CIVILIZATION DAWNS IN THE HILLS
When the tumult had subsided, the amazed Major wheeled to face Terry's
quizzical grin.
"Well, Major," he said, "there is their merry little 'sign'! The darn
thing worked!"
The Major pulled him toward the door. "Come on," he exclaimed. "Let's
see what happened."
He hurried down the short ladder ahead of Terry and raced through the
strip of woods to where the mob was packed about the base of the cone.
The Major smashed an unceremonious pathway through the brown jam and
in a moment they stood at the foot of the crest.
A large segment of the huge pillar of rock had broken off and in
falling had carried thousands of tons of shale and eroded stone. The
immense rock, whose fracture and fall had precipitated the slide, lay
directly under the Tribal Agong, at which the Hillmen were staring up,
dumfounded.
Following their upward gaze the Major saw that the fallen stone had
formed the platform beneath the Agong, which now pivoted on its
granite bracket over a cliff which fell sheer for hundreds of feet
before curving into the stiff slope where crag fused into tableland.
The great black gong hung directly over them. Looking closely,
Bronner saw that it swung slowly in the evening breeze, and moved by
the same impulse that had impelled him the first time he stood beneath
it, he shouldered their way through the crowd to a safer position.
"You need not worry about its falling, Major. It will hang there for a
thousand years."
"I know it, but it gets me just the--what's that they're yelling?" he
exclaimed, as a swelling chorus of guttural shouts rose from the
excited throng.
"They are saying that the Tribal Agong can never be sounded
again--without the platform they can't reach it." As a new phrase was
caught up and repeated by hundreds of voices he added: "And now they
are calling for Ohto to interpret the sign!"
Several of the older savages tore out of the densely packed throng and
sped toward Ohto's house. In a few moments one of them returned and
announced that the chieftain would arrive shortly. The two white men,
absorbed in the drama, did not notice that four of the warriors who
had summoned Ohto had returned by another path and taken up their
position behind the captives, spears in hand, grim.
Ohto advanced slowly through the trees and emerged into the open space
about the crag. The Hillmen gave way respectfully and he walked to the
base of the cone through a wide lane opened up for his passage. Age
slowed his steps but he walked erect, his head held high in simple
dignity and gratitude for the silent homage his people offered.
Pausing near the base he surveyed the evidences of cleavage of the
ancient rock, the tribe's historic rallying point. Then he raised his
eyes to the Agong.
The dense circle of Hillmen bated their breath while the beloved
patriarch communed with the spirits of the long line who had heard the
happy song of the bronze-lipped gong. A deep hush pervaded the
plateau, now lighted with the last white rays of the dipping sun.
The sage turned to his people, his furrowed face burdened with an
added melancholy. His voice came low and weak, so that the assemblage
bent forward in strained silence to hear his fateful words. Terry
gripped the Major's arm, whispering the translation.
* * * * *
"Listen, my children. We asked for guidance, and a sign is sent to the
east of Ohto's lodge--a happy omen.
"The breaking of this age-old stone betokens the breaking of our
ancient custom ... no longer will we bar the stranger from the Hills
... and those who are with us now may go in peace, or stay in peace."
He paused, and a great sigh of relieved suspense rose from the throng.
The four armed men left their position behind the two white men and
melted into the dense circle.
Terry gave the Major's arm a last ecstatic squeeze. "It's working out
just as we planned! I'll be back soon."
He raced through the trees toward Ohto's house, returning in a couple
of minutes to find Ohto still standing with bowed head before his
people.
A rustle of whispers roused him, and he raised his silvered head to
behold the loveliness of his stolen foster-child. Summoned by Terry,
Ahma had come out of the shadows of the trees and stood at the forest
end of the lane made for Ohto's passage through the crowd.
The old man extended his hand toward her in compelling gesture and she
went to him with the agile swiftness of a half-wild thing. A moment he
lightly stroked the rippling mass of hair, then he turned to his
people again.
"Ohto said that the Tribal Agong would ring for the marriage of this
white daughter of our tribe--but now--"
They followed his sadly expressive gaze to where the gong hung far out
over the cliff, inaccessible to human touch.
"Daughter, it _will_ be rung for you ... somehow.... Ohto has said it.
I hope to live to hear it rung ... when you have found him who is to
share your house--and after that, I do not care."
He paused again--lost in a patriarch's vague memories of other years.
Retrieving his vagrant thoughts, he caught the frank message of the
upturned face, a message which startled as it pleased him.
"Ah! You have found him, then? Let him step forth."
Ohto searched every brown face in the hushed circle, but none stepped
forward.
Ahma slowly turned her head toward where the two white men stood
apart, her eyes fastened upon Major Bronner. Terry gently pushed him
forward. Trembling, his tanned face bloodless, the Major advanced and
took her outstretched hand.
Ohto studied the Major, then turned to Terry. For a long moment he
searched the lad's strong face, a deep disappointment in his own,
before he again faced the two before him.
"I had not thought of this. But it will do. It is as it should
be--white will be happier with white. But ... will she stay until Ohto
joins his fathers?"
The Major hesitated, then answered the sadly anxious question with a
nod. He had no voice.
"Then she is yours ... after you have found a way to ring the Tribal
Agong for her marriage. Ohto never spoke in vain. Ring the Agong
first."
The Major's glance swept from Ahma to the lofty gong. His triumphant
joy gave way to deepest dejection. He saw no way to fulfil the chief's
requirement, and he turned despairingly to Terry, who had shouldered
through the crowd and stood beside him.
The Hillmen had accepted Ohto's interpretation unquestioningly. Their
chief had spoken. The unexpectedness of the new phase, the avowal of
love by the tribe's adopted daughter for one of the outlanders, had
appealed to the keen sense of the dramatic that is shared by all
primitive peoples. Their brown skins coppered by the rosy glow of the
setting sun, they stood in strained suspense awaiting the climax.
All but Pud-Pud. He jostled an avenue through the innermost ring of
Hillmen and leaped out in front of Terry, brandishing a short blow
tube he carried and laughing in shrill derision.
"Ya, white men! Now ring the Agong! Ring the Agong and get your woman!
I saw! I watched! And I laughed because I knew the Agong would never
ring again! Yeah! Now ring it!"
The Major was in no mood for finesse: with a vicious shove he sent the
vindictive Pud-Pud sprawling, then turned to Terry, worriedly.
"What are we going to do?"
Terry shook his head, at a loss. This was a contingency he had not
foreseen. He glanced penitently at the melancholy girl, at the old man
who waited, swept the circle of tense faces, then resumed his hopeless
contemplation of the gong overhead.
Swiftly Ahma broke the tableau. Dropping the Major's hand she darted
forward to where Pud-Pud had risen to his knees, her white foot
flashing up to dash from his lips the blow tube he leveled at Terry.
The venomous dart sped aimlessly into the air and fell outside the
ring of Hillmen.
Pud-Pud's violation of the sanctity of council roused Ohto to a wrath
terrible to see. All of the savagery, all of the unbridled fury of a
primitive, passionate nature mounted to his wrinkled face as he
pointed to the culprit with a majestic gesture that summoned the four
armed men. At a word they hustled the terror-stricken savage away to
await Ohto's judgment.
Ahma calmly returned to the Major's side and together they resumed
their hopeless contemplation of the Agong. He peered up till his neck
ached.
"Terry," he whispered, "to ring it you have to strike that little knob
in the center, don't you?"
"Yes."
Then inspiration shone in the Major's face. He eyed Terry covertly.
"Wish we had a rifle," he suggested.
Terry caught his meaning. He fingered his holster but shook his head.
"It can't be done, Major."
"Sure it can--sure _you_ can! I've seen you shoot!"
Terry shook his head but the excited Major insisted: "Try it. Rest
your gun on my head. Sure you can do it--and think what it will
mean--the Hills opened up for all time--think what it will mean to the
Governor--and to the Service!"
The hushed crowd stiffened as they saw the two white men draw back a
hundred feet, wondered as to the character of the strange black thing
the smaller drew from his leather pocket. They watched intently,
thinking to see sorcery wrought before their eyes.
Terry cocked the weapon and resting his wrist upon the tall Major's
head, sighted carefully. A thousand pairs of eyes focussed upon him.
Could the slim white man ring the gong by pointing a magic finger?
The Major, braced for the shock of explosion, felt the iron wrist
tremble, grow limp and lift away. He wheeled around to find Terry
shaking his head, uncertain, faltering. He slowly holstered the gun.
"Major, I keep thinking how I have deceived--this fine old man," he
said.
The Major stared at him, then exploded: "By making this 'sign' that
saved your life--and mine? Sus-marie-hosep! I've heard of those New
England consciences but--Sus-marie-hosep!"
Disgust, dismay, affection swept in succession across the Major's
countenance: affection held. He laid his hand upon Terry's shoulder as
he played his ace:
"Terry, I thought you had a date in Zamboanga on the twenty-sixth!"
The crowd then saw the white youth stiffen with swift decision, saw
him whirl to face the crag. For a moment he stood with eyes riveted
upon the Agong till the little knob swung toward him, then he bent
slightly at the knees and his hand swept back with a swiftness that
seemed to bring the pistol leaping to meet the extended arm. It raised
to the darkening sky, and the Hills awoke to the resounding crash of
white man's weapons. Six times Terry shot, but only the first two
reports were heard, for the others were swallowed in the booming of
the Agong.
The sound beat down deafeningly, seemed to enfold them bodily in its
mighty volume, blotting out all else. From the sounding board of cliff
it smote upon their ears in thunderous, sustained, musical tone.
Slowly, the note lessened in volume, deepened, and tumbled down in
vibrant waves that rolled on and on. The sonorous reverberations died
out, then surged again and again in ever fainter, ever deeper tones.
At last the air quieted, and nothing but the roaring in his ears
remained to convince the Major that the vast sound had been reality.
"Jimmy!" he exploded. "What a noise--and what shooting!"
A whisper of awe rustled through the surrounding ranks. Ignorant of
firearms, they thought the young American wielded some uncanny power
with his black weapon. Already distinguished as the first white man to
set his foot upon Apo, he was now regarded with a feeling akin to
worship.
Ohto was silent, lost in a protracted, inscrutable study of Terry's
face. At last the old man turned on his heels to sweep the circle of
his people for confirmation of his surmise. Satisfied, he raised his
hand for silence.
"There has been worry ... doubt ... among you--who should take up
Ohto's burden when he lets it fall ... soon. You are entering new
times, will meet new and strange things. To Ohto it seems best that he
leave his people under the guidance of a young and strong and kind
chief who knows all these strange things ... one who can lead you
safely into the new life. What say you, my people? Who shall sit in
Ohto's chair when he is gone?"
For a moment the multitude was silent as the significance of Ohto's
query sank into their slow minds, then a murmur of approval rose among
them, swelled into a deafening shout of acclamation.
"The pale white man! The pale white man!"
Terry understood. Uncertain, he turned to the Major, but Ohto
interrupted by addressing him directly.
"You have heard. When Ohto leaves--and it can not be long--he leaves
his people in your hands. You will be patient, kindly, gentle, with
them. That Ohto knows ... it is written in your face."
As Terry slowly bowed his head slightly in acceptance of the trust,
the delighted Hillmen stirred, whispered to each other. The hum of
voices grew louder but was instantly hushed by the dramatic gesture
with which Ohto extended his arm toward a low cotton tree that stood
at the edge of the woods. The thousand eager heads turned almost as
one.
Upon a slender leafless branch which extended at right angles from the
trunk of a _kapok_ tree two large gray wood pigeons had perched side
by side in the close communion of mated birds, heedless of the host
below them. Unafraid, tired, content with what the day had brought
them in the lowlands, they were happy in safe return together to their
mountain home.
In the hush which followed recognition by the throng, the limoçons
moved closer to each other, wing brushed wing, sleepy lids lowered
over soft eyes to shut out the crimson glory of the dying sun. Then
the little throats throbbed as they voiced gratitude to their Creator
in gentle, low pitched notes, lilting with the joy of life, plaintive
with the brevity of its span.
The sweet song died with the day, and as dusk reached down in brief
embrace of tropic earth, the birds winged side by side into the
darkening forest.
Peace settled upon the face of the old man who had made decision
vitally affecting the welfare of the people over whom he had ruled for
two generations. The limoçons had sung in the East. His fathers were
pleased with him.
A shout of fierce joy burst from the Hillmen. Then the women
surrounded the dainty white girl and bore her off to prepare for the
long ceremony with which the Hill People give in marriage. And the two
friends walked through the woods, arm in arm, silent, profoundly
humble.