She is not there now.”
And I was forced to believe him; for had Rima been in the wood
they would not have been there. She was not there, this much I had
discovered. Had she, then, lost her way, or perished on that long
journey from Riolama? Or had she returned only to fall into the hands
of her cruel enemies? My heart was heavy in me; but if these devils in
human shape knew more than they had told me, I must, I said, hide my
anxiety and wait patiently to find it out, should they spare my
life. And if they spared me and had not spared that other sacred life
interwoven with mine, the time would come when they would find, too
late, that they had taken to their bosom a worse devil than themselves.