_THE IBANDRU TAKE WING_
As October drifted by and November loomed within two weeks' beckoning,
a striking change came over Sobul. The very elements seemed to feel
and to solemnize that change, which was as much in the spirit of
things as in their physical aspect; and the slow-dying autumn seemed
stricken with a bitter foretaste of winter. Cold winds began to blow,
and even in the seclusion of the valley they shrieked and wailed with
demonic fury; torn and scattered clouds scudded like great shadows
over granite skies, and occasionally gave token of their ill will in
frantic outbursts of rain; ominous new white patches were forming about
the peaks, to vanish within a few hours, and appear again and vanish
once more; and daily the dead leaves came drifting down in swarms and
showers of withered brown and saffron and mottled red, while daily the
flocks of winged adventurers went darting and screeching overhead on
their way beyond the mountains.
But the stormy days, with all the wildness and force and passionate
abandon of wind and rain, were less impressive for me than the days
of calm. Then, when the placid sky shone in unbroken blue, all nature
seemed sad with a melancholy I had never felt among my native hills.
There was something tragic about the tranquil, ragged forest vistas,
shot through as with an inner light of deep golden and red, and
standing bared in mute resignation to the stroke of doom. But there was
something more than tragic; there was something spectral about those
long waiting lines of trees, with their foliage that at times appeared
to reflect the sunset, and at times seemed like the painted tapestries
of some colossal dream pageant. More and more, as I gazed in a charmed
revery at the gaudy death-apparel of the woods, I was obsessed with
the sense of some immanent presence, some weird presence that hovered
intangibly behind the smoldering autumn fires, some presence that
I could not think of without a shudder and that filled me with an
unreasonable awe.
Certainly my feelings, uncanny as they were, were to be justified
only too fully by time. Already I had more than a suspicion that the
season of southward-flying birds was a season of mystic meaning for the
Ibandru, but little did I understand just how important it was. Only
by degrees did realization force itself upon me; and then I could only
gape, and rub my eyes, and ask if I were dreaming. Stranger than any
tale I had ever read in the Arabian Nights, stranger than any fancy
my fevered mind had ever beckoned forth, was the reality that set the
Ibandru apart from all other peoples on earth.
As the weeks went by, the agitation I had noted among the natives was
intensified rather than lessened. I was aware of a sense of waiting
which grew until the very atmosphere seemed anxious and strained; and
I observed that the men and women no longer went as usual about their
tasks, but flitted to and fro aimlessly or nervously or excitedly, as
though they had no definite place in the world and were hesitating on
the brink of some fearful decision.
And then, one day when October was a little beyond mid-career, I
thought I detected another change. At first I was not sure, and accused
my imagination of playing pranks; but it was not long before I ceased
to have any doubts. The population of Sobul was dwindling! Not half
so many children as before were romping in the open among the houses,
not half so many women could be seen bustling about the village, or
so many men roaming the fields--the entire place wore a sudden air
of desolation. And in more than one cabin, previously the home of a
riotous family, the doors swung no longer upon their wooden hinges, but
through the open window-places I caught glimpses of bare floors and
dark walls innocent of human occupancy.
When had the people gone? And where? I had not seen anyone leave, nor
been told that anyone was to leave; and I witnessed no ceremonies of
farewell. Could the missing ones be victims of some terror that came
down "like a wolf on the fold" and snatched them away in the night?
Or were they merely visiting some other tribe in some other secluded
valley?
These problems puzzled me incessantly; but when I turned to the Ibandru
for information, their answers were tantalizing. They did not deny that
some of their tribesmen had left, and did not claim that this had been
unexpected or mystifying; but they were either unable or unwilling to
furnish any details; and I was not sure whether they felt that I was
probing impertinently into their affairs, or whether some tribal or
religious mandate sealed their lips.
I particularly remember the answers of Karem and Yasma. The former,
with his usual jovial way of avoiding the issue, advised me to have no
worries; the whole matter was really no concern of mine, and I might be
assured that the missing ones were not badly off or unhappy. By this
time I must have learned that the Ibandru had queer ways, and I must
prepare for things queerer still; but, until I was one with the tribe
at heart, I must not expect to understand.
Yasma's answer, though vague enough, was more definite.
"Our absent friends," she said, while by turns a sad and an exalted
light played across her mobile features, "have gone the way of the
birds that fly south. Yulada has beckoned them, and they have escaped
the winter's loneliness and cold, and have hastened where the bright
flowers are, and the butterflies and bees. See!"--Ecstatically she
pointed to a triangle of swift-moving dots that glided far above
through the cloudless blue.--"They are like the wild geese! They flee
from the biting gales and the frost, and will not return till the warm
days are here again and the leaves come back to the trees. We must all
go like them--all of us, all, all!"
"And I too--must I go?" I asked, never thinking of taking her words
literally.
Yasma hesitated. The light faded from her eyes; an expression of
sorrow, almost of compassion, flooded her face.
"That I cannot say," she returned, sadly. "You must feel the call
within you, feel it as the birds do, drawing you on to lands where
robins sing and the lilac blooms. No one can tell you how to feel it;
it must come from within or not at all, and you yourself must recognize
it. But oh, you cannot help recognizing it! It is so strong, so very
strong!--and it takes your whole body and soul with it, draws you
like a rainbow or a beautiful sunset; and bears you along as the wind
bears a dead leaf. You cannot resist it any more than you can resist a
terrible hunger--you must submit, or it will hurl you under!"
"I do not understand," said I, for despite the ardor of her words, I
had only the dimmest idea of the overmastering force she described.
"Perhaps," she returned, gently, "you cannot know. You may be like
a color-blind man trying to understand color. But oh, I hope not! I
hope--ever and ever so much--that you'll hear the call thundering
within you. Otherwise, you'll have to stay here by yourself the whole
winter, while the snow falls and the wolves howl, and you won't see us
again till spring!"
Her emotion seemed to be overcoming her. Fiercely she wiped a tear from
her cheek; then turned from me, to give way to her misgivings in the
seclusion of her father's cabin.
But I was not without my own misgivings. Her words had revived haunting
premonitions; it was as if some sinister shadow hovered over me, all
the more dread because formless. What unhallowed people were these
Ibandru, to go slinking away like specters in the night? Were they a
tribe of outlaws or brigands, hiding from justice in these impenetrable
fastnesses? Or were they the sole survivors of some ancient race,
endowed with qualities not given to ordinary humans? With new interest
I recalled the stories told me by the Afghan guides before my fateful
adventure: the reports that the Ibandru were a race of devils, winged
like birds and with the power of making themselves invisible. Absurd as
this tale appeared, might there not be the ghost of an excuse for it?
As for Yasma's predictions and warnings--what meaning had there been
in them? Was it indeed possible that I might be left alone all winter
in this desolate place? And was that why Abthar had advised me to
make ready for the cold season while his own people had apparently
done nothing to prepare? But, even so, how could they escape the
winter? Was it not a mere poetic vagary to say, as Yasma had done,
that they went to lands where robins sang and the lilac bloomed--how
cross the interminable mountain reaches to the semi-torrid valleys
of India or the warm Arabian plains? Or was it that, like the bears,
they hibernated in caves? Or, like the wild geese that they watched
so excitedly, were they swayed by some old migratory instinct, some
impulse dormant or dead in most men but preserved for them by a long
succession of nomad ancestors? Although reason scoffed at the idea, I
had visions of them trekking each autumn across four or five hundred
miles of wilderness to the borders of the Arabian Sea, surviving on
provisions they had secreted along the route, and returning with the
spring to their homes in Sobul.
Unlikely as this explanation appeared, nothing more plausible occurred
to me. But as the days went by, my sense of mystery increased. The
people were fleeing almost as though Sobul were plague-ridden--of that
there could be no further doubt! Daily now I missed some familiar face;
first a child who had come to me of evenings to run gay races in the
fields; then an old woman who had sat each morning in the sun before
her cabin; then Yasma's brother, Barkodu, whose tall sturdy form I
had frequently observed in the village. And then one evening when I
inquired for Karem, I was told that he was not to be seen; and the
people's peculiar reserved expression testified that he had gone "the
way of the birds that fly south." And, a day later, when I wished to
see Abthar in the hope that he would relieve my perplexed mind, I found
no one in the cabin except Yasma; and she murmured that her father
would not be back till spring.
But did I make no effort to solve the enigma? Did I not strive to
find out for myself where the absent ones had gone? Yes! I made many
attempts--and with bewildering results. Even today I shudder to think
of the ordeal I underwent; the remembrance of eerie midnights and
strange shadows that flickered and vanished comes back to me after
these many, many months; I feel again the cool, forest-scented breeze
upon my nostrils as I crouch among the deep weeds at the village edge,
or as I glide phantom-like beneath the trees in the cold starlight.
For it was mainly at night that I wrestled with the Unknown; and it was
at night that I received the most persuasive and soul-disturbing proof
of the weirdness of the ways of Sobul.
My plans may not have been well laid, but they were the best I could
conceive. From the fact that I had never seen any of the Ibandru
leaving, and that more than once in the morning I had missed some face
that had greeted me twelve hours before, I concluded that the people
invariably fled by night. Acting on this view, I hid one evening in
a clump of bushes on the outskirts of the village, resolved to wait
if need be until dawn. True, no one might choose tonight for the
migration; but in that case I should lie in hiding tomorrow night, and
if necessary again on the night after.
As I lay sprawled among the bushes, whose dry leaves and twigs pricked
and irritated my skin, I was prey to countless vexations. The night
was cold, and I shivered as the wind cut through my thin garments; the
night was long, and I almost groaned with impatience while the slow
constellations crawled across the heavens; the night was dark, and
fantastic fears flitted through my mind as I gazed through the gloom
toward the ghostly line of the trees and cabins. Every now and then,
when some wild creature called out querulously from the woods, I was
swept by desire to flee; and more than once some harmless small beast,
rustling a few yards off, startled me to alarm. But in the village
nothing stirred, and the aloof, shadowy huts, scattered here and there
like the monsters of a nightmare, seemed to bristle with unspeakable
menace.
Yet nothing menacing became visible as the long reaches of the night
dragged by and the constellations still swung monotonously between the
faint black line of the eastern ranges and the equally faint black
peaks to the west. At length, lulled by the sameness and the silence,
I must have forgotten myself, must have drowsed a bit, for I have a
recollection of coming to myself with a start, bewildered and with half
clouded senses.... The night was as tranquil as before, the trees and
houses as dark; but as I glanced skyward I detected the merest touch
of gray. And, at the same time, I had a singular sense that I was no
longer alone. Intently I gazed into the gloom--still nothing visible.
But all the while that same shuddery feeling persisted, as if unseen
eyes were watching me, unseen ears listening to my every motion.
Again I felt an impulse to flee; my limbs quivered; my heart pounded;
instinctively I crawled deeper into the bushes. And, as I did so, I saw
that which made me catch my breath in horror.
From behind one of the nearer cabins, two long lithe shadows darted,
gliding noiselessly toward me through the darkness. No ghost could
have shown dimmer outlines, or walked on more silent feet, or flooded
my whole being with more uncanny sensations. Straight toward me they
strode, looming gigantic in my tortured imagination; and as they
approached I hugged the bushes more closely, trembling lest the
phantoms discover me. Then suddenly they swerved aside, and passed at
a dozen paces; and through the stillness of the night came the dull
rhythm of sandalled feet.
For a minute I watched in silence. Then, encouraged by the pale
radiance which was swallowing the feebler stars and softening the
blackness above, I choked down my fears and crept stealthily out of the
thicket. Before me the two shadows were still vaguely visible, gliding
rapidly toward the southern woods. Like a detective trailing his prey,
I stumbled among the weeds and rocks in their wake. But, all the time,
I felt that I was pursuing mere wraiths; and, though I walked my
swiftest, I found it impossible to gain upon them. They were several
hundred yards ahead, and several hundred yards ahead they remained,
while I put forth my utmost effort and they appeared to make no effort
at all. And at last, to my dismay, they reached the shaggy boundary of
the woods; merged with it; and were blotted out.
With what poor patience I could still command, I took the only possible
course. While dawn lent gradual color to the skies, I hovered at the
forest edge; and in the first dismal twilight I began to inspect the
ground, hopeful of discovering some telltale evidence.
But no evidence was to be had. I did indeed find the footprints I was
looking for; the trouble was that I found too many footprints. Not two
persons but twenty had passed on this path, which I recognized as a
trail leading toward Yulada. But all the tracks were new-made, and all
equally obscured by the others; and it was impossible to say which were
the freshest, or to follow any in particular.
* * * * *
When I returned to the village, not a person was stirring among the
cabins; an unearthly stillness brooded over the place, and I could have
imagined it to be a town of the dead. Had I not been utterly fatigued
by my night in the open, I might have been struck even more strongly
by the solitude, and have paused to investigate; as it was, I made
straight for my own hut, flung myself down upon my straw couch, and
sank into a sleep from which I did not awaken until well past noon.
After a confused and hideous dream, in which I lay chained to a glacier
while an arctic wind blew through my garments, I opened my eyes with
the impression that the nightmare had been real. A powerful wind _was_
blowing! I could hear it blustering and wailing among the treetops;
through my open window it flickered and sallied with a breath that
seemed straight from the Pole. Leaping to my feet, I hastily closed the
great shutters I had constructed of pine wood; and, at the same time,
I caught glimpses of gray skies with a scudding rack of clouds, and of
little white flakes driving and reeling down.
In my surprise at this change in the weather, I was struck by
premonitions as bleak as the bleak heavens. What of Yasma? How would
she behave in the storm?--she who was apparently unprepared for the
winter! Though I tried to convince myself that there was no cause for
concern, an unreasoning something within me insisted that there was
cause indeed. It was not a minute, therefore, before I was slipping on
my goatskin coat.
But I might have spared my pains. At this instant there came a tapping
from outside, and my heart began to beat fiercely as I shouted, "Come
in!"
The log door moved upon its hinges, and a short slim figure slipped
inside.
"Yasma!" I cried, surprised and delighted, as I forced the door shut
in the face of the blast. But my surprise was swiftly to grow, and
my delight to die; at sight of her wild, sad eyes, I started back in
wonder and dismay. In part they burned with a mute resignation, and
in part with the unutterable pain of one bereaved; yet at the same
time her face was brightened with an indefinable exultation, as though
beneath that vivid countenance some secret ecstasy glowed and smoldered.
"I have come to say good-bye," she murmured, in dreary tones. "I have
come to say good-bye."
"Good-bye!"--It was as though I had heard that word long ago in a
bitter dream. Yet how could I accept the decree? Passion took fire
within me as I seized Yasma and pressed her to me.
"Do not leave me!" I pleaded. "Oh, why must you go away? Where must
you go? Tell me, Yasma, tell me! Why must I stay here alone the whole
winter long? Why can't I go with you? Or why can't you stay with me?
Stay here, Yasma! We could be so happy together, we two!"
Tears came into her eyes at this appeal.
"You make me sad, very sad," she sighed, as she freed herself from my
embrace. "I do not want to leave you here alone--and yet, oh what else
can I do? The cold days have come, and my people call me, and I must go
where the flowers are. Oh, you don't know how gladly I'd have you come
with us; but you don't understand the way, and can't find it, and I
can't show it to you. So I must go now, I must go, I must! for soon the
last bird will have flown south."
Again she held out her hands as for a friendly greeting, and again I
took her into my arms, this time with all the desperation of impending
loss, for I was filled with a sense of certainties against which it was
useless to struggle, and felt as if by instinct that she would leave
despite all I could do or say.
But I did not realize quite how near the moment was. Slipping from my
clasp, she flitted to the door, forcing it slightly open, so that the
moaning and howling of the gale became suddenly accentuated. "Until the
spring!" she cried, in mournful tones that seemed in accord with the
tumult of the elements. "Until the spring!"--And a smile of boundless
yearning and compassion glimmered across her face. Then the door
rattled to a close, and I stood alone in that chilly room.
Blindly, like one bereft of his senses, I plunged out of the cabin,
regardless of the gale, regardless of the snow that came wheeling down
in dizzy flurries. But Yasma was not to be seen. For a moment I stood
staring into the storm; then time after time I called out her name, to
be answered only by the wind that sneered and snorted its derision. And
at length, warmed into furious action, I set out at a sprint for her
cabin, racing along unconscious of the buffeting blast and the beaten
snow that pricked and stung my face.
All in vain! Arriving at Yasma's home, I flung open the great pine
door without ceremony--to be greeted by the emptiness within. For many
minutes I waited; but Yasma did not come, and the tempest shrieked and
chuckled more fiendishly than ever.
At last, when the early twilight was dimming the world, I threaded
a path back along the whitening ground, and among cabins with roofs
like winter. Not a living being greeted me; and through the wide-open
windows of the huts I had glimpses of naked and untenanted logs.
II
_Blossom and Seed_