SHIPS FROM THE STARS
A wonderful huntsman was Kantisepa, the very greatest among his people.
In his aimless journeying he had passed over a large part of the vast,
immutable north, proceeding far from known haunts into lands which
seldom had heard the footfalls of the hunter. He had viewed wild scenes,
the glory and grandeur of which few other eyes had seen. Unnamed rivers
and lakes, lofty mountains, interminable swamps, places so barren and
devoid of all vegetation, so breathless, weird and forlorn that life
passed on in horror, fearful of the madness that lurked there—all these
he had looked upon during his ceaseless pilgrimages.
He had hunted moose and caribou and the ferocious black bears of the
mountains. Once he had fought off a wolf with no better weapon than a
club. His long association with the wild and its denizens had bred in
him a certain uncanny wisdom. Insects and beasts and birds—he knew them
all with the unerring certainty of a trained naturalist. Yet now,
standing in the bright glare of the sun, gaze focused on certain huge
dark specks in the distant horizon, it was evident from his expression
that at last he had seen something he could not classify.
Two birds of mammoth, gigantic size were flying straight towards him.
Larger than a moose or bear, of greater size even than the largest
tepee, they sailed through the air, drumming as they went. Their speed
and size and the horrible noise they made so frightened poor Kantisepa,
that he crouched low in a thicket, resolving under no circumstances to
show himself to the invaders.
Two of the huge birds flew close together—evidently for companionship.
The third one, probably much younger—for it was smaller—brought up the
rear, at a considerable distance behind its mates. As this bird drew
close to the clearing, an incredible thing happened. It fluttered
suddenly and began to fall. It came down, spinning, righted itself,
coasted along for quite a distance, as if planning to alight, then lost
control of its equilibrium entirely and crashed to the ground with such
a sickening thud that Kantisepa was quite sure that it was destroyed
utterly.
The two other birds were almost out of sight when the catastrophe
occurred. These, Kantisepa considered, must be the parent birds, and in
their eagerness to reach their destination, had probably forgotten their
offspring, which was probably just learning to fly. At any rate, though
the Indian stood a long time waiting, the others did not return and,
finally, overcome by the natural curiosity of his race, he set out in
the direction of the luckless victim.
When he had approached to within a few hundred yards of his objective,
he was startled almost out of his senses. Crawling out of the mass of
broken wings and fragments of the bird’s body, came a curious animal,
which in many respects resembled a man. A very marked difference between
the creature and a man was the enormous size of the creature’s
eyes—three or four times larger than the eyes of his own people—composed
of some peculiar substance which glinted and sparkled under the bright
reflection of the sun. Then Kantisepa noted another peculiarity:
Although possessing legs almost identical to his own, this strange being
did not stand upon them in the ordinary manner, but chose instead to
walk on both arms and legs, as a bear sometimes walks. Of a very ready
and open mind, Kantisepa could explain the creature’s presence in only
one way: a parasite of some kind, possessing the same relationship to
the bird as a flea would to a dog.
Coming still closer, he was forced to readjust his first impressions. He
knew wood and iron when he saw it. He gasped in wonderment. No bird at
all! Instead a magic ship, a marvelous creation, invested with the
strange power of sailing through the air. It, together with the two
others, had come from some remote land beyond the stars. Trembling in
every limb, he approached the strange being, who had crawled away from
the wreckage of the ship. The creature was grievously hurt. Blood
trickled on the ground beneath him. He had abandoned his efforts to
crawl away and now lay perfectly still, his shoulders heaving in
distress and pain.
Not without pity, Kantisepa shuddered at the sorry sight. With a slight
grimace, he turned and walked over to examine the magic ship. Peering
down within the center of the wreckage, he saw the form of another
creature, identical to the first except that this one was hopelessly
crushed and apparently quite dead. He withdrew his gaze quickly and
turned back again to the first being, who still retained some signs of
life.
Kantisepa quickly decided upon a course of action. He walked forward,
stooped down and picked up the man from beyond the stars and started off
in the direction of the village. He would take him to the chief medicine
man, who, if he could not actually save the creature’s life, could at
least place him on exhibition for the benefit of his curious kinsmen.
The village was a good six miles away, but the stalwart Indian on
previous occasions had carried heavier burdens. He would proceed half
way to his destination that night and the remainder on the following
morning. He was forced to move slowly and to rest often. The hours
passed. Finally the sun slid down to a far corner of the world until
only a dazzling sector of light remained. Kantisepa made camp just as
night dropped its curtain of dusk over the earth. Near at hand, he could
hear the murmur of a tiny stream, above which a mist arose, spreading
out gradually like a gray protecting shroud above the natural willow
hedges fringing the stream. Presently, the dew wet the grass. With a
mournful, unearthly cry, a night bird swooped down to the place where
Kantisepa stood, rising again on whirring wings to the dark vault of the
sky.
“It is an ill omen,” he thought, a sudden fear gripping his heart.
And so through the brooding, interminable hours he had remained awake.
First he had bathed and dressed the wounds of the strange being, then,
wrapping him in his own blanket to shut out the damp cool air, he had
kept silent vigil. Time crept on, its movements so slow and wearied that
it seemed to him that day would never come. The tense silence oppressed
him. It throbbed in his ears until the reaction of any slight sound
smote sharply upon him.
Morning came at last, heralded by flaming colors in the east, preceded
by a fitful breeze that stirred the dry grass uneasily at his feet.
Kantisepa was very tired. His body was stiff and sore. When he picked up
the strange being again to resume his journey, his legs trembled,
scarcely supporting him.
Late that morning he stumbled into the Indian encampment. Like many
brown inverted cones were the dwellings that stood row on row within a
narrow, peaceful valley. Through the center of the village trickled a
brook, which was fed from numerous small springs bubbling up between
broken rocks.
The place slept in a glare of brilliant sunlight. Dogs lay curled up in
the shade of the tepees. Children played listlessly in the dead grass or
waded knee-deep in the riffles of the brook. Here and there Kantisepa
discerned the squat indolent forms of women and, farther on, standing at
the extreme end of a willow copse, a single solitary hunter.
Suddenly the village came out of its picturesque somnolence. A dog
barked unexpectedly near at hand. Magically, the plain became dotted
with a scurrying throng. Men, women and children tumbled forth from drab
tepees. Sharp cries arose. Led by the most nimble of foot, the entire
populace raced forward to meet the returning hunter. Soon he was
completely surrounded. Inquisitive eyes peered down at the strange
being. Kantisepa was forced to put down his burden and immediately a
babble of voices arose, continuing until a tall, gaudily-apparelled
warrior pushed his way through to the spot and waved one arm
peremptorily.
“Who is this you have brought among us?” he demanded.
“A strange god from the skies,” Kantisepa answered proudly. “He came on
a ship which sailed through the clouds, but which met with disaster.”
“Are you sure he will not bring a curse upon us?” inquired the old
warrior.
Kantisepa wiped the perspiration from his face.
“He is without friends and without people,” he asserted. “A number of
his comrades in other magic ships of the air saw him fall but did not
come to his rescue.”
The chief stooped down and examined the partially conscious figure.
“He is a young man—a mere stripling youth. Did he travel alone?”
Kantisepa shook his head.
“No, there was one other with him, who now is dead.”
With a wave of his arm, the chief dismissed the jostling crowd and
turned again to the hunter.
“You have done well,” he complimented him. “Raise him up and bring him
to my tepee.”
Morning had passed. South the sun swept through blue unclouded skies.
Together Kantisepa and the chief went forward through a lane of curious
natives.
“This being is hurt and cannot return to his people,” said Kantisepa.
“His wonder ship of the air became demolished when it fell from the
clouds.”
They entered the tepee where Kantisepa deposited his burden gently on a
soft rabbit-robe, then rose with a weary gesture and turned again to the
headman of his tribe.
“It is a strange story,” he declared. “Yet it is true. If you will
summon the chief men of the village, this afternoon I will lead you and
them to the magic ship.”