_THE TURNING POINT APPROACHES_
When the days were shortening once more toward fall and the forest
leaves were showing their first tinges of yellow, I knew that I was
approaching an all-important turning point. Already I had passed two
autumns and two winters in Sobul, two autumns of mystery and two
winters of solitude; and it seemed certain that the third year would
bring some far-reaching change. I tried to tell myself that the change
would be beneficent, that the enigma of Sobul would be penetrated, and
that henceforth there would be no separation between Yasma and myself;
but even though I doubted my own hopes and feared some undiscovered
menace, I remained firm in my determination that Yasma should not leave
me this year.
More than once, when summer was still in full blossom, I gave Yasma
hints of my intention. But she either did not take them seriously, or
pretended not to; she would brush my words aside with some attempted
witticism, and did not appear to see the earnestness beneath my mild
phrases. In my dread of casting some new shadow over us both, I delayed
the crucial discussion as long as possible; delayed, indeed, until
the hot days were over and the woods were again streaked with russet
and crimson; delayed until after the Ibandru had held their annual
firelight festival; delayed until the brisk winds brought promise of
frost, and more than one of the tribesmen had gone on that journey
which would not end until the new leaves were green. Even so, I still
hesitated when the moment came to broach the subject; I realized only
too well that one false move might precipitate a storm, and defeat my
purpose.
The time I selected was a calm, clear evening, when twilight was
settling over the village and a red blaze still lingered above the
western range. Arm in arm Yasma and I had been strolling among the
fields; and as we returned slowly to our cabin, a silence fell between
us, and her exuberant spirits of the afternoon disappeared. Looking
down at her small figure, I observed how frail she actually was, and
how dependent; and I thought I noted a sorrow in her eyes, a grief that
had hovered there frequently of late and that seemed the very mark of
the autumn season. But the sense of her weakness, the realization of
something melancholy and even pathetic about her, served only to draw
me closer to her, made it seem doubly sad that she should disappear
each autumn into the unknown.
And as I pondered the extraordinary fate that was hers and mine, words
came to me spontaneously. "I want you to do me a favor, Yasma," I
requested. "A very particular favor."
"But you know that I'll do any favor you ask," she assented, turning to
me with the startled air of one interrupted amid her reveries.
"This is something out of the ordinary, Yasma. Something you may not
wish to do. But I want it as badly as I've ever wanted anything in the
whole world."
"What can it be that you want so badly and yet think I wouldn't give?"
"Do you promise?" I bargained, taking an unfair advantage. "Do you
promise, Yasma?"
"If it's anything within my power--and will bring you happiness--of
course I'll promise!"
"This will bring me the greatest happiness. When the last birds fly
south, and the last of your people have gone away, I want you to stay
here with me."
Yasma's response was a half-suppressed little cry--though whether of
pain or astonishment I could not tell. But she averted her head, and
a long silence descended. In the gathering darkness it would have
been impossible to distinguish the expression of her face; but I felt
intuitively what a blow she had been dealt.
Without a word we reached our cabin, and entered the dim, bare room. I
busied myself lighting a candle from a wick we kept always burning in a
jar of oil; then anxiously I turned to Yasma.
She was standing at the window gazing out toward the ghostly eastern
peaks, her chin sagging down upon her upraised palm.
"Yasma," I murmured.
Slowly she turned to face me. "Oh, my beloved," she sighed, coming to
me and placing her hands affectionately upon my shoulders, "I do not
want to pain you. I do not want to pain you, as you have just pained
me. But you have asked the one thing I cannot grant."
"But, Yasma, this is the only thing I really want!"
"It is more than I can give! You don't know what you ask!" she argued,
as she quickly withdrew from me.
"But you promised, Yasma," I insisted, determined to press my advantage.
"I didn't even know what I was promising! Why, it just never occurred
to me to think of such a thing; I imagined that had all been settled
long ago. Was it right to make me promise?" she contested, stanchly.
"I don't see why not," I maintained, trying to be calm. "Certainly,
it's not unjust to ask you not to desert me."
"Oh, it isn't a question of injustice!" she exclaimed, with passion.
"If I were starved, would it be unjust for me to want food? If I were
stifling, would it be unjust to crave air? Each year when the birds fly
south my people leave Sobul, not because they wish to or plan to but
because they must, just as the flower must have warmth and light!"
"But do you think you alone must have warmth and light? Do I not need
them too? Must I be forsaken here all winter while you go wandering
away somewhere in the sunshine? Think, Yasma, I do not absolutely ask
you to stay! I would not ask you to stay in such a dreary place! But
take me with you, wherever you go! That is all I want!"
"But that I can never do," she replied, falling into a weary, lifeless
tone. "I cannot take you with me. It is not in your nature. You can
never feel the call. You are not as the Ibandru; you would not be able
to follow us, any more than you can follow the wild geese."
"Then if I cannot go, at least you can remain!"
"No Ibandru has ever remained," she objected, sadly, as though to
herself. "Yulada does not wish it--and Yulada knows best."
Somehow, the very mention of that sinister figure made me suddenly and
unreasonably angry.
"Come, I've heard enough of Yulada!" I flared. "More than enough!
Never speak of her again!" And by the wavering candlelight I could see
Yasma's face distended with horror at my blasphemy.
"May Yulada forgive you!" she muttered, and bent her head as if in
prayer.
"Listen to me, Yasma!" I appealed, in rising rage. "Let's try to see
with clear eyes. You said something about fairness--have you ever
thought how fair you are to me? I can't go back to my own land because
I wouldn't leave you; but here in your land you yourself leave me for
months at a time. And I don't even know why you go or where. Would you
think it fair if I were gone half the time and didn't tell you why?"
Into her flushed face had come anger that rivalled my own. Her proud
eyes flashed defiance as she cried, "No, I wouldn't think it fair! And
if you are tired of staying here, you can go--yes, you can just go!"
"Very well then, I will go!" I decided, on a mad impulse. "If you don't
want me, I'll go at once! I'll return to my own people! The road is
open--I'll not trouble you to stay here this winter!"
As though in response to a well formed plan rather than to an
irrational frenzy, I began to fumble about the room for bits of
clothing, for scraps of food, for my notebook and empty revolver; and
made haste to bind my belongings together as if for a long journey.
For several minutes Yasma watched me in silence. Then her reaction was
just what it had been when, in a similar fury, I had run from her in
the woods long before. While I persisted with my preparations and the
suspense became prolonged, I was startled by a half-stifled sob from my
rear. And, the next instant, a passionate form thrust itself upon me
tensely, almost savagely, tearing the bundle from my grasp and weaving
its arms about me in a tearful outburst.
"No, no, no, you must not!" she cried, in tones of pleading and
despair. "You must not go away! Stay here, and I'll do anything you
want!"
"Then you'll remain all winter?" I stipulated, though by this time
I was filled with such remorse and pity that I would gladly have
abandoned the dispute.
"Yes, I'll remain all winter--if I can," she moaned. "But I do not
know, I do not know--if Yulada will let me."
It struck me that in her manner there was the sadness of one who
stands face to face with misfortune; and in her words I could catch a
forewarning of events I preferred not to anticipate.