_THE WEAVING OF THE SPELL_
For more than five weeks I lay on my sick-bed, at first close to death,
then slowly convalescing. After my rescue and temporary revival, a
raging fever had attacked me; and I have little recollection of what
followed, except that it was a nightmare of blurred impressions.
Among my jumbled memories of those days when I lay balanced on the
borderline, there is only one image that stands forth distinctly: the
picture of a great pair of smoldering brown eyes surmounted by auburn
curls and ringlets. Curiously enough, that picture became associated in
my mind with visions of paradise. At times, for rare brief snatches, it
seemed as if I were surrounded by that heaven in which I had long lost
faith, and as if the possessor of the brown eyes were a ministering
angel. Around her there seemed to be a light, as of some celestial
presence; and when she went away she left only darkness and vacancy.
Other forms there were, of course, other forms ceaselessly coming and
going, coming and going, moving on tiptoe, silent or whispering like
conspirators. But these were mere shadows in a void, grotesque or
cloudy thin or unreal, the monstrous creatures of a world I had almost
ceased to inhabit.
Perhaps it would have been well if I had indeed ceased to inhabit this
world. Certainly, it would have been well for one whose tragic eyes
come before me even now, haunting me like a ghost and looking reproach
at every line I write. But that is to anticipate; destiny works in
circuitous ways; and I, the stranger in the Vale of Sobul, could not
have known that my arrival was to weave a fatal spell over her whom of
all the world I should least have wished to injure.
But no such gloomy thoughts obsessed me as by degrees my fever subsided
and the clouds lifted from across my mind. Even in my feebleness and
dependence upon strangers, I could see cause for thanksgiving; once
more I felt that the world was a bright place, and life worth living.
Perhaps I would have thought otherwise had it not been that every day,
in the early dawn and then again at sunset-time, an auburn-haired
visitor came to attend me. Always she would bear some offering,
sometimes merely a flask of spring water, sometimes some dainty morsel
of food, more often a spray of wildflowers with which she would
decorate the cabin walls. Although many of her tribesmen visited me
frequently, supplying me with all physical necessities, her arrival was
the one event of importance; and the long waking hours became tolerable
and even pleasant through the thought of her.
Our relations, fortunately, were not long confined to the stares and
gestures of our first acquaintanceship. Realizing that I desired to
speak with her, and encouraged by finding that I already knew a few
words of Pushtu, she set about to teach me her language; and every day,
for half an hour or more, she transformed herself from the smiling
friend into the solemn instructress, first teaching me the local
term for every visible object, and then linking the words together
to form simple sentences. As her tutorship was ably furthered by her
tribesmen, it was not long before I had mastered a vocabulary of all
the more common words; and since I amused myself during my spare hours
by repeating these words mentally and combining them into phrases, not
many days had passed before I could speak Pushtu at least as well as a
five-year-old.
And what a joy when at last I could converse! Merely to exchange the
simplest ideas with my friend was delight enough! But all the while
there had been questions that I had been burning to ask, and now one by
one I could ask them! No longer would that lovely creature be nameless
to me--she confided with a blush that she was called Yasma, and was the
daughter of Abthar, the vine-grower. As for her people--they were the
Ibandru, a tribe which from the beginning of time had inhabited the
Valley of Sobul, tilling the land for its rich harvests but finding
their chief joy in roving the mountainsides. But who her people were
and whence they were descended Yasma could not tell me; she could
only say that they possessed the valley undisputed, and had little
intercourse with other tribes; and she related for me an ancient legend
that the first of her people had been born of the nuptials of the south
wind and the spring flowers, so that the spirit of the flowers and of
the wind must breathe through the tribe forever.
Naturally, I was less interested in such myths than in facts touching
upon my own predicament. I was curious as to all that had occurred
since my rescue from the mountain ledge; and was particularly anxious
to know the meaning of that strange scene with the white-bearded seer
on my first day in Sobul. And to most of my questions I received an
answer, although not always one that satisfied me. My rescue was
explained simply enough: the Ibandru habitually roamed the mountains
for miles around their valley, and a party of six had been going in
search of a little blue stone which one of their sages had declared
to exist upon the higher slopes, and the possession of which would
mean happiness. With their trained eyes accustomed to scanning the
far distances, they had observed what they at first took to be some
peculiar animal crawling along a ledge; and, drawn closer by curiosity,
had discovered that the supposed animal was human, and was in distress.
Common humanity dictated that they come to the rescue, bear me to
safety, and house me in an unoccupied cabin whose owner (to use the
native phrase) had gone "beyond those mountains that no man crosses
twice."
Thus far I saw no reason to doubt the explanation; but when I mentioned
the white-bearded tribesman I could see that I trod upon questionable
ground. It was not only that Yasma hesitated before answering; it was
that she replied with a nervous, uneasy air. She informed me--and
this much was certainly true--that the old man was Hamul-Kammesh, the
soothsayer, whose wisdom was held in high esteem; and she stated that,
immediately following my arrival, he had been called upon to judge of
the signs and omens. But what had he said? She refused to tell me. Or,
rather, she told me with transparent dissimulation. She declared that
he had prognosticated something of good, and something of evil; and
her reluctant manner testified that the evil tipped the balance of the
scales. But just what evil did he imagine my coming might do? And to
whom would the damage be done? No matter how I pleaded and questioned,
Yasma shook her head sadly, and refused to reply.
Could it be that the prophecy concerned me in some vital way? that
it would endanger me, or make my lot harder to bear? Yasma was still
sphinx-like. "I cannot answer," she maintained, in response to all
my entreaties. "I cannot." And biting her underlip, she remained
resolutely silent.
But I could not accept her refusal. "Why cannot you answer?" I
insisted. "Surely, there is nothing to fear."
"That you cannot know," she sighed, her lips compressed as though in
suffering, and an unexplained sadness shining from her eyes.
Then, seeing that I was about to return to the assault, she disarmed
me by murmuring, resignedly, "Well, if I must tell you, I must. You
see, it is not this prophecy alone. This only confirms another--another
prophecy made years and years ago. And that first prediction was dark
as a night-cloud."
"Dark--as a night-cloud?" I asked, noting that her beautiful rounded
cheeks were becoming drawn and blanched, while a light of fear and
agony, a light as of a hunted creature, was shining in her eyes.
"Yes, dark as a night-cloud," she muttered, mournfully. "But more
than that I cannot say." And then, as if afraid that she would say
more despite herself, she flitted to the door, and with a whispered
"Good-bye!" was gone, leaving me amazed and angry and yet just a little
overawed, as if in defiance of reason I recognized that my coming had
cast a shadow over the homes of my hosts.