_CRUCIAL MOMENTS_
Had I been the man that I was before my arrival in Sobul, I should not
have thought twice about Abthar's warnings. I should have laughed at
them as the wild imaginings of a primitive folk, and should have gone
my way regardless of his beliefs. But I was no longer the same man as
upon my arrival. My years of civilization were overcast and obscured;
so much of the seemingly miraculous had occurred that I was in a mood
to expect miracles. And so, when Abthar informed me of the prophecies
and the peril of marrying Yasma, it was not my full heart and soul that
rose up in revolt; my intellect did indeed protest, but not with the
courage of utter conviction; for an insinuating voice kept whispering
sly doubts and suspicions. What if some dismal fortune should actually
await me if I scorned Abthar's advice? What if I should endanger my
beloved? What if the tribe's disapproval, or the tribe's superstition,
or some sort of social ostracism, should pave the way for tragedy? Or
what if Yasma's own fears, or her passionate religious scruples, or her
peculiar training and habits of thought, should precipitate disaster?
Such were my thoughts as I sadly wandered back to my cabin after the
interview with Abthar. I was at the bleakest point of my reveries
when I heard a familiar voice hailing me cheerfully, and looked up to
find a brawny hand slapping me companionably on the shoulder and two
glittering black eyes staring inquiringly into mine.
"Tell me, what's wrong with the world today?" exclaimed Karem, gaily,
as he fell in at my side. "You looked so sad I thought you might be
needing a friend."
"I certainly am needing a friend," I acknowledged. And, eager for
sympathy, I told of my interview with his father, laying particular
stress on what had been said of Hamul-Kammesh and his prophecies.
Karem followed me attentively, but the sparkle never left his eyes.
"Yes, I've heard all about Hamul-Kammesh," he declared, quietly, when
I had finished. "Especially about his prophecies, which have given him
great fame. But I would not take them too seriously, if I were you."
"Your father seems to take them very seriously."
"Yes, of course, father would," remarked Karem, pointedly. "All the
more so, since he wants to keep you from my sister."
"So you don't think there's anything in them?"
"Oh, I would not say that. There is just as much in them as you want to
see--and just as little. The old folks would chop off their hands if
Hamul-Kammesh told them to, but we younger Ibandru--well, we younger
Ibandru sometimes have our doubts."
"I see," said I, glad to know that youth could be skeptical even in
Sobul. "But your father tells me that Hamul-Kammesh's prophecies always
come true."
Karem looked across at me with an ingenuous smile.
"So they will all tell you. But that too depends upon what you want to
believe. Naturally, Hamul-Kammesh had to make a prediction when Yasma
was born; he's expected to make a prediction at the time of every
birth. So as to be sure of himself, he foretold something that was not
to happen for seventeen years, when everyone would have forgotten just
what he said. Then, again, he said a stranger was coming to Sobul, and
there too he was safe, because if no man had appeared there would
certainly have been some male babe born during the year; and then
Hamul-Kammesh would have said that that babe was the man he meant in
his prophecy, but we should have to wait twenty years more until the
man was grown up and the prediction could come true. Of course, when
you unexpectedly arrived, he recognized his opportunity, and claimed to
have foreseen your coming seventeen years before."
"Nevertheless," I contended, doubtfully, "it _is_ a strange
coincidence, is it not?"
"If it were not for coincidences, Prescott, soothsayers would have to
pass their days tilling the soil like the rest of us!"
Thereupon Karem made an eloquent gesture toward the unplanted fields,
where a score of men were bent low with spades and shovels. And,
telling me that he had been idle too long already, he left me to my
ruminations.
But the effect of our conversation had been to lift me out of my
dejection. I could no longer trouble myself about the old medicine-man
and his predictions; could no longer believe that some dire fate
hovered over us; could no longer feel my union with Yasma to be
impossible. Whatever the obstacles, they were of a calculable and
natural character; and whatever the dangers, they were not too great
to confront and overcome. Reconsidering my problems in the light of
Karem's wisdom, I determined to face the prospect of marriage with
Yasma just as I might have faced a similar prospect with a girl of my
own race; I resolved to go to her at once, to put the entire question
before her, to reason with her, to plead with her, to overwhelm her
objections, to wrest a promise from her, and so to fight my way to the
speedy and triumphant consummation of our love.
* * * * *
The crucial moment was not long in coming. The next morning I went
to see Yasma at her father's cabin; and finding her preparing to set
out all alone for the woods, I invited myself to join her. Soberly we
started out together while I chatted about trifles, as if unaware of
the all-important turning point just ahead.--But could it be that the
next few hours would mark the climax of both our lives?
We had strolled perhaps two or three miles when we paused in a little
wildflower glade beside a sunlit brook. With a cry of delight at
the deep blue of the skies and the delicate immature green of the
encircling foliage, Yasma threw herself down in the grass; and, not
awaiting her invitation, I seated myself at her side.
For several minutes neither of us spoke. The rivulet trickled along
its way; bird called merrily to bird from unseen fastnesses in the
treetops; the first butterfly of the season went flapping past on wings
of white and yellow. And bird and butterfly and stream might have been
the sole subjects of our thoughts.
Yet all the while my mind was busy--and busy not with dreams of blue
skies or growing leaves or ripening blossoms.
"Do you know, Yasma," I finally began, while she sat wistfully gazing
toward the woods, "I was speaking to your father yesterday."
"Yes?" she murmured, in barely audible tones. To judge by the
faint-heartedness of her response, she might not have been interested;
yet I noticed that she gave a slight start and bent her head away from
me, while her fingers absently fondled the grass.
"Yes; I was speaking to your father," I repeated, my eyes intently
upon her. "Remember, you advised me to. I am glad that I did, for now
everything seems clearer."
"Clearer?" she asked, doubtfully, as she turned her gaze full upon me.
"What is clearer?"
For an instant I flinched before that steady, questioning glance.
"It is clearer, how we two should act. Let us not blind ourselves with
doubts, Yasma, nor throw our lives away over childish fancies. I have
considered everything; I have thought and thought, and cannot see any
objections great enough to stand in the way of our love. Let us pay no
heed to what anyone may say; we shall be married, you and I; yes, we
shall--"
Yasma had sprung to her feet; with a furious exclamation, she
interrupted me. "No, no, no! It cannot be!"
In quivering agitation, she started pacing about the glade; and I had
to go to her, and take her hands, and lead her back to her deserted
grassy seat.
"Now we must talk things over calmly, Yasma," I urged. "Your father and
I have talked them over calmly. And we have agreed quite well."
"But he didn't agree to let you marry me?" she demanded, almost
fiercely. "He didn't agree to that?"
"He gave me his advice, and said everything was in our own hands."
"What advice did he give?" she flashed at me, not to be put off by
equivocations. And her dark eyes shone with such distress that I would
gladly have ended all arguments in a swift embrace.
But I understood the need to state the facts unemotionally. As simply
as I could, I reported the general drift of my conversation with Abthar.
"You see!" she flung forth, when I had finished. "You see! It cannot
be!" And again she arose; and wringing her hands like one who has
suffered vile misfortune, she retreated to the further end of the
glade.
And again I had to go to her and lead her gently back to her seat by
the rivulet's brink.
"Let us be calm, Yasma," I pleaded once more. "There is no reason why
we cannot have everything we wish. We shall yet be happy together, you
and I."
"Happy? How can we be?" she lamented as her moist eyes stared at me
with unfathomable sadness. "You are not as I--you cannot go with me
each year when the birds fly south."
For a moment I did not reply. I had the curious impression of being
like the hero of some old fairy tale, a man wedded to a swallow or a
wild duck in human form.
"If I could not go with you," I entreated, though I felt the
hopelessness of my own words, "why could you not stay here? Surely, if
we were married, you might remain."
"Oh, I would if I could," she cried, clasping her hands together
fervently, and peering in despair toward the remote figure of Yulada.
"I would if I could!" And she bent her head low, and her clenched fists
hid her eyes, and her whole slender form shuddered.
"Yasma!" I murmured, with an echo of her own emotion, as I took her
into my arms.
But she broke away from me savagely. "No, no, you must not!" she
protested, her eyes gleaming and angry, her flushed cheeks newly wet.
"But why not? Why--"
"Because you and I are not the same! You do not know, you do not know
what it is to hear the call of Yulada, to feel the fire burning,
thundering in your veins, forcing you away when the leaves turn red,
forcing you away, over the mountains, far, far away!"
"I do not know, Yasma, but could I not learn?"
"You could not learn! Once I hoped so, but I do not now! Can the bird
raised in a cage learn to travel in the skies? You could not learn! It
is too late! Each year I must go away, but always you must stay here!"
"Even so, Yasma, let us not be sad. I would have you six months each
year, and that would be far, far better than not to have you at all."
"So you say," she murmured, looking up at me with wide, yearning eyes.
"So you say now. But when the time came for me to leave, would you
be contented? Rather, would you not be the most miserable man in the
world?"
"But why should I be miserable? Would I not know you were coming back?
Is it so terrible there where you go in the winter?"
"No, it is not terrible. It is beautiful."
"Then for your sake, I would reconcile myself. If you were happy, why
should I not be?"
"Because you are not made that way! No, you could not be happy, my
friend," she continued, staring at me with a melancholy smile. "And
perfectly dreadful things might happen."
Long, long afterwards, when it was too late for anything but memories,
I was to recall those words. But at the moment I brushed them aside,
for there in those peaceful woods, with the birds singing in the
treetops and the clear warm skies above, I did not believe that
anything dreadful could happen to Yasma or myself.
"If I am willing to endure your absence," I appealed, "then what should
be your objections? If those are your only reasons, let us prepare for
the wedding!"
"You know those are not my only reasons," she denied, almost
reproachfully. "You know there are a hundred other reasons! Now that
you have heard of the prophecies--"
"The prophecies mean nothing!" I asserted, emboldened by my talk with
Karem. "They are mere guesses! They will not come true!"
"What!" she flung back, horrified at this blasphemy. "You say
Hamul-Kammesh's prophecies will not come true?"
"No, Yasma, they are only meant to frighten us. Let us not be misled by
fairy tales."
"Fairy tales, you call them?"--Her attitude had become almost
defiant.--"You do not know much of Hamul-Kammesh, or you would not
speak so foolishly."
"All that I know," I acknowledged, letting just a trace of irony creep
into my words, "is that he is supposed to be the earthly agent of
Yulada."
"He is more than that. He is her seer, her prophet, her law-giver, her
tool of vengeance! Her will is his will! When he speaks, it is she that
addresses us! Why, you do not know of the wonders, the wonders he has
done, the wise things he has said!"
"No, I do not know."
"You have not heard how once he predicted disaster, and twenty people
were smitten with the plague! And, again, how he foretold a rich
season, and our harvests were the most bountiful we had ever known! And
how he prayed in time of drought, and the rain came; and how he spoke
to the waters when we feared a spring flood, and the waters shrank
back! No, you know nothing of Hamul-Kammesh! You cannot appreciate his
miracles! You are not to be blamed for scorning him, since you have had
no chance to learn!"
"I wish no chance to learn! His prophecies are against all reason!"
"Against all reason or not," she maintained, in the tone of one who
proclaims incontrovertible truth, "I know he does not predict falsely.
I am sure, oh, I am sure nothing good could come if we two--"
"All things good would come," I pleaded, "if you could forget him and
remember only our love." And, drawing close and letting my arms glide
about her, I repeated, "Remember only our love. For its sake, would you
not take any risk?"
"But not this, not this!" she cried, like one fighting a battle with
herself, as she withdrew hastily from my embrace. "Oh, not this!
I cannot risk ruining your life and mine! I cannot risk father's
anger--the anger of the village, the hatred of Hamul-Kammesh! No, I
cannot make you suffer as you would have to do! I cannot bring down the
wrath of Yulada! I cannot! There is no more to say! This is final!"
"Final?" I demanded, reeling as if beneath a blow, as I peered into
those eyes moist with suffering yet fiery with a new resolution.
"Yes, final!" she affirmed, in the manner of one who forces down a
bitter draught. "Final! There can be no other way!"
"Very well, then!" I burst forth, springing to my feet with all the
fury of my outraged feelings and balked desires. "Final, let us say
that this is final! Final that you will be ruled by a whim! Final that
you won't have the courage to fight for your own happiness, or care how
my happiness is dragged down! Very well then, let that be! I accept
your decision--let this be the final word between us! But I cannot live
without you! Tomorrow I leave your valley--yes, leave it not knowing
where I go; it does not matter where! I may be lost in the mountains
and starve, or stumble over a precipice, or be torn to death by wild
beasts--it does not matter! Nothing matters, nothing but you! Good-bye,
Yasma!"
Turning my back upon her, I started toward the village.
For a moment all was silent behind me. Then the stillness of the woods
was broken by a sob. Startled, I wheeled about; then strode back, and
in an instant had my arms about the yielding, convulsive form of Yasma.
"Oh, do not go away!" she wailed. "Do not go away from me, ever, ever!
You are everything to me, everything! Oh, what does anything else
matter? Let them warn me, forbid me, predict horrible things--I do not
care! Nothing could be more horrible than to have you go away! Oh, if
I knew I would be smitten dead for it tomorrow, I would still want you
here today!"
Again she broke into a passion of tears, which I soothed away as best
I could, though I too was near to weeping. But after her emotion had
subsided and she could talk calmly again, we sat side by side in the
glade for hours, discussing in whispers that which brought happy smiles
to our faces and sent a wistful light into her eyes, and also a light
of hope.