_AT THE TIME OF THE FULL MOON_
A wedding among the Ibandru is celebrated by twenty-four hours of
feasting and rejoicing. All members of the tribe are invited, and all
are expected to participate; no one is permitted to labor in the fields
or at home; from dawn until dawn the village is delivered into the
hands of the merrymakers. Bonfires are lighted at night, and weird and
picturesque dances executed; songs are sung by day, and races run, and
games of strength and skill find favor; prayers are uttered, orations
made, stories told, and poems intoned. And as the supreme mark of the
occasion, a privilege that combines pleasure with consecration, the
elders of the tribe pass the jugs of "sacru," a local intoxicant made
from the roots of a starchy herb; and all are urged to drink out of
respect for the wedded pair.
Judged by the quantity of "sacru" consumed when Yasma and I were
married, the respect in which we were held was enormous. Had the
beverage not been withheld during the first two or three hours of the
festivities, many of the reverential ones would not have been in a
condition to appreciate anything that went on.
For my own part, I had not the same capacity for pleasure as some of
the others; indeed, rarely have I been so uncomfortable as on that day
which should have been the happiest of my life. Not that I did not
appreciate the importance of the occasion; or that I felt any desire
to undo the bond now being irrevocably tied. But the crowds of idlers,
staring and staring at Yasma and me as though to swallow us with their
eyes, made me feel miserably out of place; and the ceremonies were so
curious that I felt like an intruder.
When I awoke after a troubled sleep in the dusk of that unforgettable
May morning, I was vaguely aware of the undercurrent of excitement in
the village. Even at this hour, the people were abroad; I could hear
them moving quickly about, could hear their chattering voices. Without
delay, therefore, I arose and dressed in a bright blue and red native
costume, Abthar's wedding gift, which he had urged upon me in place of
my now ragged civilized garb; then somewhat timidly I stepped out of my
cabin.
The first persons I met were Karem and his brother Barkodu, who were
standing not twenty paces from my door, as though awaiting me. I
observed that long ribbons and tassels of red and yellow hung from
their heads and shoulders; while streamers of every conceivable
hue--crimson and purple, orange, lavender and green--had been strung
during the night from cabin to cabin, giving the village a fantastic
and festal appearance.
My two friends greeted me enthusiastically; muttered congratulations;
and led me to the cabin where Yasma was expecting my arrival. The
bride-to-be was clad in a slender, specially woven robe of sky-blue;
and ornaments of a stone like amethyst adorned her hair and shoulders.
My heart leapt as she beamed her greeting to me--how dazzling, I
thought, how dazzling beyond the most gaudy princess that ever graced
a salon! She was paler today than ordinarily; her eyes shone with an
unusual timidity; yet there was something ravishingly sweet about her
expression, a childlike candor and smiling loveliness that reminded me
of a flower just bursting into bloom.
But only for one instant I reveled in the sight of her. Then, though
she lingered at my side, she might have been a thousand miles away.
Together we were escorted to the open space in the center of the
village, where we were hailed by scores of men and women, all bedecked
with colored tassels and banners. Amid that staring multitude, each
member of which came forth in turn to express the same felicitations in
the same words, we had little chance to communicate with one another by
so much as a meeting of fingers or a sidelong glance. As best we could,
we endured the ordeal; but I could see that Yasma was being tired out
by the innumerable bows she had to make and the innumerable expressions
of thanks.
The sun had barely overtopped the eastern peaks when Hamul-Kammesh
arrived and the ceremonies began. The soothsayer was especially
apparelled for the occasion, and wore white robes that matched his
beard, and a two-foot conical white hat that brought me frivolous
remembrances. Yet he conducted himself with the august air of the
wise men of old, and spoke in the sonorous and measured tones of a
patriarch. He was especially impressive when he stationed himself on a
little newly reared mound in the middle of the clearing, and, taking a
small horn-like instrument from his cloak, blew a blast that brought
the noisy, chattering assemblage instantly to order.
"Let us begin by offering thanks to Yulada!" he thundered, as soon as
the spectators were giving him their undivided attention.
Instantly the three or four hundred men, women and children threw
themselves down upon the ground; stretched themselves full-length with
faces turned southward; and mumbled and muttered incoherently.
Of course, I had to prostrate myself along with the crowd, and to join
in murmuring the unintelligible jargon. But how thankful I was when the
ceremony was over! After this trial, it seemed a relief to listen to
Hamul-Kammesh.
"My friends," he proclaimed, in the manner of one who relishes his
own eloquence, "we are here today by the decree of Yulada, Yulada
whose ways are inscrutable and whose will no man can oppose. Why she
has brought us together I may not reveal, nor whether tomorrow she
will scourge us with earthquake and lightning. All that she permits
me to say is that this moment shall be one of rejoicing, for today we
celebrate the union of one of our daughters with a stranger from the
lands beyond the mountains. Never before have any of our maidens been
wedded except to sons of our own tribe, but let us not question Yulada,
who is wiser than all men; let us only give thanks, remembering that
whatever she does is for our best."
It will be needless to repeat the remainder of the sermon. It would,
in fact, be impossible to do so, for all that I can recall is that the
speaker continuously praised Yulada, emphasizing and re-emphasizing
his remarks until he had spoken for an hour and said the same thing in
twenty ways. Yet the audience listened with mouths agape and staring
eyes; and when he had finished, there was an uproar of approving yells
and cheers.
Following this frightful pandemonium, Hamul-Kammesh prepared to tie
the knot that would make Yasma my wife. In ringing tones he uttered
first my name, then hers; and in single file we had to thread our way
amid the squatting figures and take our places at the soothsayer's
side on the central mound. This was embarrassing enough; but a more
embarrassing experience awaited us upon our arrival at what I shall
call the stage. No sooner were we within touching distance than the
soothsayer, with a wide sweep of his arms, enfolded Yasma in a close
embrace. Of course, I realized that this was held essential to the
ceremony; but it did seem to me that Hamul-Kammesh was unnecessarily
long about releasing Yasma. I was about to cough tactfully when he at
length freed her, and, to my disgust, flung his arms in my direction,
and for an instant I felt his bristly white beard against my face.
But this time the embrace was not protracted. Indeed, I had no more
than realized what was happening, when it was over. And Hamul-Kammesh,
with a wry grimace, was again addressing the audience:
"The bride and bridegroom have now been enfolded in the arms of Yulada.
They are at last fit to leave their solitary paths; and I am therefore
ready to declare their two souls immortally one. But first I must speak
of their obligations. They must always hold the name of Yulada in awe,
and their children and their children's children must have the fear
of Yulada in their hearts. They must not fail in that worship which
Yulada commands; they must do deference each year by taking the way of
the southward-flying birds if but they hear the call; and, above all,
they must not reveal any of Yulada's secrets, and must never approach
within five stones' throws of the feet of the goddess. But during all
the season of green leaves they must remain in Sobul, tilling the earth
as Yulada wishes and roaming her mountains but never defiling her trees
or wild things. If so, long life will be theirs, unless--unless--"
Here Hamul-Kammesh hesitated, and something menacing came into his
tone.--"Unless Yulada should not choose to revoke her old prophecy,
but, for reasons which only she can fathom, should send some portent of
her wrath."
Crowning this address, Hamul-Kammesh stretched his arms imploringly
toward Yulada, and, with eyes upturned, mumbled a prayer. And, after
completing his incoherent mutterings, he took my right hand in his
left, and Yasma's left hand in his right, and joined our two hands in a
not unwilling clasp.
For a moment I fancied that this completed the ceremony, and that,
according to the law of Sobul, Yasma and I were now man and wife. But I
quickly perceived my error. While my betrothed and I stood with hands
interlocked, the soothsayer reached into the folds of his garments and
withdrew two little ruby-red stones, which he exhibited high in air.
"Here are the life-stones," he explained, "the gems that show the
fusion of the heart's blood. These, in the eyes of Yulada, are the
symbols of your union; and these Yulada shall now bestow upon you."
There followed an impressive silence, while Hamul-Kammesh carefully
examined the red trinkets. Then, turning to me and holding out the
larger of the two tokens, he asked, "Do you, the bridegroom, desire
this life-stone? Will you cherish it and preserve it, the sign and
consecration of your marriage, the gift of Yulada on your wedding day?"
"I shall be glad to do so."
"Then for you Yulada has tied the cord that cannot be broken!" And, by
means of a little projecting hook, the old man fastened the red stone
just above my heart.
Then, while the audience stood looking on breathlessly, he turned to
Yasma, held forth the second little jewel, and repeated the questions
he had asked me.
But what a startling change had come over Yasma! Her face had grown
tense and white; her eyes were distended; suddenly she seemed smitten
dumb. After Hamul-Kammesh had put the final question, she remained
simply staring at him--staring without a word!
"Will you cherish and preserve this life-stone?" repeated
Hamul-Kammesh, still displaying the ornament.
But still she could not reply. Her shoulders twitched, and a shudder
ran through her body; her lips trembled, but not a sound came forth.
"For the third time," repeated the soothsayer, in impressive tones, "I
ask whether you wish the life-stone? You are not compelled to answer,
but unless you do answer you cannot be married. If for the third time
you fail to reply, your silence will mean refusal, and there must be
no further festivities today; but the guests must leave, and no suitor
must seek your favor for another year. And so for the last time I put
the question--"
"Yes, yes, give me the life-stone!" sighed Yasma, in a broken voice, as
she reached toward the red trifle.
Without delay, Hamul-Kammesh hung the symbol of our union about her
neck.
* * * * *
As soon as Yasma and I had received our life-stones, the "sacru" was
passed and became the center of attention. The occasion was more than
welcome to me, not because of the liquor, which I scarcely tasted, but
for the sake of Yasma, with whom I desired an occasional word on this
our bridal day. While the men and women were crowding forward for their
share of the drink, I recognized my opportunity; and, motioning Yasma
to follow me, I threaded my way to the edge of the crowd and beyond the
furthest cabin to a trail winding through the woods. Fortunately, no
one seemed to notice our departure, for the enchantment of the "sacru"
was already at work.
Yasma seemed glad enough to accompany me; but though she shared in my
relief at breaking free from the crowd, her conduct was still peculiar.
She did not show any of the happiness natural to a bride, but was moody
and sad. She answered my questions and remarks only with monosyllables,
yet was by no means cold or indifferent, and gave evidence of her
affection by the clinging closeness with which she held my arm.
Having reached the woods, we seated ourselves side by side on a log at
the borders of some fragrant white-flowering bushes; and there we began
our wedded life in an unlooked-for fashion.
"Well, Yasma, we have come to the end of our separate roads," I
reminded her, patting her hand and trying to conceal my anxiety. "From
now on we shall follow one path together. Surely, it shall always make
us happy to look back upon this day. Shall it not, Yasma?"
Yasma's response was far from reassuring. A long silence intervened,
while she sat with head bent low and eyes averted. Suddenly, as I
sought to draw her close, I became aware that her whole form was
quivering.
"Yasma!" I cried, dismayed and bewildered, as I took the weeping girl
into my arms. "Yasma, Yasma dear, what is wrong?"
"Oh, I'm so afraid, so afraid!" she wailed, as she clung to me, her
face still turned away. "Please, please take good care of me! I'm so
afraid--I don't know why--I can't help it!"
Almost desperately she held me, and buried her face against my breast,
and sobbed and sobbed while I strove in vain to console her.
"But what can be the matter, Yasma?" I asked, beseechingly, when the
storm was beginning to spend itself. "I don't understand--I don't
understand at all!"
"Oh, I don't understand, either!" she burst forth, vehemently. "It's
silly of me, simply silly! There's no reason, not the least! Oh, you
shouldn't care for me, you shouldn't, you shouldn't!"
And the tears came in a renewed torrent, and it was minutes before they
had subsided again.
"Don't pay any attention to me--I'm too foolish!" she murmured, as she
sat clinging to me, her face still pitifully moist. "I know I shouldn't
act like this, but everything seems so strange and new. And I keep
thinking that what we've done today can never be taken back, never,
never! That thought frightens me. What if--what if Yulada should still
be angry with us?"
Of course, I strove my best to soothe away her fears. I told her that
we had nothing to dread from Yulada; that we had acted wisely and
should always be glad of it. Yet, even as I spoke, I could not be
convinced of the truth of my own words. And I am afraid that I did not
convince her. For she cut me short with an outburst such as I had not
expected even from her.
"Oh, let's forget Yulada--forget everything! Forget everything but you
and me! Nothing, nothing else can matter! I have you, and that is all
I want. That is all I ever want! Oh, stay with me, stay with me, my
beloved, and I do not care what Yulada may do--no, I do not care what
may happen in the whole world!"
Her words ended in another sobbing crescendo; but this time it was
not so hard to console her. Soon, calmed by my coaxing, she dried her
tears, and looked up into my face, timidly smiling; and at this I
forgot all my misgivings, and told her how blessed she was making me;
and she answered with a coy tossing of the head, and murmured things
that my memory will treasure always but that may not be repeated.
It was almost dusk when we returned to the village. From afar we
could hear the shouts and cries of the revelers, the booming of
drums, the shrilling of horns; and, upon approaching, we found the
people riotously absorbed in their games. Some were engaged in feats
of wrestling and jumping; some were racing about after little wooden
balls; some were juggling with pebbles, and some twisting their bodies
into fantastic contortions; some were dancing in a long writhing
serpentine; some scuttled to and fro like children in games of
hide-and-seek; some staggered aimlessly hither and thither with the
weight of too much "sacru."
So preoccupied were the people that our return was scarcely noted;
indeed, it was not apparent that our absence had even been observed.
But we did not care; we were glad enough to be left alone; and, after
satisfying our hunger from the fruits and dainties being passed about
on wooden platters, we withdrew to a secluded corner to await the
firelight festivities. Gladly we would have left entirely; but we must
be present later in the evening, when, in the midst of the cheering,
congratulatory throng, we would be escorted to my cabin, which had
been bedecked with ribbons and equipped with household supplies by our
friends, and which would be the stage for a second and briefer ceremony
under the auspices of Hamul-Kammesh.
But before that ceremony could take place, there was to be an
unscheduled exhibition. The sunset fires had barely died and the bright
yellow full moon peeped above the eastern ranges, when an uncanny
ruddy light flared beneath the moon; a great ball of fire blazed into
sight, soaring high with startling swiftness, like a projectile shot
out of some colossal gun. Sultry red with a glare that drowned out
the luster of the moon and stars, it went hurtling in a long curve
across the heavens and beyond the western peaks; and as it swept out of
view, sputtering and scintillating like a burning rocket, an unearthly
hissing came to our ears; while, after the specter had retreated, a
long copper furrow remained to mark its pathway, glowing and smoldering
and only gradually fading out amid the thin starlight.
The effect upon the Ibandru was overpowering. Within a few seconds the
celestial visitant had flashed into life and vanished; but for hours
the wedding guests could only gape and stare, muttering in alarm,
walking about as if distracted, prostrating themselves upon the ground
and praying to Yulada. All merrymaking was over for the night; no one
even thought of further festivities. "A portent! A portent!" cried the
people; and no words of mine could dissuade them. Useless to tell them
that they had observed merely a great meteor,--they were convinced that
Yulada had sent them a message, a warning; convinced that my marriage
was an unhallowed thing, and that only misfortune could follow. Even
Yasma shared in the general panic; her fears of a few hours before were
revived; and as she huddled against me, huddled desperately as a child
in need of comfort, I could feel her whole body quaking; and I had the
impression that I was holding not a woman but a caged bird suddenly
conscious of its bars.