_FORESHADOWINGS_
It was in a bitter mood that I trudged back to Sobul. Even the mirth
and laughter of Yasma could not dispel my gloom; I was as one who has
seen a black vision, one who has read the handwriting on the wall.
It seemed to me that my life had reached a barricade as formidable
as the mountain bulwarks that hemmed me in; there was no longer a
straw to clutch at; I was irredeemably a prisoner. Only once on the
return trip did I break my silence, and that was to ask, as I had
done a thousand times, what roads led back to trade routes, navigable
rivers, or civilized settlements; and it was no consolation to be
told, as invariably before, that there were no roads; that Sobul held
no intercourse with the world, and that I was the first of my race
ever seen there. I realized, of course, that there were rude trails
leading out, for had not the Afghan guides escorted our geologists to
this vicinity? Yet none of the Ibandru seemed to know anything of such
trails, and how find my way unaided?
Then I must spend the winter with the Ibandru! In a few weeks the
snow would be piling on the high mountain shoulders, and winter would
hermetically seal the Valley of Sobul until the approach of April.
Meanwhile, as I have mentioned, another problem had been troubling me:
that I had been a drone living off the hospitality of the Ibandru,
consuming their hard-earned provisions while making them no return.
Hence I thought of consulting their chieftain, in order to arrive at
some way of earning my board.
On the day after returning to Sobul, accordingly, I asked Yasma who was
the leader of her people.
"Leader? There isn't any exactly," she replied, looking troubled. "That
is, not any regular picked person. We are all free to go our own way,
and if anyone breaks any of our laws or customs his punishment is set
by a council of all the tribe."
"But is there no one whose word has particular authority?"
"Yes, in a way there is," she admitted, thoughtfully. "Whenever the
people want advice, they look first to my father, Abthar. And next,
they turn to the soothsayer, Hamul-Kammesh."
I had seen the soothsayer, and conceived a hearty dislike for him. But
I thought it would be a good idea to meet Yasma's father.
Therefore I made a simple request, which seemed to please the girl.
With a happy smile she led me out among the fields, and into the thick
of vines mounted on trellises or sprawling over mounds of earth, where
a gaunt tawny-browed man was busy plucking the purple clusters of
grapes. I had already seen him several times; more than once he had
visited me when I lay ill, bringing offerings of food and drink; and I
had noted that the other men had greeted him with deference. But I had
not known him then as the father of Yasma. Now, spurred on by my new
information, I scrutinized him as never before: the tall agile form,
unstooped and vigorous although he must have seen sixty summers; the
sagacious lean face, dominated by long black hair crossed by steely
bars, and terminating in a beard of black and gray; the glittering
alert brown eyes, which shone proudly as an eagle's and yet not without
a softness that reminded me of Yasma herself.
At my approach he arose with a cordial smile and reached out both
hands by way of greeting (a salutation peculiar to the Ibandru). In a
few words Yasma mentioned that I had a message for him; and while she
started back to the village, he motioned me to be seated on the ground
beside him.
"What is it that you wish to tell me?" he asked kindly, and sat staring
at me with an intent, inquiring air.
In a fumbling manner, I explained that I could not return to my people
at least until next year, which would force me to continue to accept
his people's hospitality. But I did not wish to impose upon their
kindness; and was anxious to make myself of use in the village.
With an impassive silence that gave no clue to his thoughts, Abthar
heard me to the end; and then answered unhesitatingly and with dignity.
"The views you express, young man, do you great credit. But we Ibandru
desire no return for our hospitality, and still less for what we do out
of simple humanity. Say no more about the matter. You owe us no debt;
we shall be glad to have you remain as long as you wish."
I scarcely knew how to reply, for the old man arose as if to dismiss
the subject. But I would not be turned aside. After thanking him for
his kindness, I reminded him that there was a long winter to come; and
insisted that I did not desire to be a drain upon his people's supplies.
At mention of the winter, a peculiar light came into Abthar's eyes--a
light that I thought just a little ironic, just a little pitying, and
at the same time just a little wistful. I may merely have imagined
this, of course; but in view of what was to come, I am persuaded that
I did not imagine it. And even at the time, though still unacquainted
with the ways of the Ibandru, I wondered if the winter had not some
queer significance for the tribe. For not only was Abthar's expression
extraordinary, but he repeated several times, slowly and as if to
himself, "The winter, yes, the winter--we must remember the winter."
Unfortunately, I did not put the proper interpretation upon Abthar's
words--how possibly interpret them correctly? I assumed that the cold
season in Sobul must be particularly rigorous, or must be invested with
superstitious or religious importance. Hence I failed to ask questions
that might have proved enlightening.
"Then the winter here is a difficult time?" was my only answer to
Abthar's muttered half-reveries.
"You may indeed find it so!" he returned, his big deep-brown eyes
snapping with a peculiar force. And then, after a pause, he continued,
again with that pitying air I could not understand, "I am glad, young
man, that you mentioned the winter. I think you had better make ready
for it, since--who knows?--you may find it hard to bear."
"Well, after all," I argued, "I have been used to cold weather in my
own country."
"It is not only the cold weather," he assured me. "But wait and
learn--you may not even feel the winter. Yes, you too may escape the
barren and frozen days."
"Why should I escape any more than anyone else?"
But he did not reply, and I thought it fruitless to pursue the
discussion. As yet I had had little reason to suspect that the Ibandru
were not as the other tribes huddled among the fastnesses of the Hindu
Kush; and, in my ignorance, I overlooked completely the meaning behind
his meager, succinct phrases. And so, instead of attempting to fathom a
mystery, I turned the conversation into practical channels, and asked
just how to prepare for the winter.
"You can discover that for yourself," said Abthar, picking his way as
if pondering an unfamiliar problem. "First of all, you must fill in
your cabin window with a thick covering of dead boughs, and must cement
all the cracks and empty places with clay, so as to hold out the
blizzards. Then you must make yourself a cloak of goat's hide, and also
must gather firewood, storing as much as possible within your cabin,
and much more just outside. The most important thing, however, will be
to provide food, for the cold months may be long, and you may be unable
to find a crumb to keep you from starving."
Not until long afterwards did I remember that Abthar had spoken as if I
were to lead a hermit's life. At the time, I was too deeply absorbed in
my own thoughts to see beyond his words; the question of how to obtain
sufficient food was occupying me almost to the exclusion of other
subjects, and I contented myself with asking how to earn my winter's
board.
"You need not earn it," asserted Abthar, frowning. "Must I remind you
again that hospitality is not a lost virtue among the Ibandru? Merely
go out into the fields and take what you want--all the grain you can
bear away, apples from our orchards, plums and grapes for drying, nuts
from our groves, beets and pumpkins and whatever vegetables our farms
produce."
Again I thanked Abthar--and again expressed my unwillingness to take so
freely.
"You will be accepting nothing that we need," he insisted. "No matter
how much you require, we will have ample."
And with a nod signifying that the interview was over, Abthar returned
to his work amid the vines.
Hence it came about that, during the following weeks, I was busy
preparing for the winter. Under the warm September skies, flecked with
scarcely a cloud and lying like a serene blue roof between the great
pillars of the peaks, I was providing ceaselessly for the season of
tempests and snow. I equipped my cabin to be snug and relatively
weather-proof; I heaped it with firewood in the shape of the sawed dead
pine-branches which I bore laboriously from the forest; I provisioned
it with lentils, millet, wheat, barley, beans, dried mushrooms, and
"salep" (a paste made from a local tuber), which the people showered
upon me with amazing generosity.
But do not imagine that I found this work distasteful. City-bred
modern though I was, I felt a certain atavistic joy in my return to
the primitive. That joy, I must confess, was all the greater since I
did not always labor alone, for Yasma, like an agile and ingratiating
child, frequently would come running to my assistance. Not only did
she prove a fascinating companion, but she would display remarkable
skill and strength at manual tasks; she would insist on lifting great
chunks of firewood, yet would scarcely appear to feel the strain; she
would pile my provisions in a corner of the cabin with a regularity
and neatness that made me marvel; she would bring me earthenware pots
and pans, jugs and kitchen utensils, and would seem to hear neither my
protestations nor my thanks.
Nevertheless, I was already beginning to observe--and to be puzzled
at--the contradictions in her manner. Although she freely volunteered
to help me, she did not always work wholeheartedly. At times there was
a sadness and constraint about her; and my most determined efforts
could not penetrate behind the veil. Even today I can see her standing
aloof and wistful in the green fields, gazing in a revery toward the
great stone woman on the peak, or merely following with her eyes the
lazily drifting cotton clouds as though she would float with them to
lands beyond the mountains. I do not know why this memory comes back
to haunt and mock me, for then I did not understand, and now that I
understand it is too late; but when I recall how she would remain
staring at the southern summits, it seems to me that her eyes were
like the eyes of fate itself, peering beyond that which is to that
which must be and that which never can be.
But not always was she in so somber a mood. Frequently, like a
nimble-footed child, she would go tripping with me to the forest, where
we would collect the fallen dead branches; and she would flit about
happily as a fairy when we would gather pine-nuts, or pluck grapes or
apples, or search for mushrooms, or dig in the fields for edible roots.
It would be as though for a moment she had cast off a shadow--but for a
moment only, since always the shadow would return.
One sure way of bringing the oppression back was by asking a certain
question that was puzzling me more and more. While I was preparing so
laboriously for the winter, I was amazed to note that I was alone in
my efforts. No one else appeared aware that winter was coming: no one
filled in the gaps in the cabin walls, or made the windows storm-proof;
no one wove heavy clothing, or obtained more than the day's firewood,
or more food than seemed required for the moment's needs. At first I
had muffled my surprise by telling myself that soon the Ibandru would
begin their preparations; but as the days went by, and the unharvested
grain-lands lay tawny and dry, and the forest began to be flecked
with crimson and russet and yellow, a strange uneasiness laid hold
of me, and my growing astonishment was tinged with an unreasoning
fear. Ponder as I might, I could find no explanation of the Ibandru's
seeming negligence, particularly in view of Abthar's advice; and from
the Ibandru themselves I could expect no enlightenment. Always, when
questioned, they would evade the issue; they would tell me to wait and
be assured of an answer from heaven; or they would point mutely and
mysteriously to Yulada, as though that were a self-evident solution.
Even Yasma failed me despite repeated questionings. When I referred
even casually to the winter, she would assume that meditative and
far-away expression which I detested so heartily because it seemed to
make her so remote; a deep melancholy would shine in her eyes, and she
would peer at me with a vague unspoken regret. But she would never
admit why she was melancholy; and would answer me only indirectly, in
meaningless phrases. And at length, one evening in late September,
when I questioned her too persistently, she turned from me in a sudden
torrent of tears.
Reluctantly I had to acknowledge my defeat, and to confess that,
whatever mysteries might lurk behind the mountains of Sobul, I should
have to wait in silence until time should make all things plain.