_YULADA_
It was indeed a happy day when I regained the use of my legs and
staggered out of my log prison.
Now for the first time I saw the village of Sobul. It was composed
of several scores of cabins like that in which I had been confined;
and these were sprawled over a broad clearing, separated from one
another by considerable spaces. Beyond the furthest houses the open
fields stretched on all sides for half a mile or more, some of them
tawny brown with the ripening wheat, or green with flourishing herbs
in long tilled rows; while herds of half-wild goats browsed among the
meadows, and gnarled old orchard trees stood in small groves varied by
grapevines scrambling over mounds of earth.
Further still, at the ragged rim of the fields, the forest encroached
with its dense-packed legions; and I observed where in the background
the woods began to rise, first gently, then with a determined ascent,
until they clung to the precipitous and beetling mountain walls. And
higher yet there were no trees, but only bare rock, crags like steeples
or obelisks or giant pointing hands, and crowded peaks with fantastic
white neckbands. It was with awe that I discovered how completely
these summits hedged me in, confining me at the base of the colossal
cup-like depression. And it was with something more than awe--with
amazement mingled with an indefinable shuddery feeling--that I noted a
familiar figure perched on a dominating southern peak. It was that same
womanlike stone image which had lured me almost to death: with hands
uplifted, and one foot upraised, she stood as when I had seen her from
the other side of the mountain. If there was any difference in her
aspect it was scarcely noticeable, except that she now seemed a little
more elevated and remote.
What was the meaning of the statue-like form? I would inquire at the
first opportunity; and that very day, accordingly, I spoke my mind
to Yasma. But again she was to fail me. Like the Afghan guides, she
was reluctant to discuss the subject; her lips wrinkled with a faint
displeasure, and her eloquent dark eyes were averted. Only upon being
urgently pressed would she answer at all; and then, from her hasty
attempts to change the subject, I judged that she knew more than she
wished to admit; I suspected that she was just a little shocked and
frightened, almost like a pious lady tempted into a profane discussion.
But her resistance merely whetted my curiosity. And at length I coaxed
her into a partial explanation.
"There is a story among our people," she said, while her eyes took on
an unusual gravity, "that five thousand years ago the gods placed that
stone image on the peak to watch over us and guide us. Yulada we call
her, a name given by the early seers of our tribe. So long as we obey
Yulada's wishes, she will bless us and bring us happiness; but if we
forget her commands, she will scourge us with earthquake and lightning."
Upon uttering these words, Yasma startled me by stooping toward the
floor, bending her neck low as if in supplication, and mumbling a
series of apparently meaningless phrases.
"Then the stone image is some sort of god?" I questioned.
Yasma continued muttering to herself.
And as I stood watching in perplexity, I was enticed once more by that
same rash idea which had almost cost my life. "Sometime I'm going up
to Yulada," I vowed, my curiosity piqued to the utmost. "Then I'll find
out for myself what's she's like."
An expression of alarm, almost of horror, distorted the clear, mobile
features.
"Oh, you must not!" she cried, interrupting the ceremonies, and
resuming an erect attitude. "You must not ever, ever go up to Yulada!"
"Why not?"
"None of our people," she explained, hurriedly, and still with that
look of fright, "must ever go within five stones' throws of Yulada. It
would be terrible, terrible to go too close!"
"But why?"
She hesitated, in pitiable uncertainty; then hastily narrated, "Long,
long ago our soothsayers foretold that great sorrow would come to
whoever climbed within touching distance of the stone woman. And so,
in fact, it has proved to be. Only three men, within living memory,
have ever defied the warning; and all have learned the way of bitter
wisdom. One fell to his death in a crevasse of the mountain, and one
was bitten by a serpent and perished in agony, and one lost his wife
and first-born son, and passed the rest of his days in loneliness and
despair."
Yasma paused again, sadly as though brooding on some personal grief;
then passionately demanded, "Promise me, promise that whatever happens,
you will never, never go up to Yulada!"
In her voice there was such pleading, and in her face such pain, that
I had to make the promise. Yet I am ashamed to say that, even at the
time, I suspected that I should not abide by my word.
* * * * *
Meanwhile the mystery of Yulada was not the only shadow that had
thrust itself across my mind. As I gradually regained the use of my
limbs, I began to be troubled by thoughts of the future; I recognized
how great was my debt to the natives; and was ashamed at thought
of accepting their hospitality without making any return. Yet the
prospects were that I should remain with them for more than a few days
or weeks. My fellow geologists had doubtless given me up long ago as
lost; and there was no telling how many months would pass before I
could find my way out of this wilderness. To attempt to wander unguided
among the mountain labyrinths would be suicidal; and I not only had no
way of knowing how far it was to the nearest civilized settlement or
trade route, but could obtain no information from my hosts. Reluctantly
I admitted to myself that I was marooned.
And although the spell of Sobul was already upon me, I was not so
captivated that I did not dream of escape. True, it would have caused
me a pang to leave the kindly mountain folk, and particularly Yasma,
but what could this count against my life-work, the remembrance of my
friends in America, and all the arts and allurements of civilization?
Yet what could I do to escape? After long reflection, only one project
had occurred to me--and that unpromising enough. Though the other
geologists had certainly gone long ago, might they not have left some
message for me in the hope that I was yet alive? Yes, even a message
instructing me how to escape? Meager as the chances were, would it not
at least be worth while to revisit the site of our former camp?
Somewhat doubtfully, I consulted the natives. But they regarded my
suggestion as quite natural, and several volunteered to accompany me
across the mountains as soon as I was strong enough.
It was early September, more than seven weeks after my arrival in
Sobul, when at last I was ready for the expedition.
Accompanied by three of the Ibandru, I started out along a slender
trail that ran straight toward the jutting northern slope of "The
Mountain of Vanished Men." But these three were quickly increased to
four; we had hardly started when an auburn-haired girl came tripping
behind us, joining us in defiance of the scowls of the men. For my own
part, I was far from displeased at her presence; with her gleaming eyes
to encourage me, I found it just a little easier to accomplish the
abrupt and perilous climb. And both perilous and abrupt it was, for
when we were not crawling on hands and knees up gigantic broken natural
stairways of rock, we were winding single-file in long horseshoe curves
between a precipice and a cliff, or skirting the treacherous verge of a
glacier.
Straight up and up we went, for hours and hours, until we stood but
a few hundred yards below the great stone image, which loomed mighty
as a hill, like some old Egyptian colossus magnified many times and
miraculously transported to the mountain top. When we had approached
our nearest to it, we came to a halt and the natives dropped to the
ground and swayed their arms toward it as though entreating a favor.
Then, mumbling solemnly, they continued on their way around the
mountain, and the stone figure gradually dwindled and retreated.
Now from time to time we caught glimpses of the southern valley,
another bowl-like hollow scooped out in the core of the mountains. It
was with mixed emotions that I observed this spot where I had bidden
my friends farewell--farewell for how long? And it was with the return
of an unreasoning horror that I surveyed those very slopes where I
had been imprisoned in the fog. Yet I was eager to descend, so eager
that several times I forgot caution in my impatience; once one of the
men jerked me back violently as I set foot on a stone which gave way
beneath me and went hurtling down a thousand feet; and once Yasma
caught my arm as something long and shiny unwound itself from beneath
my feet and disappeared hissing among the rocks.
But though I drew upon every particle of my energy, I was so slow that
frequently the others had to pause and wait for me along the steep,
narrow trails; while occasionally they helped me over a difficult
slope. Because I was the weakest of the party, it was I that set the
pace; and consequently our expedition was protracted hours beyond their
reckoning. Even though we had set out at dawn and stopped but a few
minutes to consume some fruit and small native cakes, sunset found us
only at the timber line of the second valley.
Here we had to make camp; and here we dined sparingly from the
provisions carried by my guides, quenched our thirst from a clear,
swift-running stream, built a campfire, and prepared for our night on
the open ground. Shortly after dark I noted that Yasma was no longer
among us; but when I questioned the men they appeared unconcerned,
replying that she knew how to take care of herself.
This statement proved true enough; the first thing I was aware of,
after a chilly and restless night, was the sound of Yasma's voice. She
had come with the earliest birds to awaken us; and, herself like a bird
in the lithe grace with which she tripped and fluttered about, she
urged us to be up and starting almost before the last golden embers had
turned ashen above the eastern semi-circle of peaks.
My whole being was in a tumult as we set forth, for it seemed to me
that today was to decide my fate. Should I receive some word from my
friends, some clue to guide me back to civilization? Or should I find
myself abandoned in the wilderness? An hour or two more should tell the
tale, since already we had discovered the winding little path Damon and
I had followed on our fateful expedition.
But as we glided silently in single file along the trail, I felt hope
dying within me. All things about us seemed deserted; scarcely a
living creature could be heard amid the dense brush; scarcely a dead
leaf stirred, scarcely a bird chirped or twittered. It was as if I had
invaded a realm of the dead, a realm of specters and shadows.... By the
time we had reached a remembered pine-grove beside a clear-bubbling
rivulet, I was almost in a despondent mood, which was only accentuated
when I observed that the grove was forsaken. Yet how well I recalled
the enthusiasm with which Damon and I had set forth from this very spot!
While Yasma and the men waited cross-legged on the ground, I began
carefully to explore the grove. Actually, I expected to find nothing,
and at first I found what I expected. Then one by one I came across
various relics, insignificant in themselves, which pained me like the
opening of old wounds. First it was merely a bent and rusting tin;
then the ashes of a campfire, a scrap of old newspaper, the stub of a
cigarette, or a broken penknife clinging to the bark of a tree; and,
finally, a half-used and forgotten notebook and pencil, which I picked
up and bore away for possible future needs.
But was this to be all? In my dejection, I was almost persuaded so,
when my eye was caught by a pile of stones at one end of the former
camp. It was between two and three feet high, pyramidal in shape, and
clearly of human workmanship. Eagerly I inspected it, at first without
understanding its purpose, but with swiftly growing comprehension.
Carved indistinctly on one of the stones, in small barely legible
letters, were the words, "Look below!"
In a frenzy, I began tearing the stones aside, casting them in all
directions in my haste.
Yet at first I discovered nothing--nothing! It was only after careful
examination that I espied, between two stones in a protected position,
a little scrap of ink-marked paper.
Like one receiving a message from another world, I grasped at the
paper. The scrawled handwriting was that of Jasper Damon!
It was a minute before I could choke down my excitement sufficiently to
read:
"Dear Prescott: I am leaving this note with hardly any hope that you
will find it, or that you are not now beyond the reach of all human
messages. I cannot believe that you have been spared, for after
losing you in the fog and failing to reach you by shouts and pistol
signals, I have discovered no sign that you still live. For my own
part, I had to pass the night between two sheltered rocks on the
mountainside; but, luckily, I was unhurt, and when the fog lifted
for a while the next morning I managed to make my way down below
the mist-belt. Then, after wandering for hours, I fell in with a
searching party from camp. I was alarmed to learn that they had
found no trace of you, and more alarmed when, after searching all
the rest of the day, we were still without any clue. On the
following morning we made a much wider hunt, and bribed and
intimidated the native guides to lead us up the mountain, which
they feared and hated. Still no results! You had vanished as
completely as the very fog that hid you--on the next day, and
still on the next we scoured the mountains, always in vain. For a
week now we have lingered here, until hope has disappeared, and, in
deepest sorrow, we must continue on our way.
"But while reason tells me that you have perished, I cannot keep
back a vague feeling that somehow you escaped. It is merely out of
a whim, and in spite of the smiles of our skeptical friends, that I
am building this mound of stones to draw your attention if ever you
return, and hiding this letter so that if need be it may withstand
the elements for years. It will do you little enough good, but at
least you will have learned that we did not willingly desert you.
How you will be able to struggle out of this wilderness is a
question that heaven itself may not be able to answer--I can only
pray that some fortunate chance may save you as it has saved me.
"Farewell, Dan Prescott!--You cannot know how every day of my life
will be overshadowed by thought of that foolhardy escapade of ours.
"Your wretched friend,
"Jasper Damon."