REUNION.
When Roy Stone, having repaired the leak in his radiator, descended in a
long spiral, bringing his airplane to rest on the desert not far from
the mouth of the Great Road, he found as strange a reception committee
awaiting him as ever greeted an aviator’s landing.
It was near the hour of sunset. The last rays of the descending sun,
balanced on the edge of the world and about to sink below the horizon,
shot almost straight across the desert. Low sand dunes of so little
height as to seem almost invisible at noon, now shot lengthy grotesque
shadows to the east. The face of the Great Mountain Wall, solid unbroken
gray rock, glowed in a misty golden light. The far peaks of the interior
country, rising from pools of purple shadow, seemed like lighted cones.
The shadows of those standing grouped on the desert floor and waving
hands and burnooses in greeting, wavered to extraordinary length to the
eastward along the desert floor.
In that group were the majority of the dozen revolutionists of the
Korakum guard, only four having been left to patrol the spot where the
river broke through the interior mountains to run swift and wide around
the valley of Korakum. Bare-legged, togaed, they alone made a
sufficiently strange effect. But added to their number were Ali and four
of the Arabs. Akmet having been left to aid the Korakum guards, and they
were dressed in their flowing burnooses while beneath their turbans
appeared swarthy faces, hook-nosed and bearded. To cap all, were Mr.
Hampton, Jack and Frank, who had discarded burnooses in favor of soft
tan shirts, khaki pants and sandals. They still wore their sun helmets.
Descending in a long spiral, the airplane—a four-passenger bomber
type—struck the sand lightly, skimmed lightly across a sand dune and
came to rest on a smooth hard floor of sand.
From it stepped first Roy Stone, tearing leather helmet and goggles from
him and exposing a tanned face beaming at the greetings of the boys who
were approaching at a tearing run, and then Amrath whom Stone assisted
to alight. At sight of the latter Horeb who followed the boys let out a
shout of joy, and the next moment the two revolutionists were clasped in
each other’s arms, while their countrymen flocked about them, and from
the mass came a confused clatter of Athensian language for all the world
like an ignited pack of firecrackers.
“Listen to ’em hit their bloomin’ language on the nose,” ejaculated Roy
Stone, grinning. “Well, me lads,” he added, pumping away vigorously, for
Jack and Frank each had seized a hand, “I’m tickled to death to see you,
but if you let go a paw for a minute I’d like to shake Mr. Hampton’s
hand, too. If you don’t mind, y’ know.”
Whereat the boys released his hands and proceeded to thump him
enthusiastically on the back, a procedure which Stone answered by
whirling quick as a cat, and with a stoop and a sudden twist catching
both by the legs and dumping them unceremoniously on the sand. A burst
of laughter came from the Arabs.
“Glory be that you arrived,” said Mr. Hampton, as he clasped the
aviator’s hand and looked deep into his steady gray eyes. “For one
thing,” he added, in an undertone, “you’ve already done them good. What
they both need is a little play. They’re breaking their hearts over
Bob’s predicament, and that trick you just played on them has made them
laugh for the first time in many days.”
Stone nodded understandingly and then, as the boys having risen to their
feet joined him, still laughing, he said in a calm matter-of-fact tone:
“No need to worry about Bob, any more. We’ll snake him out of any old
mountain city in a matter of minutes. The old buss can go anywhere, and
if you lads and Uncle Roy can’t turn a simple trick like that, why, by
golly, we ought to be sent back to school. How about it?” he concluded
challengingly.
“Right,” said Jack, catching Stone’s spirit of optimism.
“No question about it now,” Frank firmly declared.
“That’s the spirit,” approved Stone. “Well, give me a couple of trusty
men to place on guard over the old buss so that nobody gets curious and
steals the engine or something, and then lead me to a bite to eat. I
could sink a tooth in some food without a qualm.”
“We’ve thought of the matter of guards,” said Mr. Hampton. “These
Athensian revolutionists and the Arabs all have seen airplanes before,
the Athensians having served in the various Spanish and French Foreign
Legions of Northern Africa or the British Sudanese forces. So none is
scared of it. Lieutenant Horeb has promised to put two men on guard, and
I think we can safely leave it to their charge. Yes, as you see”—he
added, pointing—“two men already have taken up their posts.”
“All right, then, come on,” said Stone nodding. “I’ve taken the keys,
and nobody can fly away with her. And out here on the desert, it’s
hardly likely there will be visitors, so lead on. I’m a starving man.”
Amrath approached to greet Mr. Hampton, whom he thanked again very
earnestly for having saved his life, and to be introduced to the boys.
His deep eyes glowed as he clasped the older man by the hand, and
promised his compatriots would spare no effort to rescue Bob from
Athensi. Then he departed with Horeb and the other revolutionists, while
the Hampton party with Roy Stone in the center, fell in behind, for the
walk up the Great Road to Korakum.
“Just the same,” said Mr. Hampton, as Amrath passed beyond earshot, “I’m
banking more on your efforts to save Bob by means of the airplane,
Stone, than on those of the revolutionists. Their leader is proceeding
cautiously, so as to rally the whole country around him before he moves
up to attack the walls of Athensi. Unless he executes a coup, gains
possession of the city by a trick, it will take months to bring about
its fall. Of course, he may not be successful at that, as the Oligarchy
has a powerful trained army of 5,000. No, it’s the airplane that must be
our salvation, or, rather, Bob’s, for it is quite possible the
Sacrificial Games in Athensi may come and go before the rebels succeed.”
Stone nodded.
“This fellow Amrath has been explaining the situation to me,” he said,
“so I know what you’re talking about. And I’m inclined to agree with
you. But I feel confident we can snake Bob out in the airplane. Amrath
has given me a minute description of the situation of Athensi and of the
location of the gladiators’ training camp, so to speak. He’s even drawn
me a kind of a rude map which I’ll show you later. It’ll be touch and
go, quite likely, but we’ll do it all right. I’ve got an ace in the hole
which I’ll tell you about later.”
Mr. Hampton dropped a hand on the aviator’s shoulder and pressed hard.
That night in Korakum there was a feast and merrymaking. Horeb had sent
word to Captain Amanassar of the expected arrival of their comrade
Amrath and of a friendly aviator with an airplane which he would place
at their service, after first attempting the rescue of the young
American captive from Athensi. This word he had sent as soon as learning
from Mr. Hampton of the message the boys had received by radio. Captain
Amanassar would not be able to come to Korakum, but Jepthah who
commanded at the entrance to the other pass, appeared as the feasting
began, and an affecting scene occurred on his reunion with Amrath.
Goats were killed, a skin of native wine was produced by the
revolutionists, there was a profusion of vegetables from their garden
plots, and the mingled Athensians and Arabs made merry, Mr. Hampton, the
two boys and Roy Stone, sitting at one side of the great fire, in the
light of which stood out not only the startling faces of Athensians and
Arabs but also the many-pillared front of an ancient temple at their
backs, looked on in delight at the scene. They were talking over plans
for the rescue of Bob, and examining the map of Athensi drawn by Amrath.
But even in the absorption of this pursuit, one or other would now and
again lift his eyes to gaze in artistic appreciation at the strange
sight.
Finally, even the map was put away, and the four turned all their
attention to their surroundings, for Akmet had been persuaded by his
fellows to tell a story and, once he began, although his language was
understood only by his fellows, the Athensians and the Americans alike
fell under the magic of his spell.
Many times before, at night encampments, Mr. Hampton and the boys had
heard Akmet recite stories. For, among Arabs, Moors, Berbers, and the
Negroes of the Sahara, the poet and the story-teller are held in high
esteem. And, although none of his American auditors could understand a
word of the Arabic, yet he had the gift of portraying by tone and
gesture the very spirit of the words.
At such times the three, with their sensitive imaginations, had been
stirred deeply. As for the Arabs, Akmet never failed to hold them
spellbound.
“You have a treat in store,” Mr. Hampton whispered to Stone.
But tonight Akmet was not the story-teller, but the composer of verses.
From a fold of his burnoose he drew out a beautifully worked small lute
upon which he struck with an eagle quill. For a moment or two he
thrummed idly, without tune, seeking a chord that appealed to him. At
the same time he stared all around the group which had drawn closer
about him, looking through vacant eyes at each in turn. There was a
pause, during which Ali drew close to Mr. Hampton and whispered:
“He is a poet—sometimes a great one. You will see and hear.”
Suddenly Akmet struck a new chord, one evidently to his liking. He
repeated it several times—a chord so deep and sad it sent a thrill of
emotion through every man there. Then he began to sing in a pleasing
barytone. At first he went slowly, awkwardly, but soon crowding thoughts
expressed themselves in words fluently and with grace. When he finished,
with a crash, there was not a dry eye.
Ali snuffled and leaned closer to Mr. Hampton.
“He was great that time,” he whispered. “He sang of his home in the
Sous. That is Berber land, far to the west of us. He has not been home
in many years, and that was a song of home sickness.”
“Great it was,” returned Mr. Hampton, “but,” he added, with a sidelong
glance at the solemn faces of his son and Frank, “tell him to give us
something more cheerful.”
Ali nodded and made his way to the side of Akmet who sat expressionless
in the midst of the storm of enthusiastic applause from his countrymen
in which the Athensians joined generously. Stooping, he whispered some
words in Akmet’s ear at which the latter nodded imperceptibly and cast a
swift reassuring glance toward Mr. Hampton before again dropping his
eyes.
Then Akmet’s fingers struck the lute again. A new note clanged—a warlike
note, and Akmet began. There was no need for translator. The Arabs knew
what he said. They sat big-eyed, open-mouthed, scarcely breathing, under
the spell of the poet. Nobody else knew, but they did not need to know.
It was as clear to them as if they understood every word. Clear, not
alone from the emotions Akmet aroused within their own breasts but also
from the story written on the faces of the singer’s countrymen.
It was a tale of war. And the swarthy face of the singer, played upon by
the leaping flame, portrayed every mood. His audience could see the
warriors riding across the barren wastes of the Great Desert, could hear
the clash of scimeters, the crackle of rifle fire, the whirring flight
of arrows and, at length, the women wailing of death. When the climax
came, it left all tense and wrung dry of emotion. As for Akmet, his face
sunk into an expressionless mold, he put the lute away, and stared into
the fire, while the Athensians applauded wildly and the Arabs flung
themselves upon him as if merely to touch his robe would bring them
happiness.
Ali was lost in this wave of emotion like the rest. Presently he
extricated himself, and made his way to Mr. Hampton’s side.
“That,” he said, “was the finest story I ever heard. But I can’t
translate it for you.”
He turned abruptly and strode away.
“Whew,” ejaculated Roy Stone. “The beggar is cocky.”
“No,” said Mr. Hampton, “just stirred profoundly. Well, so was I. The
Arabs, I have heard, are the greatest story tellers and poets in the
world. They never write their stories, but sing or recite them, and thus
they put into them infinitely more than the peoples who merely write.”
“Well,” commented Jack, “no story I ever read held me so enthralled as I
was tonight.”
“And no play or movie I ever saw,” added Frank. “I guess that must be
true about the Arabs if Akmet is a fair sample.”
After some further desultory conversation, the four Americans retired
for the night. Two Athensians were sent to the desert to relieve the two
on guard over the airplane, and the little encampment amidst the ruins
of Korakum sank into slumber.