When the Birds Fly South
By STANTON A. COBLENTZ
THE WINGS PRESS
MILL VALLEY, CALIF.
NEW YORK, N. Y.
_First Printing, 1945_
_Reprinted, 1951_
Copyright 1945
by
THE WINGS PRESS
TYPOGRAPHY BY JOSEPH A. WENNRICH
_Printed in the United States of America_
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
To
F. B. C.
whose eyes
have followed with mine
the flight
of the birds southward
_Contents_
_PART I DRIFTING LEAVES_
I THE MOUNTAIN OF VANISHED MEN
II THE VERGE OF THE PRECIPICE
III WELCOME TO SOBUL
IV THE WEAVING OF THE SPELL
V YULADA
VI FORESHADOWINGS
VII YASMA
VIII THE BIRDS FLY SOUTH
IX IN THE REDDENING WOODS
X THE IBANDRU TAKE WING
_PART II BLOSSOM AND SEED_
XI THE PRISONER
XII THE MISTRESS OF THE PEAK
XIII THE BIRDS FLY NORTH
XIV THE WARNING
XV CRUCIAL MOMENTS
XVI HAMUL-KAMMESH ORDAINS
XVII AT THE TIME OF THE FULL MOON
XVIII THE SECOND FLIGHT BEGINS
XIX THE CYCLE IS COMPLETED
_PART III THE WILL OF YULADA_
XX THE SECOND WINTER
XXI "THE MOLEB"
XXII THE TURNING POINT APPROACHES
XXIII THE LAST FLIGHT
XXIV THE WILL OF YULADA
I
_Drifting Leaves_
CHAPTER I
_THE MOUNTAIN OF VANISHED MEN_
High among the snow-tipped ranges of Afghanistan, there is a peak
notable for its peculiar rocky crown. Unlike its lordly neighbors, it
is dominated not by crags and glaciers, but by a projection which seems
almost to bear the impress of human hands. From the southern valley,
five thousand feet beneath, the traveler will observe a gigantic
steel-gray figure carved in the image of a woman; and he will notice
that the woman's hands are uplifted in an attitude of prayer, and that
she stands with one foot slanted behind her and one foot slightly
upraised, as though prepared to step into the abyss. How this lifelike
form came to be perched on that desolate eminence is a mystery to the
observer; but he assumes that it is a product of some prank of nature,
for it is far too large to have been made by man. Yet he must be
unimaginative indeed not to be awe-stricken at thought of the forces
which gave that colossus birth.
I, for one, shall never forget my first glimpse of the stone Titan. As
a member of an American geological expedition studying the mountain
strata of Northern India, Afghanistan and Tibet, I had been tramping
for hours through a winding rock-defile in company with nine scientific
colleagues and the native guides. Suddenly, coming out through a break
in the canyon, I looked down into a deep basin densely mantled in
deodar and pine. Beyond this valley, to the north, a succession of
jagged peaks shot skyward, their lower slopes dark-green with foliage,
their upper altitudes bare and brown, and streaked here and there with
white. Almost precisely in their center, as though in the acknowledged
place of honor, one summit loomed slightly higher and less precipitous
than the others, and on its tip the singular statue-like image.
My first impression was that it was an illusion. Never had I or any of
my companions heard of such a figure; we were hardly less startled than
if we had journeyed to the North Pole, there to gaze at a skyscraper.
Eagerly we questioned our Afghan guides, but at first their stolid,
swarthy faces simulated indifference, though they cast furtive and even
frightened glances at one another. Then, pressed to speak, they assured
us that the stone image was the work of devils; and finally they stated
that the figure had been created by the "Ibandru," a race of mountain
folk with wings like birds and the power of making themselves invisible.
Naturally, my friends and I laughed at such a naïve superstition.
Yet when I proposed that we climb the mountain and seek the home of
the "Ibandru," our guides repeated their warning that these people
were powerful and evil-minded enchanters. And when, not to be daunted
by fairy tales, I insisted on investigating the mountain top, the
natives betrayed their alarm by their rolling dark eyes and eloquent
gestures, and swore that if we ever began the climb we should be unable
to return. Scores of their countrymen had been bewitched and lost in
seeking the peak, which was known as "The Mountain of Vanished Men";
and for their own part, they would sooner wrestle with tigers than lead
us up the slopes.
There was no arguing the point--they were beyond reason. Nevertheless,
in the face of common sense, I could not be contented. From the
beginning, that womanlike image had taken hold of my imagination; and,
far from discouraging me, the fears and protestations of the natives
had only whetted my curiosity. Should opportunity offer, I would scale
the mountain and discover for myself if there was any excuse for that
terror which the stone figure aroused in the Afghans.
The opportunity, unfortunately, was not long in coming. That evening
we pitched camp among the pines at the base of "The Mountain of
Vanished Men." Since the site was ideally located at the brink of a
clear-bubbling rivulet, and since several of us were exhausted from
our strenuous traveling, we decided to remain for a day or two before
continuing toward the northern gorges.
Next morning I urged that, whether with guides or without, several of
the men join me in a climb to the stone image. The ascent, I pointed
out, promised to be easy enough, for the mountain showed a long even
grade that rarely approached the perpendicular; and, in the absence of
undetected glaciers or ravines, there would be nothing to keep us from
the peak. I was even so confident as to assert that, starting shortly
after dawn, we would set foot on the summit and be back in camp by
evening.
Most of my comrades were not convinced. They swore that it would be
foolhardy to entrust ourselves to this unknown wilderness; they painted
in gruesome terms the danger of being lost, and the still greater
danger from wild beasts, rock slides, and crevasses in the snow and
ice; and they scoffed when I vowed that I would go alone if no one
would accompany me.
Yet among our party there was one who, either through lack of foresight
or an insensitiveness to fear, was ready to risk any hazards. That
man, Jasper Damon, was one of those persons with a passion for getting
into trouble,--a sure instinct for upsetting canoes in deep water, or
invading hollow tree trunks infested with rattlesnakes. All through
this expedition he had been my especial companion; and now, while the
others sat by with loud guffaws and mocking grimaces, he rushed to
my rescue. Springing from his seat just when I most needed an ally,
he shook my hand and assured me that a little jaunt to the top of the
mountain was the very thing he desired.
Even today I do not know why he joined me. Perhaps the figure on the
peak exercised a mysterious compulsion upon him, as upon me; or perhaps
he was merely moved by good fellowship. But, whatever his motives, he
displayed real zest in his preparations. His black eyes fairly crackled
in his long, stubbled face; his lean, lanky figure, with the spidery
legs, bustled about in noisy animation. In less time than it took me
to make the proposal, he had secured food and firearms and a knapsack
containing ropes and climbing equipment; and, scornful of the warnings
of our companions and the oaths and mutterings of the natives, he
started with me on the long ascent before the sun had lifted its head
halfway above the east-ridges.
* * * * *
For more than an hour we plodded along a vague little trail beneath
the dark foliage. Many a day must have passed since the last man had
followed this track; the occasional small five-clawed footprints showed
who the recent passers-by had been. But we were not depressed by
thought of the frightful solitudes, nor by fear of the unseen creatures
occasionally rustling in the brush; and even when we had literally to
dig our way through the thickets, we did not let discouragement mar our
spirits. Although the slopes were moderately steep, they were not hard
to scale; and we felt sure that early afternoon would see us on the
summit.
This hope found support when, before the morning was half over, we
reached a more sparsely timbered area, and shortly afterwards came out
into a region of straggling shrubs. The rocky ribs of the mountain
now stretched bare and gigantic before us, the dismal gray slopes
inclining at an angle of from twenty to fifty degrees. Far above,
perched on a little cone not unlike the tip of a volcano, that curious
statue-like formation loomed encouragingly larger; and a wisp of cloud
dangled playfully about the summit and beckoned us to be of good cheer
and make haste.
But it was not easy to make haste along those unsheltered ridges under
the glaring mid-July sun. More than once, as Damon and I sweltered
upward, we glanced regretfully back at the green valley; and more than
once we observed that the peak, like the fruit of Tantalus, seemed only
to retreat as we toiled to approach it.
The higher we mounted, the less likely did it appear that we could
gain the summit and return by evening. We encountered no impassable
obstacles, and never had to use the climbing tackle; yet in places we
literally had to crawl, relying upon our arms as much as upon our legs,
and consequently were so delayed that when the sun stood in mid-heaven
the peak still beckoned from the remote blue.
Had any trace of our wits remained, we would now have recognized that
we sought the unattainable. But that inscrutable figure above had woven
a charm about us; upward, still upward we trudged, pausing only for an
occasional drink from an icy little stream. Our eyes were so fascinated
by the peak, and by its amazing woman-shaped crown, that we did not
notice signs which could hardly have escaped us in a more cautious
mood. Not until too late did we observe the increasing murkiness of the
atmosphere, the gradual formation of bands of mist that gathered as if
from nowhere, the merging of those bands into clouds that obscured the
further ranges and approached us with silent and deceptive velocity.
I was just speculating as to the distance still before us, when an
exclamation from Damon startled me back to reality. And suddenly I was
aware of the menace.
The skies were no longer blue, but gray with vapor; the slopes below us
were disappearing in fog, and even the peak was being blotted from view!
"Back! Let's go back!" I muttered, thoroughly frightened.
Without a word, Damon joined me in frantic retreat.
But we had delayed too long. Before we had returned many hundred yards,
the fog was all about us. Like some evil unearthly thing, it blocked
our pathway with intangible streamers, and reared a gray wall before us
and to every side, and stretched a gray roof just overhead; and it drew
closer, insidiously closer, until we could see not ten feet beyond, and
the wild panorama of the mountains had given way to a hazy cell the
size of a small room.
A cautious man, no doubt, would have proposed remaining where we
were. But neither of us relished the prospect of camping possibly for
twenty-four hours in this solitary spot; and both of us vaguely felt
that, after descending a little, we would come out into the daylight
beneath the clouds. Besides--and this was most unreasonable, and
most unlike me--I was agitated by a dim, superstitious fear, I could
scarcely say what of, as if by some sixth sense I knew of shadowy
horrors that lurked unseen and unheard in the gloom.
Yet we had to advance with the timidity of tight-rope walkers; at any
instant, we might find ourselves dangling at the edge of a precipice.
In the first moments of that unequal contest we had hopelessly lost our
way; we had been unable to follow the trail, since we could not see far
enough to recognize the landmarks; while, as we descended at random
among the rocks, we realized that, even should we escape from the fog,
we might find it far from easy to make our way back to camp.
I do not know how long we continued groping through the mist. It may
have been half an hour, or an hour; certainly, it seemed the better
part of a day. But as Damon and I picked our path between the boulders
among the enfolding vapors, despair was gradually settling over us
both, and we felt as if some malign spirit had walled us off from the
world.
Even so, I cannot explain how we opened the door for the greatest
horror of all. Perhaps it was only that Damon was displaying his
usual recklessness; perhaps that the fog had driven us in too much
upon ourselves. All I know is that, looking up after an absent-minded
revery, I received a bewildering shock--the mist was hemming me in
almost at arm's length, and Damon was not to be seen!
For a moment I was too dazed to cry out. My mind was filled with the
fantastic ideas that come to a man at such a crisis. Had my companion
stepped over a precipice? Had he been crushed by a dislodged boulder?
Had some prowling beast fallen upon him?
As these questions shot over me, I was startled to hear my name shouted
in a familiar voice. But the words seemed to issue from far away, and I
had only the vaguest idea of their direction.
"Damon! Damon!" I shouted back, in mingled hope and dismay. "Where are
you?"
"Here! Here, Prescott! Here!" came the voice, after a second or two.
But I was still mystified as to the direction.
Yet, in my excitement, I cried, "I'm coming!" and started off on what I
imagined to be the proper course.
At intervals the calling continued. Damon's voice did not seem to draw
nearer, but did not seem to grow more remote; and several times, by way
of desperate experiment, I changed my direction--which only increased
my confusion. Now I would be sure that the voice cried from my right,
and now that it shrilled from my left; at first I thought that it came
from beneath me, but before long I felt that its source was above.
And as I went fumbling through the fog, anxiety gave way to panicky
impatience, and the slim remnants of my wits deserted me. The climax
came when, after forcing my way through a cluster of jagged rocks
that bruised my arms and legs and tore my clothes, I found myself
at the base of a cliff that shot upward abruptly out of sight. From
somewhere above, I felt sure, I heard Damon's voice calling, hoarse
from overstraining and plaintive with fear. And at the thought that an
unscalable wall divided us, I behaved like a trapped animal; heedless
of the abysses beneath, I started hastily along the base of the cliff
in what I supposed to be Damon's direction.
But again I had miscalculated. When I next heard my friend's voice, it
was much fainter ... growing ghostly faint and remote; and continued to
grow fainter still, until it was no more than a murmur borne across far
distances. And now, when I screamed his name in a cracked and broken
way, the only answer was in the echoes that reverberated along the
mountainside, with thin and hollow notes like the mockery of fiends.
In despair, I told myself that I had lost track of Damon completely.
But all at once a resounding report broke the stillness of the
mountains. Shocked, I stood as if frozen--and instantly the report was
repeated. Was Damon battling some foe, four-footed or human? Or was he
merely signaling with his revolver?
Then, while I stood quivering there beneath the precipice, the pistol
rang forth again, and again; and the echoes pealed and dinned with
unearthly snarls and rattlings.
So unnerved was I that I did not think of replying with my own
revolver. But, seized with a frenzy to rejoin Damon at all costs, I
started through the fog almost with the madness of a stampeding steer.
And now at last my recklessness betrayed me. Whether my foot slipped,
or whether I had dared an impossible grade, I do not know; but with
breathless suddenness, I was plunging down a terrifying slope. To stop
myself was beyond my power; with a sprinter's speed I went racing down
the mist-dimmed mountainside. For an instant I had visions of gigantic
spaces beneath me, of prodigious chasms, jutting rocks--then all things
grew blurred, my mind whirled round and came to a stop ... and the
darkness that ensued was for me as the end of the world.