THE OLD CRAFTSMAN BY THE SALT WATER
Montaw, the arrow-maker, dwelt alone at the head of a small bay. His
home was half-wigwam, half-hut. The roof was of poles, partly covered
with the hides of caribou and partly with a square of sail-cloth, which
had been given him by a Basque fisherman in exchange for six beaver
skins. The walls of the unusual lodge were of turf and stone. Here and
there were signs of intercourse with the strangers out of the Eastern
sea,--an iron fishhook, a scrap of gold lace, and a highly polished
copper pot. Of these treasures the recluse was justly proud, for had he
not acquired them at risk of sudden extinction by the breath of the
clapping fire-stick?
The arrow-maker was an old man. In his youth he had been a hunter of
renown and a great traveller, and had sojourned long in the lodges of
the Southern nation. He had loved a woman of that people,--and she had
given him laughter in return for his devotion. Journeying back to his
own hunting-grounds, he had planned a huge revenge. At once all his
skill and bravery had been turned to less open ways than those of the
lover and warrior. In little more than a year's time he had driven the
tribes to a lasting and bitter war. Even now as he sat before the door
of his lodge, he was shaping spear-heads and arrow-heads for the
fighting men of Soft Hand's nation. Some arrows he made of jasper, and
some of flint, and some of purple slate. Those of slate would break off
in the wound. They were the grim old craftsman's pets.
One day a young man from the valley of the River of Three Fires brought
Montaw a string of fine trout, in payment for a spear-head. For awhile
they talked together in the sunlight at the door of the lodge.
"For the chase," said the old man, "I make the long shape of flint,
three fingers wide, and to this I bind a long and heavy shaft. Such an
arrow will hold in the side of the running deer, and may be plucked out
after death."
"I have even seen it, father," replied the young man, in supercilious
tones; for he considered himself a mighty hunter.
"For the battle," continued the arrow-maker, "I chip the flint and
shape the narrow splinters of slate. All three are good in their way if
the bow be strong--and the arm."
The old craftsman made a song. It was rough as his arrow-heads.
"Arrows of gray and arrows of black
Soon shall be red.
What will the white moon say to the proud
Warriors, dead?
"Arrows of jasper, arrows of flint,
Arrows of slate.
So, with the skill of my hands, I shape
Arrows of hate.
"Fly, my little ones, straight and true,
Silent as sleep.
Tell me, wind, of the flints I sow,
What shall I reap?
"Sorrow will come to their council-fires.
Weeping and fear
Will stalk to the heart of their great chief's lodge,
Year after year.
"When the moon rides on the purple hills,
Joyous of face,
Then do I give, to the men of my tribe,
Heads for the chase.
"When the chief's fire on the hilltop glows
Like a red star,
Then do I give, to the men of my tribe,
Heads for the war.
"Arrows of jasper, arrows of flint,
Arrows of slate.
Thus, in the door of my lodge, I nurse
Battle and hate!"
One evening, as he sat before his lodge looking seaward, his trained
ears caught the sound of a faint call from the wooded hills behind. He
did not turn his head or change his position. But he held his breath,
the better to listen. Again came the cry, very weak and far away.
"It is the voice of a woman," he said, and smiled grimly.
Cheerless and desolately gray, the light of the east faded into the
desolate gray of the sea. Black, like stalking shadows, stood the little
islands of the headlands. The last of the light died out like the heart
of fire in the shroud of cooling ashes. Again came the cry, whispering
across the stillness.
"It may be the voice of a child, lost in the woods," said the
arrow-maker. He rose from his seat and entered the lodge. He blew the
coals of his fire back to a tiny flame. He drew up to it the burnt ends
of faggots. Then he took in his hand another of his Eastern prizes--a
broad-bladed knife--and started across the tumbled rocks toward the edge
of the wood. Though old, he was still strong and tough of limb and
courageous of heart. Sure and swift he made his way through the heavy
growth of spruce. Once he paused for the space of a heart-beat, to make
sure of his direction. Again and again was the piteous cry repeated.
The old man kept up his tireless trot through underbrush and swamp, and
displayed neither fatigue nor caution until he reached the bank of a
narrow and turbulent stream. Here he drew into the shadow of a clump of
firs. He lay close, and breathed heavily. By this time the moon had
cleared the knolls. Its thin radiance flooded the wilderness. In the air
was a whisper of gathering frost. The water of the little river twisted
black and silver, and worried at the fanged rocks that tore it, with a
voice of agony.
The crying had ceased; but the eyes of the old craftsman questioned the
farther shore with a gaze steady and keen. There seemed to be something
wrong with the shadows. A bent figure slipped down to the edge of the
stream where the water spun in an eddy. It dropped on hands and knees
and crawled to the black and unstable lip of the tide. Again the cry
rang abroad, thin and high above the complaining tumult of the current.
The watcher left his hiding-place and waded the stream. At the edge of
the spinning eddy he found a woman. She lay exhausted. A long shaft hung
to her left shoulder. Blood trickled down her bare and rounded arm. The
arrow-maker lifted her against his shoulder and bathed her face in the
cool water until her eyelids lifted.
"Chief," she whispered, "pluck out the arrow."
He shook his head. His trade was with battle and death, but it was half
a lifetime since he had felt the gushing of human blood on his hands.
"Father," she cried, faintly, "I pray you, pluck it out. The pain of it
eats into my spirit. It sprang to me from a little wood, bitter and
noiseless--and I heard not so much as the twang of the string."
The old man held her with his left arm. With strong and gentle fingers
he worked the arrow in the wound. She quivered with the pain of it.
Blood came more freely. He trembled at the hot touch of it across his
fingers. He had dwelt so long in the quiet of his craft. Then the barbed
blade came away from the wound, and he clutched it in his reeking palm.
The woman sobbed with mingled pain and relief. The old man stepped into
the moonlight and lifted the arrow to his eyes.
"It is none of my making," he said.
He heard the woman sobbing in the dark. Returning to her he bound her
shoulder with his belt of dressed leather. Then, lifting her tenderly,
he again forded the flashing current of the complaining river.