_THE BIRDS FLY NORTH_
It was with a flaming expectation and a growing joy that I watched
the spring gradually burst into blossom. The appearance of the first
green grass, the unfolding of the pale yellowish leaves on the trees,
the budding of the earliest wildflowers and the cloudy pink and white
of the orchards, were as successive signals from a new world. And the
clear bright skies, the fresh gentle breezes, and the birds twittering
from unseen branches, all seemed to join in murmuring the same refrain:
the warmer days were coming, the days of my deliverance! Soon, very
soon, the Ibandru would be back! And among the Ibandru I should see
Yasma!
Every morning now I awakened with reborn hope; and every morning, and
all the day, I would go ambling about the village, peering into the
deserted huts and glancing toward the woods for sign of some welcome
returning figure. But at first all my waiting seemed of no avail. The
Ibandru did not return; and in the evening I would slouch back to my
cabin in dejection that would always make way for new hope. Day after
day passed thus; and meantime the last traces of winter were vanishing,
the fields became dotted with waving rose-red and violet and pale lemon
tints; the deciduous trees were taking on a sturdier green; insects
began to chirp and murmur in many a reviving chorus; and the woods
seemed more thickly populated with winged singers.
And while I waited and still waited, insidious fears crept into my
mind. Could it be that the Ibandru would not return at all?--that
Yasma had vanished forever, like the enchanted princess of a fairy tale?
But after I had tormented myself to the utmost, a veil was suddenly
lifted.
One clear day in mid-April I had strolled toward the woods, forgetting
my sorrows in contemplating the green spectacle of the valley. Suddenly
my attention was attracted by a swift-moving triangle of black dots,
which came winging across the mountains from beyond Yulada, approaching
with great speed and disappearing above the white-tipped opposite
ranges. I do not know why, but these birds--the first I had observed
flying north--filled me with an unreasonable hope; long after they were
out of sight I stood staring at the blue sky into which they had faded,
as though somehow it held the secret at which I clutched.
I was aroused from my reveries by the startled feeling that I was no
longer alone. At first there was no clear reason for this impression;
it was as though I had been informed by some vague super-sense.
Awakened to reality, I peered into the thickets, peered up at the sky,
scanned the trees and the earth alertly--but there was no sight or
sound to confirm my suspicions. Minutes passed, and still I waited,
expectant of some unusual event....
And then, while wonder kept pace with impatience, I thought I heard
a faint rustling in the woods. I was not sure, but I listened
intently.... Again the rustling, not quite so faint as before ... then
a crackling as of broken twigs! Still I was not sure--perhaps it was
but some tiny creature amid the underbrush. But, even as I doubted,
there came the crunching of dead leaves trodden under; then the
sound--unmistakably the sound--of human voices whispering!
My heart gave a thump; I was near to shouting in my exultation. Happy
tears rolled down my cheeks; I had visions of Yasma returning, Yasma
clasped once more in my arms--when I became aware of two dark eyes
staring at me from amid the shrubbery.
"Karem!" I cried, and sprang forward to seize the hands of my friend.
Truly enough, it was Karem--Karem as I had last seen him, Karem in the
same blue and red garments, somewhat thinner perhaps, but otherwise
unchanged!
He greeted me with an emotion that seemed to match my own. "It is long,
long since we have met!" was all he was able to say, as he shook both
my hands warmly, while peering at me at arm's length.
Then forth from the bushes emerged a second figure, whom I recognized
as Julab, another youth of the tribe. He too was effusive in his
greetings; he too seemed delighted at our reunion.
But if I was no less delighted, it was not chiefly of the newcomers
that I was thinking. One thought kept flashing through my mind, and I
could not wait to give it expression. How about Yasma? Where was she
now? When should I see her? Such questions I poured forth in a torrent,
scarcely caring how my anxiety betrayed me.
"Yasma is safe," was Karem's terse reply. "You will see her before
long, though just when I cannot say."
And that was the most definite reply I could wrench from him. Neither
he nor Julab would discuss the reappearance of their people; they would
not say where they had been, nor how far they had gone, nor how they
had returned, nor what had happened during their absence. But they
insisted on turning the conversation in my direction. They assured me
how much relieved they were to find me alive and well; they questioned
me eagerly as to how I had passed my time; they commented with zest
upon my changed appearance, my ragged clothes and dense beard; and
they ended by predicting that better days were in store.
More mystified than ever, I accompanied the two men to their cabins.
"We must make ready to till the fields," they reminded me, as we
approached the village, "for when the trees again lose their leaves
there will be another harvest." And they showed me where, unknown to
me, spades and shovels and plows had been stored in waterproof vaults
beneath the cabins; and they surprised me by pointing out the bins of
wheat and sacks of nuts and dried fruits, preserved from last year's
produce and harbored underground, so that when the people returned to
Sobul they might have full rations until the ripening of the new crop.
Before the newcomers had been back an hour, they were both hard at work
in the fields. I volunteered my assistance; and was glad to be able to
wield a shovel or harrow after my long aimless months. The vigorous
activity in the open air helped to calm my mind and to drive away my
questionings; yet it could not drive them away wholly, and I do not
know whether my thoughts were most on the soil I made ready for seeding
or on things far-away and strange. Above all, I kept thinking of Yasma,
kept remembering her in hope that alternated with dejection. Could it
be true, as Karem had said, that I was to see her soon? Surely, she
must know how impatiently I was waiting! She would not be the last of
her tribe to reappear!
That night I had but little sleep; excited visions of Yasma permitted
me to doze away only by brief dream-broken snatches. But when the gray
of dawn began to creep in through the open window, sheer weariness
forced an hour's slumber; and I slept beyond my usual time, and awoke
to find the room bright with sunlight.
As I opened my eyes, I became conscious of voices without--murmuring
voices that filled me with an unreasoning joy. I peered out of the
window--no one to be seen! Excitedly I slipped on my coat, and burst
out of the door--still no one visible! Then from behind one of the
cabins came the roar of half a dozen persons in hearty laughter ...
laughter that was the most welcome I had ever heard.
I did not pause to ask myself who the newcomers were; did not stop to
wonder whether there were any feminine members of the group. I dashed
off crazily, and in an instant found myself confronted by--five or six
curiously staring men.
I know that I was indeed a sight; that my eyes bulged; that surprise
and disappointment shone in every line of my face. Otherwise, the men
would have been quicker to greet me, for instantly we recognized each
other. They were youths of the Ibandru tribe, all known to me from last
autumn; and they seemed little changed by their long absence, except
that, like Julab and Karem, they appeared a trifle thinner.
"Are there any more of you here?" I demanded, after the first words of
explanation and welcome. "Are there--are there any--"
Curious smiles flickered across their faces.
"No, it is not quite time yet for the women," one of them replied, as
if reading my thoughts. "We men must come first to break the soil and
put the village in readiness."
* * * * *
If I had been of no practical use to the Ibandru in the fall, I was to
be plunged into continuous service this spring. Daily now I repeated
that first afternoon's help I had lent Karem in the fields; and when
I did not serve Karem himself, I aided one of his tribesmen, working
from sunrise to sunset with occasional intervals of rest.
It was well that I had this occupation, for it tended to keep me sane.
After three or four days, my uneasiness would have amounted to agony
had my labors not provided an outlet. For I kept looking for one
familiar form; and that form did not appear. More than twenty of the
men had returned, but not a single woman or child; and I had the dull
tormenting sense that I might not see Yasma for weeks yet.
This was the thought that oppressed me one morning when I began tilling
a little patch of land near the forest edge. My implements were of
the crudest, a mere shovel and spade to break the soil in primitive
fashion; and as I went through the laborious motions, my mind was less
on the task I performed than on more personal things. I could not
keep from thinking of Yasma with a sad yearning, wondering as to her
continued absence, and offering up silent prayers that I might see her
soon again.
And while I bent pessimistically over my spade, a strange song burst
forth from the woods, a bird-song trilling with the rarest delicacy
and sweetness. Enchanted, I listened; never before had I heard a song
of quite that elfin, ethereal quality. I could not recognize from what
feathered minstrel it came; I could only stand transfixed at its fluted
melody, staring in vain toward the thick masses of trees for a glimpse
of the tiny musician.
It could not have been more than a minute before the winged enchantress
fell back into silence; but in that time the world had changed. Its
black hostility had vanished; a spirit of beauty surrounded me again,
and I had an inexplicable feeling that all would be well.
And as I gazed toward the forest, still hopeful of seeing the
sweet-voiced warbler, I was greeted by an unlooked-for vision.
Framed in a sort of natural doorway of the woods, where the pale green
foliage was parted in a little arched opening, stood a slender figure
with gleaming dark eyes and loose-flowing auburn hair.
"Yasma!" I shouted. And my heart pounded as if it would burst; and my
limbs shuddered, and my breath came fast; and the silent tears flowed
as I staggered forward with outspread arms.
Without a word she glided forth to meet me, and in an instant we were
locked in an embrace.
It must have been minutes before we parted. Not a syllable did we
speak; ours was a reunion such as sundered lovers may know beyond the
grave.
When at length our arms slipped apart and I gazed at the familiar face,
her cheeks were wet but her eyes were glistening. It might have been
but an hour since we had met, for she did not seem changed at all.
"Oh, my beloved," she murmured, using the first term of endearment I
had ever heard from her lips, "it has been so long since I have seen
you! So long, oh, how long!"
"It has been long for me too. Longer than whole years. Oh, Yasma, why
did you have to leave?"
A frown flitted across the beautiful face, and the luminous eyes became
momentarily sad. "Do not ask that!" she begged. "Oh, do not ask now!"
And, seeing her distress, I was sorry that the unpremeditated question
had slipped from my lips.
"All that counts, Yasma," said I, gently, "is that you are here now.
For that I thank whatever powers have had you in their keeping."
"Thank Yulada!" she suggested, cryptically, with a motion toward the
southern mountains.
It was now my turn to frown.
"Oh, tell me, tell me all that has happened during the long winter!"
she demanded, almost passionately, as I clutched both her hands and she
stared up at me with an inquiring gaze. "You look so changed! So worn
and tired out, as if you had been through great sufferings! Did you
really suffer so much?"
"My greatest suffering, Yasma, was the loneliness I felt for you. That
was harder to bear than the blizzards. But, thank heaven! that is over
now. You won't ever go away from me again, will you, Yasma?"
She averted her eyes, then impulsively turned from me, and stood
staring toward that steel-gray figure on the peak. It was a minute
before she faced me again; and when she did so it was with lips drawn
and compressed.
"We must not talk of such things!" she urged, with pleading in her
eyes. "We must be happy, happy now while we can be, and not question
what is to come!"
"Of course, we must be happy now," I agreed. But her reply had aroused
my apprehensions, and even at the moment of reunion I wondered whether
she had come only to flutter away again like a feather or a cloud.
"See how quick I came back to you!" she cried, as though to divert
my mind. "I left before all the other women, for I knew you would be
waiting here, lonely for me."
"And were you too lonely, Yasma?"
"Oh, yes! Very lonely! I never knew such loneliness before!" And the
great brown eyes again took on a melancholy glow, which brightened into
a happy luster as she looked up at me confidently and reassuringly.
"Then let's neither of us be lonely again!" I entreated. And
forgetting my spade and shovel and the half-tilled field, I drew her
with me into the seclusion of the woods, and sat down with her by a bed
of freshly uncurling ferns beneath the shaded bole of a great oak.
"Remember, Yasma," I said, while I held both her hands and she peered
at me out of eyes large with emotion, "you made me a promise about the
spring. I asked you a question--the most important question any human
being can ask another--and you did not give me a direct answer, but
promised you would let me know when the leaves were again sprouting
on the trees. That time has come now, and I am anxious for my answer,
because I have had long, so very long to wait."
Again I noticed a constraint about her manner. She hesitated before the
first words came; then spoke tremblingly and with eyes downcast.
"I know that you have had long to wait, and I do not want to keep you
in suspense! I wish I could answer you now, answer outright, so that
there would never be another question--but oh, I cannot!--not yet, not
yet! Please don't think I want to cause you pain, for there's no one
on earth I want less to hurt! Please!"--And she held out her hands
imploringly, and her fingers twitched, and deep agitated streams of red
coursed to her cheeks.
"I know you don't want to hurt me--" I assured her.
But she halted me with a passionate outburst.
"All I know is that I love you, love you, love you!" she broke out,
with the fury of a vehement wild thing; and for a moment we were again
clasped in a tight embrace.
"But if you love me, Yasma," I pleaded, when her emotion had nearly
spent itself, "why treat me so oddly? Why not be perfectly frank?
I love you too, Yasma. Why not say you will be my wife? For I want
you with me always, always! Oh, I'd gladly live with you here in
Sobul--but if we could we'd go away, far, far away, to my own land, and
see things you never saw in your strangest dreams! What do you say,
Yasma?"
Yasma said nothing at all. She sat staring straight ahead, her fingers
folding and unfolding over some dead twigs, her lips drawn into rigid
lines that contrasted strangely with her moist eyes and cheeks.
"You promised that in the spring you would tell me," I reminded her,
gently.
I do not know what there was in these words to arouse her to frenzy.
Abruptly she sprang to her feet, all trace of composure gone; her eyes
blazed with unaccountable fires as she hurled forth her answer.
"Very well then, I will tell you! I cannot say yes to you, and I
cannot say no--I cannot, cannot! Go see my father, Abthar, as soon
as he returns--he will tell you! Go see him--and Hamul-Kammesh, the
soothsayer."
"Why Hamul-Kammesh?"
"Don't ask me--ask them!" she cried, with passion. "I've told you all I
can! You'll find out, you'll find out soon enough!"
To my astonishment, her fury was lost amid a tumult of sobbing. No
longer the passionate woman but the heart-broken child, she wept
as though she had nothing more to live for; and when I came to her
consolingly, she flung convulsive arms about me, and clung to me as
though afraid I would vanish. And then, while the storm gradually died
down and her slender form shook less spasmodically and the tears flowed
in dwindling torrents, I whispered tender and soothing things into
her ear; but all the time a new and terrible dread was in my heart,
for I was certain that Yasma had not told me everything, but that her
outburst could be explained only by some close-guarded and dire secret.