HOME AGAIN
It was evening time. The red glow of the setting sun still tinted the
tops of the Sacred Grove round the Place of Assembly where the Hill
people were gathered.
One by one the leaders of each part of the operations told the story
of the happenings of that day. A simple tale, giving the names of the
men who had died in defence of the Hills. For such had been the custom
long ago. The greatest numbers had died in the assault on the camp in
the Plains. Outnumbered by the better armed Fulani, the attackers had
had no thought but to capture the camp by the quickest way--direct
assault--before the Fulani still in the pass could march upon the
peaceful Hill villages.
To those that had carried out the assault and to the relatives of all
those who had died was alotted the plunder of the camp: horses, tents,
rich clothing. The women found in the camp, pale soft beauties of the
harem, were now huddled together, frightened but unharmed, in the midst
of the Assembly.
The Rainmaker would accept nothing of the plunder. “For me I risked
nothing, and wish no profit. If it is for sacrifice to the gods that
you press these things upon me, are there not within the tribes
sufficient riches lacking owner? For Sura and his son Menud are no
more!”
There were murmurs of surprise. The death of the father was known, but
that of Menud?
“While the bridge was burning and I was loosening further timbers to
make its fall certain, the Chief of the Fulani came to the other side.
Dressed in gorgeous robes, his banner carried behind him, he approached
and made as if he would attempt to cross.” The Priest and Rainmaker
paused. Telling his story he tasted again the dramatic moment. “A man
with him, dressed in skins, like one of our own people, and not in
robes and quilted armor like the enemy, spoke with him. The chief did
not understand, and he whom I now saw was Menud made signs, as one
acting as guide, that they should turn back.”
The old priest turned sadly to the people. “And this I think is true,
that Menud was the traitor guide who betrayed the pass to the enemy.
But the chief thought him another kind of traitor, who had led them
into a trap. At a sign from him, a huge slave, bow-legged, like a
baboon, with arms and chest strong as four men’s, lifted Menud.” He
paused awhile.
“I think in that embrace his back was broken. The huge slave took
him easily by one leg, as one would lift a chicken, and he did not
struggle. For a time he held him thus, hanging by one leg, at arm’s
length, over the precipice. Then the chief spoke, and the slave dropped
him thudding into the depths. There was no cry.”
With the slow understanding of utter weariness the Hillmen were
digesting this news when an interruption occurred. All heads turned as
a Fulani, surrounded by a small guard, made his way through the crowd
and halted before Warok. Unarmed, surrounded by a guard of villagers
from the western part of the Hills, the man bowed in smiling good-humor
and uttered words of greeting in his unknown tongue.
At a sign the guard told their strange tale: “Before the sun struck
over our hills into the valley beneath our village, we saw an army,
greater than we have ever seen before, mustered in the Plains below.
What could we do?” The wizened ancient dropped his arms to his side in
a gesture of helplessness. “All our fighting men had already gone to
give battle with the rest of the tribe against the Fulani of the East.
And these were Fulani of the West, who have never been our enemies. But
at least this we could do: We sought for bows and such other weapons
as were left, I and the other elders, then went out among the rocks to
watch. There we came upon this man, alone and unarmed, following the
path to our village. We would have killed him, but he pointed onward,
as one having business. Moreover, he showed no fear! Instead we brought
him here. But also we bring the news of the army from the west waiting
in the Plains below our village!”
The stranger waited. He looked around him. Then his glance fell upon
the huddled group of Fulani women captured from the raiders. Again he
spoke a few words, looking hopefully at Warok. None understood him. He
looked around as if in search of someone whom he could not see. Then
the stranger had an idea. Shifting his weight to one foot, he slid the
sandal off the other and with big toe scratched the calf of the other
leg. Then, with make-believe bow, he gently scratched the middle of
his back, looking tensely into the distance the while. The dumb show
met with instant response. Calls for “Garram! Ho, Garram!” rose from
dozens of throats. For he had depicted Garram to the life. Garram
puzzled and thoughtfully scratching a leg. Garram watching distant game
and planning his approach, gently massaging his shoulder blades with
the end of his bow as he thinks, since flies settle on a hunter’s back
as soon as he stands stationary.
The young hunter had long gone to sleep again, and it was no easy
matter waking him as he lay, curled against Kon. The dog in fact came
across to greet his old friend some time before Garram was properly
awake. It was Ibrahim, Captain of the Guard, whom Garram had once saved
from death and possibly torture. Whom he had later saved from Menud’s
treacherous attack. Gladly the two greeted each other, while the dog’s
tail wagged as hearty a welcome.
Then all was easy going. Ibrahim came as an envoy sent by the Emir of
the West to seek alliance. “News has come of an army of the Fulani of
the East, who wish to cross your hills and attack us in the Plains of
the West. My master the Emir offers you the aid of his army to assist
in repelling them. Not this alone he offers, but lifelong alliance
between his people and your people of the Hills!”
[Illustration: GARRAM]
Puzzled at the silent reception of his message and the expression of
his audience Ibrahim paused. Then resumed: “If you think that you have
no need of aid, know then, that the army from the East is bigger than
any before known. As big as all your tribe, and as big as all the army
sent by my master. This much is known with certainty. And if you fear
the army sent by my master, know then that for your greater assurance
the Emir offers to place his men under the sole command of one of your
young men known as Garram the Hunter. For he is well known to my master
the Emir. Well known and well trusted!”
Again the envoy paused, and, while his message was being interpreted,
gazed curiously around him. Then: “What, then, is your answer, for even
now the enemy may be approaching?”
“The enemy was, but is no more,” Warok’s quiet voice replied. “Tell him
all.”
Garram explained to Ibrahim. Swiftly, however, for he still ached for
sleep. The wonder of the Captain of the Guard grew. Grew beyond all
expression. It could be no jest and was obviously no lie. Silently he
listened and marveled, and marveling he forced himself to believe the
incredible story.
Then he bowed to the Assembly. “Only, then, remains the offer of
friendship and alliance which my master the Emir makes you. Also the
offer of many and noble gifts which he will doubtless send you in
thanks for the service you have rendered us and in honor of your noble
deeds. Permit that I give you greetings and return to my army!”
“You have promised the assistance of the army you have brought. Will
you still lend this aid?” Warok’s eyes twinkled as he spoke.
Wonderingly Ibrahim assented.
“Good! Then let your army remove these women of the Fulani. They cannot
cook--this much is already known. And none wants them for wife, since
they are of the pale brownness of the Plains which we deem ugly. If
your master the Emir will send them back to their own tribe we shall
hold his debt fully discharged. For the Hills are for the Hillmen, and
we do not want this weak stock.”
Kon and Garram escorted Ibrahim as far as Kwallak and would have had
him stay. But the Captain of the Guard was not his own master till
his duties were performed. With reluctance they made their farewells,
the dark shadows of homegoing villagers passing them as they stood.
“O Ibrahim, now that you have come once, come yet again and again.
For there are klipspringer in the Hills which you have yet to shoot,
and rock rabbits that lurk in fortresses stronger than even the walls
of Yelwa. Come back again. Come to the Hills!” “Surely I will come,
O Garram!” Only three days since they had parted at Yelwa, but even
so the Captain of the Guard found the parting hard. “But see that you
come back to Yelwa, or life at the Court will become insupportable. For
three days has the Emir sat with the dread frown on his face, declaring
there is no honest man left in his kingdom now that you have gone. I
alone am in favor because jestingly I suggested that Kon would make him
a good Waziri, being grave and silent and something of a glutton!” Kon,
hearing his name, looked up as if in protest at the charge of gluttony,
and the two laughed.
“Some day I will surely come, Ibrahim. But first I want my Hills. My
Hills--and--euyyah!” Garram’s white teeth snapped together after a
luxurious double yawn--“sleep! Go in peace!”
“In peace, then,” Ibrahim responded.
An hour later Warok and the Rainmaker returned that way to the village.
Pacing in grave silence they nearly fell upon Kon. Stooping they lifted
something between them. “Have a care, old warrior, do not wake him,”
the priest’s booming voice tried to whisper. “He has earned his sleep.
Let us carry him to your fireside, where we may talk and smoke!”
“None has schemed more skilfully in this affair than Garram, my son,
unless it be you, O caller of rains and sunshine.”
The Rainmaker shook his head.
The old chief resumed: “Even so, none has worked harder or fought
harder than this boy. And surely none will sleep harder to-night! There
is no fear of waking him.”
Carefully the chief and the Priest of the Tribe carried the light body
between them. Kon padded round on anxious, silent paws. Up the rocky
path to where cooking fires gleamed in welcoming doorways. Where food,
sleep, and comfort were waiting.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.