When they could no longer see the hilltop for cloud and mist, Thumb lit
a second fire on the isle of rock upon the verge of the cataract, where
the water could not scatter on it. But no sign came of Ghibba and his
five Moona-men, and Nod began to fret, and could eat no supper, for fear
that some evil had overtaken them. But he said nothing, because he knew
well enough by now that Thumb had much the same stomach for distrust as
himself, though he kept a still tongue in his head, and that it only
angered him to be pestered with questions no Mulgar-wit could answer. He
sat by the watch-fire in his draggled sheep's-jacket, his hands on his
knees, and wished he had lent Ghibba his Wonderstone. "But no," he
thought, "Mutta-matutta bade me 'to no one.' Ghibba is cunning and
brave; he will come back."
The Men of the Mountains coiled themselves up by the fire. They fear
neither for themselves nor for one another. "We die because we must,"
they say. Yet none the less they raise, as I have said, long ululatory
lamentations over their dead, and N[=o][=o]manossi is their enemy as
much as any Mulgar's. Thimble, still a little weak and hazy in his head
after his sickness, fell quickly asleep; and soon even Thumb, with head
wagging from side to side, though he sat bolt upright on his heels in
front of the fire, was dozing.
Nod alone could not close his eyes. He watched his brother's great face;
lower, lower would drop his chin, wheel round, and start up again with a
jerk. "Good dreams, old Thumb," he whispered; "dreams of Salem that
bring him near!"
And all the while that these thoughts were stirring in his head he heard
the endless echoing and answering voices of the cataract. Now they
seemed the voices of Mulgars quarrelling, shouting, and fighting near
and far; and now it seemed as if a thousand thousand birds were singing
sweet and shrill beneath the leaves of a great forest. The shadows of
the fire danced high. But the night was clear. He could see a great blue
star shining right over their thin column of smoke, winding into the
air. And now from the ravine into which Ghibba had gone down with his
five Moona-men the milk-pale mists began softly to overflow, as if from
a pot filled to the brim. If only Ghibba would come back!
Nod scrambled up, and rather warily shuffled past the sleepers over to
the other beacon-fire they had kindled. A few strange little
night-beasts scuttled away as he drew near, attracted by the warmth of
the fire, or even, perhaps, taking refuge in its shine from the
night-hunting birds that wheeled and whirred in the air above them.
"Urrckk, urck!" croaked one, swinging so close that Nod felt the fan of
its wings on his cheek. "Starving Mulgars, urrckk, urck!" it croaked.
He heaped up the fire. But he could not see a hand's breadth into the
ravine. Calm and still the mist lay, and softer than wool. Nod wandered
restlessly back, passed again the camping Mulgars, and hobbled across
till he came to the rocky bank of the torrent near to where it forked.
Here a faint reflection of the flamelight fell, and Nod could see the
drowsy fish floating coloured and round-eyed in the sliding water. And
while he was standing there, he thought, like the sound of an ooboë
singing amid thunder, he seemed to hear on the verge of the roar of the
cataract a small wailing voice, not of birds, nor of Mulgars, nor like
the phantom music of Tishnar. He crept softly down and along the
water-side, under a black and enormous dragon-tree. And beneath the
giant sedge he leaned forward his little hairy head, and as his
flame-haunted eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he perceived in the
dark-green dusk in which she sat a Water-midden sitting low among the
rushes, singing, as if she herself were only music, an odd little
water-clear song.
"Bubble, Bubble,
Swim to see
Oh, how beautiful
I be.
"Fishes, Fishes,
Finned and fine,
What's your gold
Compared with mine?
"Why, then, has
Wise Tishnar made
One so lovely,
Yet so sad?
"Lone am I,
And can but make
A little song,
For singing's sake."
Her slim hands, her stooping shoulders, were clear and pale as ivory,
and Nod could see in the rosy glimmering of the flames her narrow,
beautiful face reflected amid the gold of her hair upon the formless
waters. Mutta-matutta once had told Nod a story about the Water-middens
whom Tishnar had made beyond all things beautiful, and yet whose beauty
had made beyond all things sad. But he could never in the least
understand why this was so. When, by the sorcery of his Wonderstone, he
had swept all glittering the night before across the jewelled snow, he
had never before felt so happy. Why, then, was this Water-midden--by how
much more beautiful than he was then!--why was she not happy, too? He
peered in his curiosity, with head on one side and blinking eyes, at the
Water-midden, and presently, without knowing it, breathed out a long,
gruff sigh.
The still Water-midden instantly stayed her singing and looked up at
him. Not in the least less fair than the clustering flowers of Tishnar's
orchard was her pale startled face. Her eyes were dark as starry night's
beneath her narrow brows. She drew her fingers very stealthily across
the clear dark water.
"Are you, then, one of those wild wandering Mulgars that light great
fires by night," she said, "and scare all my fishes from sleeping?"
"Yes, Midden; I and my brothers," said Nod. "We light fires because we
are cold and hungry. We are wanderers; that is true. But 'wild'--I know
not."
"'Cold,' O Mulgar, and with a jacket of sheep's wool, thick and curled,
like that?"
Nod laughed. "It was a pleasant coat when it was new, Midden, but we are
old friends now--it and me. And though it keeps me warm enough marching
by day, when night comes, and this never-to-be-forgotten frost sharpens,
my bones begin to ache, as did my mother's before me, whose grave not
even Kush can see."
"The Mulgar should live, like me, in the water, then he, too, would
never know of cold. Whither do you and your brothers wander, O Mulgar?"
"We have come," said Nod, "from beyond all Munza-mulgar, that lies on
the other side of the river of the saffron-fearing Coccadrilloes--that
is, many score leagues southward of Arakkaboa--and we go to our Uncle,
King Assasimmon, Prince of the Valleys of Tishnar--that is, if that
Mountain-prince, my friend Ghibba, can find us a way."
The Water-midden looked at Nod, and drew softly, slowly back her smooth
gold locks from the slippery water. "The Mulla-mulgar, then, has seen
great dangers?" she said. "He is very young and little to have travelled
so far."
Nod's voice grew the least bit glorious. "'Little and young,'" he said.
"Oh yes. And yet, O beautiful Water-midden, my brothers would never
have been here without me."
"Tell me why that is," she said, leaning out of her heavy hair.
"Because--because," Nod answered slowly, and not daring to look into her
face--"because Queen Tishnar watches over me."
The Water-midden leaned her head. "But Tishnar watches over all," she
said.
"Why, then, O Midden, has, as your song said, Tishnar made you so sad?"
"Songs are but songs, Mulla-mulgar," she answered. "It is sad seeing
only my own small loneliness in the water. Would not the Mulgar himself
weary with only staring fish for company?"
"Are there, then, no other Water-middens in the river?" said Nod.
"Have you, then, seen any beside me?"
"None," said Nod.
The Water-midden turned away and stooped over the water. "Tell me," she
said, "why does the Queen Tishnar guard so closely _you_?"
"I am a Nizza-neela, Midden--Mulla-mulgar Ummanodda Nizza-neela
Eengenares--that is what I am called, speaking altogether. Other names,
too, I have, of course, mocking me. Who is there wise that was not once
foolish?"
"A Nizza-neela!" said the Midden, leaning back and glancing slyly out of
her dark eyes.
"Oh yes," said Nod gravely; "but besides that I carry with me...."
"Carry with you?" said she.
"Oh, only the Wonderstone," said Nod.
Then the Water-midden lifted both her hands, and scattered back her long
pale locks over her narrow shoulders. "The Wonderstone? What, then, is
that?"
Nod told her, though he felt angry with himself, all about the
Wonderstone, and what magic it had wrought.
"O most marvellous Mulla-mulgar," she said, "I think, if I could see but
once this Wonderstone--I think I should be never sad again."
Nod turned away, glancing over his shoulder to where, leaning amid the
stars, hung the distant darkness of Mulgarmeerez. He slowly unfastened
his ivory-buttoned pocket and groped for the Wonderstone. Holding it
tight in his bare brown palm, he scrambled down a little nearer to the
water, and unlatched his fingers to show it to the Midden. But now, to
his astonishment, instead of glooming pale as a little moon, it burned
angry as Antares.
The Water-midden peeped out between her hair, and laughed and clapped
her hands. "Oh, but if I might but hold it in my hand one moment, I
think that I should never even sigh again!" said she. Nod's fingers
closed on the Wonderstone again.
"I may not," he said.
"Then," said the Water-midden sorrowfully, "I will not ask."
"My mother told me," said Nod.
But the Water-midden seemed not now to be listening. She began to smooth
and sleek her hair, sprinkling the ice-cold water upon it, so that the
drops ran glittering down those slippery paths like dew.
"Midden, Midden," said Nod quickly, "I did not mean to say any
unkindness. You would give me back my Wonderstone very quickly?"
"Oh, but, gentle Mulla-mulgar," said the Midden, "my hands are cold;
they might put out its fiery flame."
"I do not think so, most beautiful Midden," Nod said. "Show me your
fingers, and let me see."
Both sly tiny hands, colder than ice-water, the beautiful Water-midden
outstretched towards him. He gazed, stooping out of his ugliness, into
those eyes whose darkness was only shadowy green, clearer than the
mountain-water. For an instant he waited, then he shut his eyes and put
the burning Wonderstone into those two small icy hands. "Return it to me
quickly--quickly, Midden, or Tishnar will be angered against me. How
must the Meermut of my mother now be mourning!"
But the Midden had drawn back amid the reeds, holding tight the ruby-red
stone in her small hands, and her eyes looked all darkened and slant,
and her small scarlet mouth was curled. "Can you not trust me but a
moment, Prince of the Mulgars?"
And suddenly a loud, hoarse voice broke out: "Nod ho, Nod ho! Ulla ulla!
Nod ho!" Nod started back.
"Oh, Midden, Midden!" he said, "it is my brother, Mulla Thumma, calling
me. Give me my Wonderstone; I must go at once."
But the Midden was now rocking and floating on the shadowy water, her
bright hair sleeking the stream behind her. Her face was all small
mischief. "Let me make magic but once," said she, "and I will return it.
Stop, Prince Ummanodda Nizzanares Eengeneela!"
"I cannot wait, not wait. Have pity on me, most beautiful Midden. I did
but put it into your hands for friendship's sake. Return it to me now.
Tishnar listens."
"Ummanodda! Ahôh, ahôh, ahôh!" bawled Thumb's harsh voice, coming
nearer.
"Oh, harsh and angry voice," cried the Midden, "it frightens me--it
frightens me. To-morrow, in the night-time, Mulla-mulgar, come again. I
will guard and keep your Wonderstone. Call me, call me. I will come."
There was a sudden pale and golden swirl of water. A light as of amber
floated an instant on the dark, gliding clearness of the torrent. Nod
stood up dazed and trembling. The Water-midden was gone. His eyes
glanced to and fro. Desolate and strange rose Tishnar's peak. He felt
small and afraid in the silence of the mountains. And again broke out,
hollow and mournful, Thumb's voice calling him. Nod hobbled and hid
himself behind a tree. Then from tree to tree he scurried in, hiding
under great ropes of Cullum and Samarak, until at last, as if he had
been wandering in the forest, he came out from behind Thumb.
"What is it, my brother?" he asked softly. "Why do you call me? Here is
Nod."
Thumb's eyes gladdened, but his face looked black and louring. "Why do
you play such Munza tricks," he said--"hiding from us in the night? How
am I to know what small pieces you may not have been dashed into on this
slippery Arakkaboa? What beasts may not have chosen Mulla-skeeto for
supper? Come back, foolish baby, and have no more of this creeping and
hiding!"
Nod burned with shame and rage at his jeers, but he felt too miserable
to answer him. He followed slowly after his brother, his small, lean,
hungry hand thrust deep into his empty pocket. "O Midden, Midden!" he
kept saying to himself; "why were you false to me? What evil did I do to
you that you should have stolen my Wonderstone?"
A thick grey curtain hung over the night, though daybreak must be near.
A few heavy hailstones scattered down through the still branches. And
athwart M[=o][=o]t and Mulgarmeerez a distant thunder rolled. "Follow
quick, Walk-by-night," said Thumb; "a storm is brewing."
The men of the Mountains were all awake, squatting like grasshoppers,
and gossiping together close about their watch-fire. Wind swept from the
mountain-snows, swirling sparks into the air, and streamed moaning into
the ravines. And soon lightning glimmered blue and wan across the
roaring clouds of hail, and lit the enormous hills with glimpses of
their everlasting snows. The travellers sheltered themselves as best
they could, crouched close to the ground. Nod threw himself down and
drew his sheep-skin over his head. His heart was beating thick and fast.
He could think of nothing but his stolen Wonderstone and the dark eyes
of the yellow-haired Water-midden. "Tishnar is angry--Tishnar is angry,"
he kept whispering, beneath the roar of the hail. "She has forsaken me,
Noddle of Pork that Nod is."
[Illustration]