When the Birds Fly South

By STANTON A. COBLENTZ

THE WINGS PRESS
Mill Valley, Calif.
New York, N. Y.

First Printing, 1945
Reprinted, 1951

Copyright 1945
by
The Wings Press

TYPOGRAPHY BY JOSEPH A. WENNRICH
Printed in the United States of America

[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

To
F. B. C.
whose eyes
have followed with mine
the flight
of the birds southward

Contents

I

Drifting Leaves

Chapter I

THE MOUNTAIN OF VANISHED MEN

High among the snow-tipped ranges of Afghanistan, there is a peak notable for its peculiar rocky crown. Unlike its lordly neighbors, it is dominated not by crags and glaciers, but by a projection which seems almost to bear the impress of human hands. From the southern valley, five thousand feet beneath, the traveler will observe a gigantic steel-gray figure carved in the image of a woman; and he will notice that the woman's hands are uplifted in an attitude of prayer, and that she stands with one foot slanted behind her and one foot slightly upraised, as though prepared to step into the abyss. How this lifelike form came to be perched on that desolate eminence is a mystery to the observer; but he assumes that it is a product of some prank of nature, for it is far too large to have been made by man. Yet he must be unimaginative indeed not to be awe-stricken at thought of the forces which gave that colossus birth.

I, for one, shall never forget my first glimpse of the stone Titan. As a member of an American geological expedition studying the mountain strata of Northern India, Afghanistan and Tibet, I had been tramping for hours through a winding rock-defile in company with nine scientific colleagues and the native guides. Suddenly, coming out through a break in the canyon, I looked down into a deep basin densely mantled in deodar and pine. Beyond this valley, to the north, a succession of jagged peaks shot skyward, their lower slopes dark-green with foliage, their upper altitudes bare and brown, and streaked here and there with white. Almost precisely in their center, as though in the acknowledged place of honor, one summit loomed slightly higher and less precipitous than the others, and on its tip the singular statue-like image.

My first impression was that it was an illusion. Never had I or any of my companions heard of such a figure; we were hardly less startled than if we had journeyed to the North Pole, there to gaze at a skyscraper. Eagerly we questioned our Afghan guides, but at first their stolid, swarthy faces simulated indifference, though they cast furtive and even frightened glances at one another. Then, pressed to speak, they assured us that the stone image was the work of devils; and finally they stated that the figure had been created by the "Ibandru," a race of mountain folk with wings like birds and the power of making themselves invisible.

Naturally, my friends and I laughed at such a naïve superstition. Yet when I proposed that we climb the mountain and seek the home of the "Ibandru," our guides repeated their warning that these people were powerful and evil-minded enchanters. And when, not to be daunted by fairy tales, I insisted on investigating the mountain top, the natives betrayed their alarm by their rolling dark eyes and eloquent gestures, and swore that if we ever began the climb we should be unable to return. Scores of their countrymen had been bewitched and lost in seeking the peak, which was known as "The Mountain of Vanished Men"; and for their own part, they would sooner wrestle with tigers than lead us up the slopes.

There was no arguing the point—they were beyond reason. Nevertheless, in the face of common sense, I could not be contented. From the beginning, that womanlike image had taken hold of my imagination; and, far from discouraging me, the fears and protestations of the natives had only whetted my curiosity. Should opportunity offer, I would scale the mountain and discover for myself if there was any excuse for that terror which the stone figure aroused in the Afghans.

The opportunity, unfortunately, was not long in coming. That evening we pitched camp among the pines at the base of "The Mountain of Vanished Men." Since the site was ideally located at the brink of a clear-bubbling rivulet, and since several of us were exhausted from our strenuous traveling, we decided to remain for a day or two before continuing toward the northern gorges.

Next morning I urged that, whether with guides or without, several of the men join me in a climb to the stone image. The ascent, I pointed out, promised to be easy enough, for the mountain showed a long even grade that rarely approached the perpendicular; and, in the absence of undetected glaciers or ravines, there would be nothing to keep us from the peak. I was even so confident as to assert that, starting shortly after dawn, we would set foot on the summit and be back in camp by evening.

Most of my comrades were not convinced. They swore that it would be foolhardy to entrust ourselves to this unknown wilderness; they painted in gruesome terms the danger of being lost, and the still greater danger from wild beasts, rock slides, and crevasses in the snow and ice; and they scoffed when I vowed that I would go alone if no one would accompany me.

Yet among our party there was one who, either through lack of foresight or an insensitiveness to fear, was ready to risk any hazards. That man, Jasper Damon, was one of those persons with a passion for getting into trouble,—a sure instinct for upsetting canoes in deep water, or invading hollow tree trunks infested with rattlesnakes. All through this expedition he had been my especial companion; and now, while the others sat by with loud guffaws and mocking grimaces, he rushed to my rescue. Springing from his seat just when I most needed an ally, he shook my hand and assured me that a little jaunt to the top of the mountain was the very thing he desired.

Even today I do not know why he joined me. Perhaps the figure on the peak exercised a mysterious compulsion upon him, as upon me; or perhaps he was merely moved by good fellowship. But, whatever his motives, he displayed real zest in his preparations. His black eyes fairly crackled in his long, stubbled face; his lean, lanky figure, with the spidery legs, bustled about in noisy animation. In less time than it took me to make the proposal, he had secured food and firearms and a knapsack containing ropes and climbing equipment; and, scornful of the warnings of our companions and the oaths and mutterings of the natives, he started with me on the long ascent before the sun had lifted its head halfway above the east-ridges.

For more than an hour we plodded along a vague little trail beneath the dark foliage. Many a day must have passed since the last man had followed this track; the occasional small five-clawed footprints showed who the recent passers-by had been. But we were not depressed by thought of the frightful solitudes, nor by fear of the unseen creatures occasionally rustling in the brush; and even when we had literally to dig our way through the thickets, we did not let discouragement mar our spirits. Although the slopes were moderately steep, they were not hard to scale; and we felt sure that early afternoon would see us on the summit.

This hope found support when, before the morning was half over, we reached a more sparsely timbered area, and shortly afterwards came out into a region of straggling shrubs. The rocky ribs of the mountain now stretched bare and gigantic before us, the dismal gray slopes inclining at an angle of from twenty to fifty degrees. Far above, perched on a little cone not unlike the tip of a volcano, that curious statue-like formation loomed encouragingly larger; and a wisp of cloud dangled playfully about the summit and beckoned us to be of good cheer and make haste.

But it was not easy to make haste along those unsheltered ridges under the glaring mid-July sun. More than once, as Damon and I sweltered upward, we glanced regretfully back at the green valley; and more than once we observed that the peak, like the fruit of Tantalus, seemed only to retreat as we toiled to approach it.

The higher we mounted, the less likely did it appear that we could gain the summit and return by evening. We encountered no impassable obstacles, and never had to use the climbing tackle; yet in places we literally had to crawl, relying upon our arms as much as upon our legs, and consequently were so delayed that when the sun stood in mid-heaven the peak still beckoned from the remote blue.

Had any trace of our wits remained, we would now have recognized that we sought the unattainable. But that inscrutable figure above had woven a charm about us; upward, still upward we trudged, pausing only for an occasional drink from an icy little stream. Our eyes were so fascinated by the peak, and by its amazing woman-shaped crown, that we did not notice signs which could hardly have escaped us in a more cautious mood. Not until too late did we observe the increasing murkiness of the atmosphere, the gradual formation of bands of mist that gathered as if from nowhere, the merging of those bands into clouds that obscured the further ranges and approached us with silent and deceptive velocity.

I was just speculating as to the distance still before us, when an exclamation from Damon startled me back to reality. And suddenly I was aware of the menace.

The skies were no longer blue, but gray with vapor; the slopes below us were disappearing in fog, and even the peak was being blotted from view!

"Back! Let's go back!" I muttered, thoroughly frightened.

Without a word, Damon joined me in frantic retreat.

But we had delayed too long. Before we had returned many hundred yards, the fog was all about us. Like some evil unearthly thing, it blocked our pathway with intangible streamers, and reared a gray wall before us and to every side, and stretched a gray roof just overhead; and it drew closer, insidiously closer, until we could see not ten feet beyond, and the wild panorama of the mountains had given way to a hazy cell the size of a small room.

A cautious man, no doubt, would have proposed remaining where we were. But neither of us relished the prospect of camping possibly for twenty-four hours in this solitary spot; and both of us vaguely felt that, after descending a little, we would come out into the daylight beneath the clouds. Besides—and this was most unreasonable, and most unlike me—I was agitated by a dim, superstitious fear, I could scarcely say what of, as if by some sixth sense I knew of shadowy horrors that lurked unseen and unheard in the gloom.

Yet we had to advance with the timidity of tight-rope walkers; at any instant, we might find ourselves dangling at the edge of a precipice. In the first moments of that unequal contest we had hopelessly lost our way; we had been unable to follow the trail, since we could not see far enough to recognize the landmarks; while, as we descended at random among the rocks, we realized that, even should we escape from the fog, we might find it far from easy to make our way back to camp.

I do not know how long we continued groping through the mist. It may have been half an hour, or an hour; certainly, it seemed the better part of a day. But as Damon and I picked our path between the boulders among the enfolding vapors, despair was gradually settling over us both, and we felt as if some malign spirit had walled us off from the world.

Even so, I cannot explain how we opened the door for the greatest horror of all. Perhaps it was only that Damon was displaying his usual recklessness; perhaps that the fog had driven us in too much upon ourselves. All I know is that, looking up after an absent-minded revery, I received a bewildering shock—the mist was hemming me in almost at arm's length, and Damon was not to be seen!

For a moment I was too dazed to cry out. My mind was filled with the fantastic ideas that come to a man at such a crisis. Had my companion stepped over a precipice? Had he been crushed by a dislodged boulder? Had some prowling beast fallen upon him?

As these questions shot over me, I was startled to hear my name shouted in a familiar voice. But the words seemed to issue from far away, and I had only the vaguest idea of their direction.

"Damon! Damon!" I shouted back, in mingled hope and dismay. "Where are you?"

"Here! Here, Prescott! Here!" came the voice, after a second or two. But I was still mystified as to the direction.

Yet, in my excitement, I cried, "I'm coming!" and started off on what I imagined to be the proper course.

At intervals the calling continued. Damon's voice did not seem to draw nearer, but did not seem to grow more remote; and several times, by way of desperate experiment, I changed my direction—which only increased my confusion. Now I would be sure that the voice cried from my right, and now that it shrilled from my left; at first I thought that it came from beneath me, but before long I felt that its source was above.

And as I went fumbling through the fog, anxiety gave way to panicky impatience, and the slim remnants of my wits deserted me. The climax came when, after forcing my way through a cluster of jagged rocks that bruised my arms and legs and tore my clothes, I found myself at the base of a cliff that shot upward abruptly out of sight. From somewhere above, I felt sure, I heard Damon's voice calling, hoarse from overstraining and plaintive with fear. And at the thought that an unscalable wall divided us, I behaved like a trapped animal; heedless of the abysses beneath, I started hastily along the base of the cliff in what I supposed to be Damon's direction.

But again I had miscalculated. When I next heard my friend's voice, it was much fainter ... growing ghostly faint and remote; and continued to grow fainter still, until it was no more than a murmur borne across far distances. And now, when I screamed his name in a cracked and broken way, the only answer was in the echoes that reverberated along the mountainside, with thin and hollow notes like the mockery of fiends.

In despair, I told myself that I had lost track of Damon completely. But all at once a resounding report broke the stillness of the mountains. Shocked, I stood as if frozen—and instantly the report was repeated. Was Damon battling some foe, four-footed or human? Or was he merely signaling with his revolver?

Then, while I stood quivering there beneath the precipice, the pistol rang forth again, and again; and the echoes pealed and dinned with unearthly snarls and rattlings.

So unnerved was I that I did not think of replying with my own revolver. But, seized with a frenzy to rejoin Damon at all costs, I started through the fog almost with the madness of a stampeding steer.

And now at last my recklessness betrayed me. Whether my foot slipped, or whether I had dared an impossible grade, I do not know; but with breathless suddenness, I was plunging down a terrifying slope. To stop myself was beyond my power; with a sprinter's speed I went racing down the mist-dimmed mountainside. For an instant I had visions of gigantic spaces beneath me, of prodigious chasms, jutting rocks—then all things grew blurred, my mind whirled round and came to a stop ... and the darkness that ensued was for me as the end of the world.

Chapter II

THE VERGE OF THE PRECIPICE

Hours must have passed while I lay without movement or consciousness. For when at length I came to a confused awareness of myself, the scene had changed alarmingly. The fog must still have been about me; but all that met my eyes was a black blank, an opaqueness so absolute that for the moment I imagined I had lost my sight. It was a minute before I dimly recollected what had happened, and knew that I was somewhere on the mountainside, and that it was now night.

But it was long before I realized the full horror of my predicament. My head was feeling dull and dazed; my throat was parched; I was by turns shivering and burning, and my limbs were all aching and sore. I was lying sprawled head down on a couch of rock, and a rock-wall to my left formed my support and pillow; but when I tried to change position, a staggering pain in my right arm warned me to go slowly, and I understood that the limb was hanging limp and useless.

It did not occur to me then to wonder what had happened to Damon, nor how long I should have to remain here, nor how I should escape. My thoughts were blurred and half delirious, and I think that unconsciousness came to me again in snatches. More often than not I was as one in a dream; visions of white peaks beset me continually, and always on those peaks I saw a gigantic woman with hands outspread and beatifically smiling face; and that woman seemed at times to call to me, and at times to mock; and now she would take me to her in great warm arms, and now would vanish like vapor in my clasp....

It was after one such nightmare that I opened my eyes and found the darkness less intense. A pale gray light seeped wanly through the mist; and in that dreary dawn I came gradually to understand my own helplessness. While everything above was clouded, the fog had unrolled from below—and my gaze traveled to panoramas that bewildered and appalled me. Then, as by degrees the fumes cleared from my mind, I was able to realize just what had happened—and shuddered to think what might have happened. I was resting on a narrow ledge; above me the rocky grade leaned at an angle halfway to the vertical, and beside me was a blood-spattered boulder. It was this obstruction that had saved my life—directly at my feet, a precipice slanted down to the dim depths.

And yet, as I lay there groaning, I wondered if I would not have been better off to have plunged into the chasm. I was so bruised that I could hardly move a limb; my legs were too feeble to support me when I strove to rise; internally I was so shaken that I could not be certain of my equilibrium; and my right arm, acutely painful, dangled helplessly at my side. Clearly, escape would be impossible....

And if at first I imagined that there was just a chance of rescue—just a chance that a searching party from camp would find me—my hopes gave place to a dull, settled despair as the hours wore endlessly away. The fog, after lifting for a while, slowly re-formed; and with its return I felt that my death-sentence had been passed. I could not now be seen at more than twenty yards—and who could come near enough to discover me on this detached shelf?

There followed an interval in which I must have sunk into delirium. Then, after a series of grotesque imaginings or dreams in which I was always trying to drink from streams that vanished at my touch, I was roused from a half-conscious lethargy by the sound of voices. Could it be that I was still dreaming? As eagerly as was now possible, I stared into the wilderness of crags. The fog had vanished; but the only moving thing was a great bird circling in the blue.

Cruelly disappointed, I again closed my eyes. But once more I thought I heard voices calling. This time there could be no doubt—the sound had been clear-cut, reminding me of men joyously shouting.

And as that sound was renewed, I opened my eyes again, and peered searchingly into the abyss. Still all was bare and motionless. Yet, even as I wondered, I heard those mysterious voices anew, nearer now than ever; and for the first time I recognized that they came not from beneath me but from above! Eagerly I gazed up at the rocky heights—but there was no sign that they had ever been disturbed by human presence.

I was half convinced that my fever had been playing me tricks, when a slender little moving shape far above caught my attention. After an instant, it disappeared behind a ledge, but after another instant emerged; and close behind it trailed other specks—slowly jogging specks with upright forms!

In that first dumbfounded moment, I did not ask myself who they might be. Enough that they were human—and almost within hail! Quivering uncontrollably, I strove vainly to lift myself to a sitting posture. Then, with what scanty lung power remained to me, I attempted to shout; but my dry throat gave forth scarcely a feeble mumbling, the mere ghost of a voice.

And directly following that first sharp relief, still sharper terror seized me. Must I remain here unseen? At that thought, I was racked with a dry crackling laugh, more like a cough than an expression of mirth; and I lifted my left hand and frantically waved my red-bordered handkerchief, while cackling and gibbering to myself like an insane old man.

By bending my neck and straining my eyes, I could still follow the figures. Had my enfeebled voice permitted, I would have shouted out curses, would have laden them with all the imprecations of hell, when they passed directly above and glided on their way around a bend in the mountain. There were at least half a dozen of them, and they could not have been from the camp, for they were clad in blue and red not at all like the khaki we wore; and their voices had some quality quite unlike anything I had heard before. There even seemed to be a note of excitement in their calls, a tone of surprise, though of that I could not be sure.

Some time later I opened my eyes once more, and saw three turbaned men descending almost within arm's reach.

Whether they had been friends or head-hunting savages, their first effect upon me would have been the same. In my weakened state, I was unprepared for the shock; my senses forsook me, and unconsciousness returned.

But when at length I came to myself, I seemed to be in another world. The first thing I realized was that I was sitting with head propped up against the boulder; and at the same time I was aware of the sound of voices, voices that were pleasant although unfamiliar. And as I opened my eyes, my surprise increased; not three strangers but six stood before me, two of them women!

Even in my half-dazed condition, I observed something peculiar about these persons. A single glance told me that they belonged to no race I had ever seen or heard of; they were manifestly mountaineers, yet did not wear the usual Afghan garb. Men and women alike were attired in stout loose-fitting dark-blue garments of some material reminding me of canvas, with red stripes and dots, and bizarre yet not unattractive designs. In person they were clean-cut and prepossessing; the men tall and well-built, with long full beards, swarthy countenances and proud flashing black eyes; while the women were among the most attractive I had ever seen.

So, at least, it seemed to me when the younger, scarcely more than a child, lifted a small leather flask to my mouth and motioned me to drink. With an effort, I moistened my lips; then, frantic as a drug addict deprived of his drug, I swallowed a long draught, draining the entire contents.

And as, half revived, I lay against the boulder, I observed that the strangers were all peering at me with curiosity and wonder. But equal wonder and curiosity, I am sure, stared from my own eyes; while my glance may have already been too partial to her who had ministered to my thirst. For I could see how strikingly she differed from her companions; her complexion was lighter than theirs, and she had an airy grace and beauty which set her apart.

Peering at her closely, I thought that she might be about sixteen or seventeen. Her clear white skin had the stainlessness of perfect health; her hair, which hung in unbound curls and ringlets about her slender neck, was of a rich auburn; her eyes, in startling contrast to that auburn, were dark like the eyes of her kindred, and in the deep brown of the iris live fires glowed and smoldered; her features were modelled with exquisite daintiness, the forehead of medium height and rounded like a half moon, the nose small and gracefully pointed, the gently curving chin tapering to a firm little knob. Her lips, tiny and thin, had at times a creasing of merriment about the corners that gave her almost a puckish appearance. Although slimly built and not much over five feet in height, she did not lack at all in robustness; she flitted from place to place with great agility; and her rude unhampering garments fitted her ideally for mountain climbing.

After the exhaustion of our first few minutes together, I was again close to unconsciousness. But now I felt strong hands lifting me; and opened my eyes to find two men smiling upon me encouragingly. At the same time, something pungent and aromatic was thrust between my lips; the girl was extending a handful of dried herbs, which she motioned me to consume with a genial dimpling smile that I had no power to resist.

After swallowing the food, I felt considerably better. Having finished the entire handful and washed it down with a draught from a second leather flask, I had revived sufficiently to try to sit up unaided; and simultaneously I realized how ravenously hungry I was, and felt a fresh desire to live flaming up within me.

Being eager for a word with my benefactors, I muttered something in English without thinking exactly what I was saying. But the surprised answering stares cut me short in sharp realization. What could these mountain folk know of English?

There was a short, awkward pause; then, after a few words among themselves, they addressed me in their native tongue. At the first syllable, I realized that theirs was not the cultivated Persian of the Afghan court, but rather a variety of Pushtu, the speech in most common use among the people. From my wanderings of the past few months and especially from contact with the native guides, I had gathered a few words of this language, enough to enable me to recognize its peculiar intonation, although I could express none but the simplest ideas.

After a second handful of the dried herbs, and another draught of water, I felt well enough to try to stagger to my feet. But the effort was too much for me; my limbs threatened to collapse beneath me; and two of the men had to bolster me up.

But once I had arisen, they would not let me return to my rock-couch. Grimly they motioned toward the snow-streaked northern peak, as if to indicate that we must pass beyond it; at the same time, one of them pointed to the stone image on the summit; while the others, as if observing a religious rite, extended their arms solemnly and almost imploringly toward that strange womanly figure.

At the moment, it did not occur to me that their attitude was one of prayer; but later I was to remember this fact. For the time, my thoughts took a more personal turn; for when I saw my new acquaintances preparing to lead me across the mountains, I was profoundly alarmed. Although still too stunned to take in the full reality, I knew that I was on the threshold of unpredictable adventures, and that many a day might pass before I could rejoin my fellow geologists.

But when the ascent actually began, I was not at all certain that I should survive. We seemed to be undertaking the impossible; I had, literally, to be lifted off my feet and carried; my legs were useful only on the short stretches of comparatively level ground. In the humiliation of being an invalid, I felt a deep sense of inferiority to these brawny men that tugged and strained to bear me up the mountain; while, with increasing admiration, I noted the capable way in which they carried me along the brink of canyons, or over grades that I should have had to make on my hands and knees. But greatest of all was my admiration for the young girl who had offered me the dried herbs. She seemed agile as a leopard and sure-footed as a mountain sheep, leaping from boulder to boulder and from crag to crag with the swiftness and abandon of a joyous wild thing....

Hours—how many I cannot estimate—must have been consumed in the ascent. Fortunately, I am not a large man, being but five feet six in height and considerably under the average weight; but, even so, I proved more than an ordinary burden. Though my rescuers worked in shifts and each seemed powerful enough to carry me single-handed, yet before long the exertion began to tell upon them all. Occasionally, after completing some precipitous ascent, they would pause to mop their brows and rest; or else their bulging eyes and panting frames would testify to the ordeal they were undergoing.

Higher and higher we mounted, while they showed no thought of abandoning their efforts. In joy not unmixed with a half-superstitious dread, I saw the statuesque figure on the peak slowly approaching; saw its outlines expand until it seemed but a mile away, clad in a somber gray and beckoning like some idol superbly carved by a race of Titans. But while I was asking myself whether we were to climb to the very foot of this image, I observed that we were following a little trail which no longer ascended but wound sinuously about the mountainside. For what seemed time unending we plodded along this path, while in my weakness I was more than once close to fainting.

But, as we jogged ahead, the scenery was gradually changing; from time to time I caught glimpses of far-off snowy peaks and a deep basin north of "The Mountain of Vanished Men." It was long before this valley stretched before us in an unbroken panorama; but when I saw it entire it was enough to make me forget my sufferings.

Certainly, it was unlike any other valley in the world. A colossal cavity had been scooped out in the heart of the wilderness; on every side the mountain walls shot downward abruptly for thousands of feet, forming a circle dominated at all points by jagged and steepled snow-tipped peaks. Dense woods mantled the lower slopes, and the valley's entire floor was forested except for relatively small patches of grass lands. The whole depression might have been five miles across, or might have been fifteen; but it was deep and round as the crater of some gigantic extinct volcano; and there seemed to be scarcely a pass that gave exit or ingress. I particularly noticed how the shadows, creeping blackly from the western mountain rim as the afternoon sun declined, shed an uncanny, ghost-like effect; while remote waterfalls, leaping soundlessly from the high cliffs with slender streamers of white, served only to enhance the impression of a spectral and unreal beauty.

It was with sudden joy that I saw my new-found acquaintances turn toward this valley, and realized that this was the home to which they were leading me.

Chapter III

WELCOME TO SOBUL

How we accomplished the descent is one of the mysteries that will always be associated in my mind with the Valley of Sobul. Even for the unhampered traveler, as I was to learn, the grades were perilous; but for climbers impeded with the weight of a disabled man, they must have been well-nigh impossible. Unfortunately, I have little recollection of what happened on the way down; I believe that I was half delirious from hunger and pain; I have indistinct memories of muttering and screaming strange things, and at best I can recall that we trailed as in a dream along endless spiral paths by the brink of bottomless chasms.

It was late twilight when I was aroused to a dim awareness of myself. Evidently our party had halted, for I was lying on the ground; on all sides of me, unfamiliar voices were chattering. Although still too listless to care much what happened, I opened my eyes and observed a crowd of dusky forms moving shadow-like through the gloom. In their midst, perhaps a hundred paces to my right, a great golden bonfire was blazing, casting a fantastic wavy illumination as it glared and crackled; and by its light I thought I could distinguish a score or more of little cabin-like structures.

In my feverish state of mind, I had the impression that I had been captured by savages; tales of cannibals and cannibal feasts, in a nightmarish sequence, streamed across my memory. Perhaps I cried out in a half-witted way; or perhaps it was merely that I groaned unconsciously at my wounds, for suddenly I found myself the focus of attention for the dusky figures; a dozen pairs of eyes were peering at me curiously. Among them were two which, even in the dimness, I thought I could recognize: while the multitude were mumbling unintelligibly, a feminine form bent over me, and a feminine voice murmured so gently that I was reassured even though I did not understand the words.

And again I felt myself lifted by strong hands; and, after a minute, I was borne through a doorway into the vagueness of some rude dwelling. The room was a small one, I judged; in the sputtering candlelight it appeared to me that my outspread arms could have reached halfway across. Yet I took no note of details as the unseen hands placed me on a mass of some stringy, yielding substance. So exhausted was I that I quickly lost track of my surroundings in much needed sleep.

It may have been hours before I awoke, greatly refreshed, yet with a sensation of terror. All about me was darkness; the silence was complete. For an instant I had an impression of being back on the mountain in the fog; then, as recollection came flashing upon me, I understood that I was safe among friends. But all the rest of that night I was tormented by dreams of lonely crags and mantling mists; and when again I awoke it was abruptly and after a nightmare fall over a precipice whose bottom I never reached....

To my joy, it was once more twilight. By the illumination of an open, glassless window, I could distinguish the details of the room—and singular details they were! The walls were of logs, great rough-hewn pine logs standing erect and parallel, with the bark still clinging; slenderer logs formed the flat low ceiling; and timbers crudely smoothed and levelled constituted what passed for a floor. Scattered masses of straw did duty as a carpet, while straw likewise composed my couch; and I was lying so low that I could have rolled to the floor without injury. I noted that the room had neither ornament nor furniture; that the wide, open fireplace, filled with cold ashes, seemed almost the only convenience; and that the door, while as massively built as the walls, was apparently without lock or bolt.

But as the light gradually increased, it was not the room itself that held my attention, but rather the view from the window. No painting I had ever observed was so exquisite as that vision of a green and white eastern mountain, rounded like a great head and aureoled with rose and silver where the rays of sunrise fought their way fitfully through serried bands of cloud.

The last faint flush had not yet faded from above the peak when the cabin door creaked and slowly opened, and I caught a glimpse of auburn hair, and saw two brown eyes peering in at me curiously. A strange joy swept over me; and as the fair stranger stood hesitating like a bashful child in the doorway, my only fear was that she would be too timid to enter.

But after a minute she overcame her shyness; gently and on tiptoe she stepped in, closing the door carefully behind her. I observed that she had not come empty-handed; she carried not only a water-jug but several odd little straw-colored objects. Approaching slowly, still with just a hint of hesitation, she murmured pleasantly in the native tongue; then, having seated herself cross-legged on the floor within touching distance, she offered me the water, which was crystal-clear and cool. The eagerness with which I drank sent a happy smile rippling across her face; and the daintiest of dimples budded on both her cheeks.

After I had satisfied my thirst, she held out one of the straw-colored objects invitingly. I found it to be hard and gritty of texture, like some new kind of wood; but while I was examining it, turning it round and round like a child with a new toy, my visitor was pointing to her open lips, and at the same time revolved her gleaming white teeth as though chewing some invisible food. I would have been dull indeed not to understand.

A single bite told me that the object was a form of native bread. The flavor of whole wheat was unmistakable; and, to my famished senses, it was the flavor of ambrosia. Only by exercising unusual will power could I refrain from swallowing the loaf almost at a gulp.

My greedy disposal of the food was evidently reward enough for my hostess, who beamed upon me as if well pleased with herself. I even thought—and was it but imagination?—that her shy glances were not purely impersonal. Certainly, there was nothing impersonal in the stares with which I followed her every motion—or in my disappointment when after a time the great log door swung inward again to admit a second caller.

Yet I did my best to greet my new visitor with signs of pleasure; for I recognized him as one of my rescuers. He entered as silently and cautiously as though on his best sick-room behavior; and after peering at me curiously and returning my nod of welcome, he murmured a few words to the girl, and as silently and cautiously took his leave.

Thenceforth, I was to receive visitors in a stream. The moments that day were to be few when three or four natives were not whispering in a corner of the room. A census of my callers would have been a census of the village; no one able to stand on his own legs missed the opportunity to inspect me. Children of all ages and sizes appeared in groups; gaped at me as if I had been a giraffe in a menagerie; and were bustled out by their elders, to be followed by other children, by men in their prime, women with babes in arm, and tottering grayheads. But most of my hosts showed that they were moved by warmer motives than curiosity; many bore offerings of food and drink, fruit and berries, cakes and cereals, bread and cheese and goats' milk, which they thrust before me with such generosity that I could consume but a small fraction.

While they swarmed about the cabin, I observed them as closely as my condition permitted. Their actions and garb made it plain that they were peasants; all, like yesterday's acquaintances, were dressed in rude garments of red and blue, with colored turbans and striped trousers and leggings, the feminine apparel differing from the masculine chiefly in being more brilliant-hued. And all, men and women alike, were robustly built and attractive. The majority had handsome, well modelled faces, with swarthy skins and candid, expressive eyes, at the sight of which I felt reassured; for here in the mountains of Afghanistan, among some of the fiercest and most treacherous tribes on earth, I might easily have fallen into less kindly hands.

During the day I was visited by two men who took a particular interest in me. The first, who came early in the morning, was evidently the local equivalent of a physician, for he examined me from head to foot with a solemn and knowing air and caused me much annoyance by feeling my limbs as if to see that they were whole. Of course, he did not overlook my right arm; and I passed a miserable half hour while he adjusted a crude splint and bound and bandaged the broken member with stout vegetable fibres.

My second visitor performed less of a service. He was an old man, still erect and sparkling-eyed, although he must have passed the traditional three score years and ten; and his long white beard, drooping untended as far as his waistline, gave him a Rip Van Winkle appearance. Upon his entrance, the others made way with little bows of awe; and as he sedately approached the straw where I was lying, five or six men and women gathered to my rear, whispering in half-suppressed agitation. These were quickly joined by others from without; and soon my visitors were massed layers deep against all the walls, and the air became fetid and hot with overcrowded humanity.

Meanwhile I felt like a sacrificial victim awaiting the priestly knife. Had my hosts spared me only so that I might serve as an offering to some pagan god? So I wondered as I watched the white-bearded one gravely bending over me; watched him rubbing his hands solemnly together as though in pursuance of a religious rite. And when, after several minutes, he turned from me to smear a brown ointment on his palms, my apprehension mounted to terror, which was not soothed when he stooped down and dampened my forehead with the ointment, meanwhile mumbling unintelligibly to himself. His next step, which I awaited in the trembling helplessness of a vivisected animal, was to reach toward my clothes and examine them fold by fold; after which he drew from his pocket a sparkling object, a prism of glass, which he held up in the sunlight of the window, shedding the rainbow reflection on the opposite wall, and staring at it as though it were the key to some transcendent truth.

Much to my relief, the ordeal was apparently over now; the old man turned his back upon me as though I had ceased to matter, and began sonorously to address his people. Not understanding a word, I could not be much interested; but I did observe how reverentially his audience stood regarding him, with staring dark eyes and gestures of self-abasement, while hanging on his every syllable as if it embodied divine wisdom.

His first remarks were evidently cheerful or even jocular; for they evoked smiles and occasionally laughter. But soon, apparently, he turned to graver subjects; and his listeners became serious and thoughtful, as though spellbound by his eloquence. How long they remained thus I do not know; my watch having run down, I had no way of reckoning time; but it seemed to me that the speaker held forth for at least an hour. And long before he had finished, my mind had drifted to more interesting matters.

I was asking myself what had happened to Damon, and whether my fellow geologists were searching the mountains for my corpse, when the old man wheeled about abruptly, and with fiery eyes pointed at me as if in accusation.

In high-pitched, staccato tones, almost like a cry of agony, he uttered three sharp monosyllables, then became silent.

At the same time, suppressed cries burst from the spectators. It may have been only imagination, but I thought they were eyeing me in alarm and reproach, and that they were edging away from me; and I know that, in a moment, those to the rear had crowded through the door. Soon only three or four remained, and I was left to wonder whether my rescuers were after all not the kindly mountaineers I had taken them to be, but merely superstitious savages.

Chapter IV

THE WEAVING OF THE SPELL

For more than five weeks I lay on my sick-bed, at first close to death, then slowly convalescing. After my rescue and temporary revival, a raging fever had attacked me; and I have little recollection of what followed, except that it was a nightmare of blurred impressions. Among my jumbled memories of those days when I lay balanced on the borderline, there is only one image that stands forth distinctly: the picture of a great pair of smoldering brown eyes surmounted by auburn curls and ringlets. Curiously enough, that picture became associated in my mind with visions of paradise. At times, for rare brief snatches, it seemed as if I were surrounded by that heaven in which I had long lost faith, and as if the possessor of the brown eyes were a ministering angel. Around her there seemed to be a light, as of some celestial presence; and when she went away she left only darkness and vacancy. Other forms there were, of course, other forms ceaselessly coming and going, coming and going, moving on tiptoe, silent or whispering like conspirators. But these were mere shadows in a void, grotesque or cloudy thin or unreal, the monstrous creatures of a world I had almost ceased to inhabit.

Perhaps it would have been well if I had indeed ceased to inhabit this world. Certainly, it would have been well for one whose tragic eyes come before me even now, haunting me like a ghost and looking reproach at every line I write. But that is to anticipate; destiny works in circuitous ways; and I, the stranger in the Vale of Sobul, could not have known that my arrival was to weave a fatal spell over her whom of all the world I should least have wished to injure.

But no such gloomy thoughts obsessed me as by degrees my fever subsided and the clouds lifted from across my mind. Even in my feebleness and dependence upon strangers, I could see cause for thanksgiving; once more I felt that the world was a bright place, and life worth living. Perhaps I would have thought otherwise had it not been that every day, in the early dawn and then again at sunset-time, an auburn-haired visitor came to attend me. Always she would bear some offering, sometimes merely a flask of spring water, sometimes some dainty morsel of food, more often a spray of wildflowers with which she would decorate the cabin walls. Although many of her tribesmen visited me frequently, supplying me with all physical necessities, her arrival was the one event of importance; and the long waking hours became tolerable and even pleasant through the thought of her.

Our relations, fortunately, were not long confined to the stares and gestures of our first acquaintanceship. Realizing that I desired to speak with her, and encouraged by finding that I already knew a few words of Pushtu, she set about to teach me her language; and every day, for half an hour or more, she transformed herself from the smiling friend into the solemn instructress, first teaching me the local term for every visible object, and then linking the words together to form simple sentences. As her tutorship was ably furthered by her tribesmen, it was not long before I had mastered a vocabulary of all the more common words; and since I amused myself during my spare hours by repeating these words mentally and combining them into phrases, not many days had passed before I could speak Pushtu at least as well as a five-year-old.

And what a joy when at last I could converse! Merely to exchange the simplest ideas with my friend was delight enough! But all the while there had been questions that I had been burning to ask, and now one by one I could ask them! No longer would that lovely creature be nameless to me—she confided with a blush that she was called Yasma, and was the daughter of Abthar, the vine-grower. As for her people—they were the Ibandru, a tribe which from the beginning of time had inhabited the Valley of Sobul, tilling the land for its rich harvests but finding their chief joy in roving the mountainsides. But who her people were and whence they were descended Yasma could not tell me; she could only say that they possessed the valley undisputed, and had little intercourse with other tribes; and she related for me an ancient legend that the first of her people had been born of the nuptials of the south wind and the spring flowers, so that the spirit of the flowers and of the wind must breathe through the tribe forever.

Naturally, I was less interested in such myths than in facts touching upon my own predicament. I was curious as to all that had occurred since my rescue from the mountain ledge; and was particularly anxious to know the meaning of that strange scene with the white-bearded seer on my first day in Sobul. And to most of my questions I received an answer, although not always one that satisfied me. My rescue was explained simply enough: the Ibandru habitually roamed the mountains for miles around their valley, and a party of six had been going in search of a little blue stone which one of their sages had declared to exist upon the higher slopes, and the possession of which would mean happiness. With their trained eyes accustomed to scanning the far distances, they had observed what they at first took to be some peculiar animal crawling along a ledge; and, drawn closer by curiosity, had discovered that the supposed animal was human, and was in distress. Common humanity dictated that they come to the rescue, bear me to safety, and house me in an unoccupied cabin whose owner (to use the native phrase) had gone "beyond those mountains that no man crosses twice."

Thus far I saw no reason to doubt the explanation; but when I mentioned the white-bearded tribesman I could see that I trod upon questionable ground. It was not only that Yasma hesitated before answering; it was that she replied with a nervous, uneasy air. She informed me—and this much was certainly true—that the old man was Hamul-Kammesh, the soothsayer, whose wisdom was held in high esteem; and she stated that, immediately following my arrival, he had been called upon to judge of the signs and omens. But what had he said? She refused to tell me. Or, rather, she told me with transparent dissimulation. She declared that he had prognosticated something of good, and something of evil; and her reluctant manner testified that the evil tipped the balance of the scales. But just what evil did he imagine my coming might do? And to whom would the damage be done? No matter how I pleaded and questioned, Yasma shook her head sadly, and refused to reply.

Could it be that the prophecy concerned me in some vital way? that it would endanger me, or make my lot harder to bear? Yasma was still sphinx-like. "I cannot answer," she maintained, in response to all my entreaties. "I cannot." And biting her underlip, she remained resolutely silent.

But I could not accept her refusal. "Why cannot you answer?" I insisted. "Surely, there is nothing to fear."

"That you cannot know," she sighed, her lips compressed as though in suffering, and an unexplained sadness shining from her eyes.

Then, seeing that I was about to return to the assault, she disarmed me by murmuring, resignedly, "Well, if I must tell you, I must. You see, it is not this prophecy alone. This only confirms another—another prophecy made years and years ago. And that first prediction was dark as a night-cloud."

"Dark—as a night-cloud?" I asked, noting that her beautiful rounded cheeks were becoming drawn and blanched, while a light of fear and agony, a light as of a hunted creature, was shining in her eyes.

"Yes, dark as a night-cloud," she muttered, mournfully. "But more than that I cannot say." And then, as if afraid that she would say more despite herself, she flitted to the door, and with a whispered "Good-bye!" was gone, leaving me amazed and angry and yet just a little overawed, as if in defiance of reason I recognized that my coming had cast a shadow over the homes of my hosts.

Chapter V

YULADA

It was indeed a happy day when I regained the use of my legs and staggered out of my log prison.

Now for the first time I saw the village of Sobul. It was composed of several scores of cabins like that in which I had been confined; and these were sprawled over a broad clearing, separated from one another by considerable spaces. Beyond the furthest houses the open fields stretched on all sides for half a mile or more, some of them tawny brown with the ripening wheat, or green with flourishing herbs in long tilled rows; while herds of half-wild goats browsed among the meadows, and gnarled old orchard trees stood in small groves varied by grapevines scrambling over mounds of earth.

Further still, at the ragged rim of the fields, the forest encroached with its dense-packed legions; and I observed where in the background the woods began to rise, first gently, then with a determined ascent, until they clung to the precipitous and beetling mountain walls. And higher yet there were no trees, but only bare rock, crags like steeples or obelisks or giant pointing hands, and crowded peaks with fantastic white neckbands. It was with awe that I discovered how completely these summits hedged me in, confining me at the base of the colossal cup-like depression. And it was with something more than awe—with amazement mingled with an indefinable shuddery feeling—that I noted a familiar figure perched on a dominating southern peak. It was that same womanlike stone image which had lured me almost to death: with hands uplifted, and one foot upraised, she stood as when I had seen her from the other side of the mountain. If there was any difference in her aspect it was scarcely noticeable, except that she now seemed a little more elevated and remote.

What was the meaning of the statue-like form? I would inquire at the first opportunity; and that very day, accordingly, I spoke my mind to Yasma. But again she was to fail me. Like the Afghan guides, she was reluctant to discuss the subject; her lips wrinkled with a faint displeasure, and her eloquent dark eyes were averted. Only upon being urgently pressed would she answer at all; and then, from her hasty attempts to change the subject, I judged that she knew more than she wished to admit; I suspected that she was just a little shocked and frightened, almost like a pious lady tempted into a profane discussion.

But her resistance merely whetted my curiosity. And at length I coaxed her into a partial explanation.

"There is a story among our people," she said, while her eyes took on an unusual gravity, "that five thousand years ago the gods placed that stone image on the peak to watch over us and guide us. Yulada we call her, a name given by the early seers of our tribe. So long as we obey Yulada's wishes, she will bless us and bring us happiness; but if we forget her commands, she will scourge us with earthquake and lightning."

Upon uttering these words, Yasma startled me by stooping toward the floor, bending her neck low as if in supplication, and mumbling a series of apparently meaningless phrases.

"Then the stone image is some sort of god?" I questioned.

Yasma continued muttering to herself.

And as I stood watching in perplexity, I was enticed once more by that same rash idea which had almost cost my life. "Sometime I'm going up to Yulada," I vowed, my curiosity piqued to the utmost. "Then I'll find out for myself what's she's like."

An expression of alarm, almost of horror, distorted the clear, mobile features.

"Oh, you must not!" she cried, interrupting the ceremonies, and resuming an erect attitude. "You must not ever, ever go up to Yulada!"

"Why not?"

"None of our people," she explained, hurriedly, and still with that look of fright, "must ever go within five stones' throws of Yulada. It would be terrible, terrible to go too close!"

"But why?"

She hesitated, in pitiable uncertainty; then hastily narrated, "Long, long ago our soothsayers foretold that great sorrow would come to whoever climbed within touching distance of the stone woman. And so, in fact, it has proved to be. Only three men, within living memory, have ever defied the warning; and all have learned the way of bitter wisdom. One fell to his death in a crevasse of the mountain, and one was bitten by a serpent and perished in agony, and one lost his wife and first-born son, and passed the rest of his days in loneliness and despair."

Yasma paused again, sadly as though brooding on some personal grief; then passionately demanded, "Promise me, promise that whatever happens, you will never, never go up to Yulada!"

In her voice there was such pleading, and in her face such pain, that I had to make the promise. Yet I am ashamed to say that, even at the time, I suspected that I should not abide by my word.

Meanwhile the mystery of Yulada was not the only shadow that had thrust itself across my mind. As I gradually regained the use of my limbs, I began to be troubled by thoughts of the future; I recognized how great was my debt to the natives; and was ashamed at thought of accepting their hospitality without making any return. Yet the prospects were that I should remain with them for more than a few days or weeks. My fellow geologists had doubtless given me up long ago as lost; and there was no telling how many months would pass before I could find my way out of this wilderness. To attempt to wander unguided among the mountain labyrinths would be suicidal; and I not only had no way of knowing how far it was to the nearest civilized settlement or trade route, but could obtain no information from my hosts. Reluctantly I admitted to myself that I was marooned.

And although the spell of Sobul was already upon me, I was not so captivated that I did not dream of escape. True, it would have caused me a pang to leave the kindly mountain folk, and particularly Yasma, but what could this count against my life-work, the remembrance of my friends in America, and all the arts and allurements of civilization?

Yet what could I do to escape? After long reflection, only one project had occurred to me—and that unpromising enough. Though the other geologists had certainly gone long ago, might they not have left some message for me in the hope that I was yet alive? Yes, even a message instructing me how to escape? Meager as the chances were, would it not at least be worth while to revisit the site of our former camp?

Somewhat doubtfully, I consulted the natives. But they regarded my suggestion as quite natural, and several volunteered to accompany me across the mountains as soon as I was strong enough.

It was early September, more than seven weeks after my arrival in Sobul, when at last I was ready for the expedition.

Accompanied by three of the Ibandru, I started out along a slender trail that ran straight toward the jutting northern slope of "The Mountain of Vanished Men." But these three were quickly increased to four; we had hardly started when an auburn-haired girl came tripping behind us, joining us in defiance of the scowls of the men. For my own part, I was far from displeased at her presence; with her gleaming eyes to encourage me, I found it just a little easier to accomplish the abrupt and perilous climb. And both perilous and abrupt it was, for when we were not crawling on hands and knees up gigantic broken natural stairways of rock, we were winding single-file in long horseshoe curves between a precipice and a cliff, or skirting the treacherous verge of a glacier.

Straight up and up we went, for hours and hours, until we stood but a few hundred yards below the great stone image, which loomed mighty as a hill, like some old Egyptian colossus magnified many times and miraculously transported to the mountain top. When we had approached our nearest to it, we came to a halt and the natives dropped to the ground and swayed their arms toward it as though entreating a favor. Then, mumbling solemnly, they continued on their way around the mountain, and the stone figure gradually dwindled and retreated.

Now from time to time we caught glimpses of the southern valley, another bowl-like hollow scooped out in the core of the mountains. It was with mixed emotions that I observed this spot where I had bidden my friends farewell—farewell for how long? And it was with the return of an unreasoning horror that I surveyed those very slopes where I had been imprisoned in the fog. Yet I was eager to descend, so eager that several times I forgot caution in my impatience; once one of the men jerked me back violently as I set foot on a stone which gave way beneath me and went hurtling down a thousand feet; and once Yasma caught my arm as something long and shiny unwound itself from beneath my feet and disappeared hissing among the rocks.

But though I drew upon every particle of my energy, I was so slow that frequently the others had to pause and wait for me along the steep, narrow trails; while occasionally they helped me over a difficult slope. Because I was the weakest of the party, it was I that set the pace; and consequently our expedition was protracted hours beyond their reckoning. Even though we had set out at dawn and stopped but a few minutes to consume some fruit and small native cakes, sunset found us only at the timber line of the second valley.

Here we had to make camp; and here we dined sparingly from the provisions carried by my guides, quenched our thirst from a clear, swift-running stream, built a campfire, and prepared for our night on the open ground. Shortly after dark I noted that Yasma was no longer among us; but when I questioned the men they appeared unconcerned, replying that she knew how to take care of herself.

This statement proved true enough; the first thing I was aware of, after a chilly and restless night, was the sound of Yasma's voice. She had come with the earliest birds to awaken us; and, herself like a bird in the lithe grace with which she tripped and fluttered about, she urged us to be up and starting almost before the last golden embers had turned ashen above the eastern semi-circle of peaks.

My whole being was in a tumult as we set forth, for it seemed to me that today was to decide my fate. Should I receive some word from my friends, some clue to guide me back to civilization? Or should I find myself abandoned in the wilderness? An hour or two more should tell the tale, since already we had discovered the winding little path Damon and I had followed on our fateful expedition.

But as we glided silently in single file along the trail, I felt hope dying within me. All things about us seemed deserted; scarcely a living creature could be heard amid the dense brush; scarcely a dead leaf stirred, scarcely a bird chirped or twittered. It was as if I had invaded a realm of the dead, a realm of specters and shadows.... By the time we had reached a remembered pine-grove beside a clear-bubbling rivulet, I was almost in a despondent mood, which was only accentuated when I observed that the grove was forsaken. Yet how well I recalled the enthusiasm with which Damon and I had set forth from this very spot!

While Yasma and the men waited cross-legged on the ground, I began carefully to explore the grove. Actually, I expected to find nothing, and at first I found what I expected. Then one by one I came across various relics, insignificant in themselves, which pained me like the opening of old wounds. First it was merely a bent and rusting tin; then the ashes of a campfire, a scrap of old newspaper, the stub of a cigarette, or a broken penknife clinging to the bark of a tree; and, finally, a half-used and forgotten notebook and pencil, which I picked up and bore away for possible future needs.

But was this to be all? In my dejection, I was almost persuaded so, when my eye was caught by a pile of stones at one end of the former camp. It was between two and three feet high, pyramidal in shape, and clearly of human workmanship. Eagerly I inspected it, at first without understanding its purpose, but with swiftly growing comprehension. Carved indistinctly on one of the stones, in small barely legible letters, were the words, "Look below!"

In a frenzy, I began tearing the stones aside, casting them in all directions in my haste.

Yet at first I discovered nothing—nothing! It was only after careful examination that I espied, between two stones in a protected position, a little scrap of ink-marked paper.

Like one receiving a message from another world, I grasped at the paper. The scrawled handwriting was that of Jasper Damon!

It was a minute before I could choke down my excitement sufficiently to read:

"Dear Prescott: I am leaving this note with hardly any hope that you will find it, or that you are not now beyond the reach of all human messages. I cannot believe that you have been spared, for after losing you in the fog and failing to reach you by shouts and pistol signals, I have discovered no sign that you still live. For my own part, I had to pass the night between two sheltered rocks on the mountainside; but, luckily, I was unhurt, and when the fog lifted for a while the next morning I managed to make my way down below the mist-belt. Then, after wandering for hours, I fell in with a searching party from camp. I was alarmed to learn that they had found no trace of you, and more alarmed when, after searching all the rest of the day, we were still without any clue. On the following morning we made a much wider hunt, and bribed and intimidated the native guides to lead us up the mountain, which they feared and hated. Still no results! You had vanished as completely as the very fog that hid you—on the next day, and still on the next we scoured the mountains, always in vain. For a week now we have lingered here, until hope has disappeared, and, in deepest sorrow, we must continue on our way.

"But while reason tells me that you have perished, I cannot keep back a vague feeling that somehow you escaped. It is merely out of a whim, and in spite of the smiles of our skeptical friends, that I am building this mound of stones to draw your attention if ever you return, and hiding this letter so that if need be it may withstand the elements for years. It will do you little enough good, but at least you will have learned that we did not willingly desert you. How you will be able to struggle out of this wilderness is a question that heaven itself may not be able to answer—I can only pray that some fortunate chance may save you as it has saved me.

"Farewell, Dan Prescott!—You cannot know how every day of my life will be overshadowed by thought of that foolhardy escapade of ours.

"Your wretched friend,

"Jasper Damon."

Chapter VI

FORESHADOWINGS

It was in a bitter mood that I trudged back to Sobul. Even the mirth and laughter of Yasma could not dispel my gloom; I was as one who has seen a black vision, one who has read the handwriting on the wall. It seemed to me that my life had reached a barricade as formidable as the mountain bulwarks that hemmed me in; there was no longer a straw to clutch at; I was irredeemably a prisoner. Only once on the return trip did I break my silence, and that was to ask, as I had done a thousand times, what roads led back to trade routes, navigable rivers, or civilized settlements; and it was no consolation to be told, as invariably before, that there were no roads; that Sobul held no intercourse with the world, and that I was the first of my race ever seen there. I realized, of course, that there were rude trails leading out, for had not the Afghan guides escorted our geologists to this vicinity? Yet none of the Ibandru seemed to know anything of such trails, and how find my way unaided?

Then I must spend the winter with the Ibandru! In a few weeks the snow would be piling on the high mountain shoulders, and winter would hermetically seal the Valley of Sobul until the approach of April.

Meanwhile, as I have mentioned, another problem had been troubling me: that I had been a drone living off the hospitality of the Ibandru, consuming their hard-earned provisions while making them no return. Hence I thought of consulting their chieftain, in order to arrive at some way of earning my board.

On the day after returning to Sobul, accordingly, I asked Yasma who was the leader of her people.

"Leader? There isn't any exactly," she replied, looking troubled. "That is, not any regular picked person. We are all free to go our own way, and if anyone breaks any of our laws or customs his punishment is set by a council of all the tribe."

"But is there no one whose word has particular authority?"

"Yes, in a way there is," she admitted, thoughtfully. "Whenever the people want advice, they look first to my father, Abthar. And next, they turn to the soothsayer, Hamul-Kammesh."

I had seen the soothsayer, and conceived a hearty dislike for him. But I thought it would be a good idea to meet Yasma's father.

Therefore I made a simple request, which seemed to please the girl. With a happy smile she led me out among the fields, and into the thick of vines mounted on trellises or sprawling over mounds of earth, where a gaunt tawny-browed man was busy plucking the purple clusters of grapes. I had already seen him several times; more than once he had visited me when I lay ill, bringing offerings of food and drink; and I had noted that the other men had greeted him with deference. But I had not known him then as the father of Yasma. Now, spurred on by my new information, I scrutinized him as never before: the tall agile form, unstooped and vigorous although he must have seen sixty summers; the sagacious lean face, dominated by long black hair crossed by steely bars, and terminating in a beard of black and gray; the glittering alert brown eyes, which shone proudly as an eagle's and yet not without a softness that reminded me of Yasma herself.

At my approach he arose with a cordial smile and reached out both hands by way of greeting (a salutation peculiar to the Ibandru). In a few words Yasma mentioned that I had a message for him; and while she started back to the village, he motioned me to be seated on the ground beside him.

"What is it that you wish to tell me?" he asked kindly, and sat staring at me with an intent, inquiring air.

In a fumbling manner, I explained that I could not return to my people at least until next year, which would force me to continue to accept his people's hospitality. But I did not wish to impose upon their kindness; and was anxious to make myself of use in the village.

With an impassive silence that gave no clue to his thoughts, Abthar heard me to the end; and then answered unhesitatingly and with dignity.

"The views you express, young man, do you great credit. But we Ibandru desire no return for our hospitality, and still less for what we do out of simple humanity. Say no more about the matter. You owe us no debt; we shall be glad to have you remain as long as you wish."

I scarcely knew how to reply, for the old man arose as if to dismiss the subject. But I would not be turned aside. After thanking him for his kindness, I reminded him that there was a long winter to come; and insisted that I did not desire to be a drain upon his people's supplies.

At mention of the winter, a peculiar light came into Abthar's eyes—a light that I thought just a little ironic, just a little pitying, and at the same time just a little wistful. I may merely have imagined this, of course; but in view of what was to come, I am persuaded that I did not imagine it. And even at the time, though still unacquainted with the ways of the Ibandru, I wondered if the winter had not some queer significance for the tribe. For not only was Abthar's expression extraordinary, but he repeated several times, slowly and as if to himself, "The winter, yes, the winter—we must remember the winter."

Unfortunately, I did not put the proper interpretation upon Abthar's words—how possibly interpret them correctly? I assumed that the cold season in Sobul must be particularly rigorous, or must be invested with superstitious or religious importance. Hence I failed to ask questions that might have proved enlightening.

"Then the winter here is a difficult time?" was my only answer to Abthar's muttered half-reveries.

"You may indeed find it so!" he returned, his big deep-brown eyes snapping with a peculiar force. And then, after a pause, he continued, again with that pitying air I could not understand, "I am glad, young man, that you mentioned the winter. I think you had better make ready for it, since—who knows?—you may find it hard to bear."

"Well, after all," I argued, "I have been used to cold weather in my own country."

"It is not only the cold weather," he assured me. "But wait and learn—you may not even feel the winter. Yes, you too may escape the barren and frozen days."

"Why should I escape any more than anyone else?"

But he did not reply, and I thought it fruitless to pursue the discussion. As yet I had had little reason to suspect that the Ibandru were not as the other tribes huddled among the fastnesses of the Hindu Kush; and, in my ignorance, I overlooked completely the meaning behind his meager, succinct phrases. And so, instead of attempting to fathom a mystery, I turned the conversation into practical channels, and asked just how to prepare for the winter.

"You can discover that for yourself," said Abthar, picking his way as if pondering an unfamiliar problem. "First of all, you must fill in your cabin window with a thick covering of dead boughs, and must cement all the cracks and empty places with clay, so as to hold out the blizzards. Then you must make yourself a cloak of goat's hide, and also must gather firewood, storing as much as possible within your cabin, and much more just outside. The most important thing, however, will be to provide food, for the cold months may be long, and you may be unable to find a crumb to keep you from starving."

Not until long afterwards did I remember that Abthar had spoken as if I were to lead a hermit's life. At the time, I was too deeply absorbed in my own thoughts to see beyond his words; the question of how to obtain sufficient food was occupying me almost to the exclusion of other subjects, and I contented myself with asking how to earn my winter's board.

"You need not earn it," asserted Abthar, frowning. "Must I remind you again that hospitality is not a lost virtue among the Ibandru? Merely go out into the fields and take what you want—all the grain you can bear away, apples from our orchards, plums and grapes for drying, nuts from our groves, beets and pumpkins and whatever vegetables our farms produce."

Again I thanked Abthar—and again expressed my unwillingness to take so freely.

"You will be accepting nothing that we need," he insisted. "No matter how much you require, we will have ample."

And with a nod signifying that the interview was over, Abthar returned to his work amid the vines.

Hence it came about that, during the following weeks, I was busy preparing for the winter. Under the warm September skies, flecked with scarcely a cloud and lying like a serene blue roof between the great pillars of the peaks, I was providing ceaselessly for the season of tempests and snow. I equipped my cabin to be snug and relatively weather-proof; I heaped it with firewood in the shape of the sawed dead pine-branches which I bore laboriously from the forest; I provisioned it with lentils, millet, wheat, barley, beans, dried mushrooms, and "salep" (a paste made from a local tuber), which the people showered upon me with amazing generosity.

But do not imagine that I found this work distasteful. City-bred modern though I was, I felt a certain atavistic joy in my return to the primitive. That joy, I must confess, was all the greater since I did not always labor alone, for Yasma, like an agile and ingratiating child, frequently would come running to my assistance. Not only did she prove a fascinating companion, but she would display remarkable skill and strength at manual tasks; she would insist on lifting great chunks of firewood, yet would scarcely appear to feel the strain; she would pile my provisions in a corner of the cabin with a regularity and neatness that made me marvel; she would bring me earthenware pots and pans, jugs and kitchen utensils, and would seem to hear neither my protestations nor my thanks.

Nevertheless, I was already beginning to observe—and to be puzzled at—the contradictions in her manner. Although she freely volunteered to help me, she did not always work wholeheartedly. At times there was a sadness and constraint about her; and my most determined efforts could not penetrate behind the veil. Even today I can see her standing aloof and wistful in the green fields, gazing in a revery toward the great stone woman on the peak, or merely following with her eyes the lazily drifting cotton clouds as though she would float with them to lands beyond the mountains. I do not know why this memory comes back to haunt and mock me, for then I did not understand, and now that I understand it is too late; but when I recall how she would remain staring at the southern summits, it seems to me that her eyes were like the eyes of fate itself, peering beyond that which is to that which must be and that which never can be.

But not always was she in so somber a mood. Frequently, like a nimble-footed child, she would go tripping with me to the forest, where we would collect the fallen dead branches; and she would flit about happily as a fairy when we would gather pine-nuts, or pluck grapes or apples, or search for mushrooms, or dig in the fields for edible roots. It would be as though for a moment she had cast off a shadow—but for a moment only, since always the shadow would return.

One sure way of bringing the oppression back was by asking a certain question that was puzzling me more and more. While I was preparing so laboriously for the winter, I was amazed to note that I was alone in my efforts. No one else appeared aware that winter was coming: no one filled in the gaps in the cabin walls, or made the windows storm-proof; no one wove heavy clothing, or obtained more than the day's firewood, or more food than seemed required for the moment's needs. At first I had muffled my surprise by telling myself that soon the Ibandru would begin their preparations; but as the days went by, and the unharvested grain-lands lay tawny and dry, and the forest began to be flecked with crimson and russet and yellow, a strange uneasiness laid hold of me, and my growing astonishment was tinged with an unreasoning fear. Ponder as I might, I could find no explanation of the Ibandru's seeming negligence, particularly in view of Abthar's advice; and from the Ibandru themselves I could expect no enlightenment. Always, when questioned, they would evade the issue; they would tell me to wait and be assured of an answer from heaven; or they would point mutely and mysteriously to Yulada, as though that were a self-evident solution.

Even Yasma failed me despite repeated questionings. When I referred even casually to the winter, she would assume that meditative and far-away expression which I detested so heartily because it seemed to make her so remote; a deep melancholy would shine in her eyes, and she would peer at me with a vague unspoken regret. But she would never admit why she was melancholy; and would answer me only indirectly, in meaningless phrases. And at length, one evening in late September, when I questioned her too persistently, she turned from me in a sudden torrent of tears.

Reluctantly I had to acknowledge my defeat, and to confess that, whatever mysteries might lurk behind the mountains of Sobul, I should have to wait in silence until time should make all things plain.

Chapter VII

YASMA

Even before I began to succumb to the mysteries of Sobul, the country was captivating me with a subtle spell. There seemed to be something magical about the noiseless atmosphere, the untroubled blue skies and the aloof calm circle of peaks; I came almost to feel as if this were the world and there were no universe beyond; and my memories of the years before were becoming remote and clouded as memories of a dream.

But the enchantment of Sobul was not merely the wizardry of its woods and open spaces, its colors and silences and eagle heights. There was a more potent sorcery of twinkling eyes and caressing words that was fettering me in soft, indissoluble bonds—a sorcery that might have proved powerful in any land on earth. And the priestess of that sorcery was Yasma. Perhaps she did not realize the fateful part she was playing, for was not she, as I, swept along by a dark current there was no resisting? And yet she enacted her role remorselessly as though assigned the lead in a cosmic drama; and, blinded herself by the unseen powers, she could not have realized how certainly and how tragically she was intertwining her fate with mine.

From the first I had been charmed by her open manner and her evident lack of self-consciousness. She had been free as a child in talking and laughing and romping with me, and I had tried to think of her as a child, and little more,—undeniably a fascinating playmate, but certainly not a serious companion for a thirty-three-year-old geologist. But if I had imagined that I could dismiss her so easily, I was merely deluding myself; the time was to come, and to come very swiftly, when I should realize how much more than a child she was.

Possibly it is that the girls of the Ibandru come early to maturity; or possibly they do not labor under civilized repressions, and are seldom other than their natural selves. At all events, Yasma suffered from few of those inhibitions which would have hampered her western sisters. Finding something in me to interest her, she was at no pains to conceal her interest, but would act as unhesitatingly as if she had been the man and I the woman. At first, during my illness, I had attributed this to mere kindness; later I had ascribed it to a natural curiosity as to a stranger from a strange land; but there came a time when I could no longer believe her motives purely impersonal, and when, while knowing that she acted without design, I had inklings that she was rushing with me toward a fire in which we might both be singed.

Why, then, did I not try to forestall our mad dash toward the flames? Surely I, who was older and more experienced, was also somewhat wiser; surely I might have prevented complications that she could not even foresee. Ah, yes!—but love has queer ways, and makes a jest of men's reason, and tosses their best intentions about like spindrift ... and I was but subject to the frailties of human-kind. Writing at this late date, I find it hard to say just why I did what I did (even at the time, would I have known?); and it is impossible to explain why she did what she did. But let me recount a few incidents; let me describe as well as I can the growth of that strange, wild love, which even now torments me in recollection.

I particularly remember one afternoon when we sallied off into the woods together, on a sort of frolic that combined work and play, to gather the wild walnuts that grew abundantly in those parts. It was Yasma that suggested the expedition, and I had been quick to accept the proposal, which had brought back memories of boyhood "nutting parties" among the New Hampshire hills. As we set out through the forest on a little inconspicuous trail, it was indeed delightful to be together; and for the moment I was almost ready to bless the fate that had sent me to Sobul.

What a rare companion she made that day! She would go darting and tripping ahead of me like a playful wild thing, and then, when I had lost sight of her amid the underbrush, she would startle me with a cry and would come running back in loud laughter. Or else she would enthusiastically point out the various trees crowded together in that virgin forest—the sedate oaks, the steeple-like deodars and pines, the alder and the ash, the juniper and wild peach; or, in places where the undergrowth was dense, she would show me species of wild rose and honeysuckle, of currants and hawthorn, of gooseberry and rhododendron, as well as of a score of native herbs whose names I have forgotten. Or her sharp eyes would spy out the birds' nests in the trees (nests that my untrained vision would never have detected), or she would call attention to some gray or blue or red-breasted moving thing, which would flash into view and slip away like some shy phantom into the twilight of the vines and shrubbery or amid the light-flecked, latticed roof of green. Occasionally, when not too busy dancing along the trail or playing some merry prank or pointing out the shrubs and flowers, she would sing a snatch of some native song—sing it in an untrained voice of a peculiar sweetness and power, which affected me strangely with its note of joy tinged always with an indefinable and haunting melancholy.

At length, after perhaps an hour of this careless adventuring, I noticed that the ground was beginning to rise sharply, and judged that we were not far from the valley wall. And it was then that Yasma paused, clapping her hands in delight and pointing to a cluster of big, gracefully rounded trees, whose nature I recognized immediately, although their pinnate leaves were broader than those of the black or American walnut and their trunks were smoother and not so intensely brown.

Beneath the trees, which were already tinged with the buff and yellow of autumn, I drew forth two large fibrous bags supplied by Yasma, and began to collect the nuts that lay scattered on the ground. But she, with a disapproving gesture, halted me. Almost before I could guess her intentions, she had sprung cat-like up one of the trees, and sat perched acrobatically among the middle branches. Then, while I stood gaping at her in amazement, I became aware of a storm amid the foliage. The boughs began to shake as if in a tempest, and dead and half-dead leaves drifted down to the accompaniment of a shower of little missiles.

Half an hour later, after Yasma had raided a second tree and I had collected all the nuts I could carry, we sat side by side with our backs against a tree-trunk, recovering from our exertions. I cannot say why, but, in contrast to our previous exuberance, a silence had fallen over us; we each seemed wrapped up in our own thoughts, almost like strangers who have never been introduced. What was passing through her mind I shall never know; but, for my own part, I was noticing as never before what an extraordinarily fascinating girl Yasma was; how utterly unspoiled, with a wild blossoming beauty that would have made most fair women of my acquaintance seem paper roses by comparison. A warm, romantic desire was taking possession of me, a desire such as I had not known for years and believed I had outgrown—a desire to take Yasma in my arms, and hold her close, and whisper tender, meaningless things. And while I was repressing that longing and telling myself what a fool I was, an insidious question wormed its way into my mind: what if I were to marry this girl, and take her away with me to civilized lands, and surround her with the graces and refinements she could never have among these remote mountains? As one dreams of paradise and rejects the dream, so I thought of linking Yasma's life with mine, and thrust the idea aside. Imagine trying to civilize this wild creature, this creature with the ways of the deer and the dove!

In the midst of my reveries, I was startled by hearing Yasma's voice. "Strange," she was saying, in low thoughtful tones, "strange, isn't it, how you came here to us?"

"Yes, it is strange."

"And stranger still," she continued, as much to herself as to me, "how little we know of you now that you are here. Or, for that matter, how little you know of us."

Then, turning to me with a sudden passionate force, she demanded, "Tell me, tell me more about yourself! I want to know more—to know more about you!"

Often before she had asked such a question; but never with quite the same eagerness. On the former occasions I had replied briefly, with a vagueness half forced upon me by my poor knowledge of the language; but now I saw that I must answer in detail. It would not do to state, as previously, that I came from a land beyond the wide waters, where the cities were high as hills and the people many as flies in autumn; and it would not suffice to explain that I had passed my days in acquiring dark knowledge, knowledge of the rocks and of things that had happened on earth before man came. From her earnest, almost vehement manner, it was clear that Yasma would not be put off with generalities, but wished to know of intimate and personal things.

Picking my way cautiously, I answered as well as I knew how. I told of my boyhood in New England; of how I had wandered among the stony hills, interested even then in the rocks; of how my father and mother had sent me to a great university, where I had studied the earth's unwritten story; of how I had been a teacher in that same university, and later a member of the scientific staff of a famous museum, by which I had been sent on expeditions into the far places of the world. These and similar facts I reported to the best of my ability, finding it difficult if not impossible to express my meaning in the simple Pushtu vocabulary. But while Yasma listened as well as she was able, she did not appear satisfied. I might almost say she did not even appear interested, for often her face expressed a total lack of comprehension.

It may have been after ten or fifteen minutes that she broke in impatiently, "That's all very well, what you are saying—all very well. But you are not telling me about yourself—this might all be true of a thousand men. What is there that's true only of you? What are you like deep down? What do you think? What do you feel? Oh, I know you cannot explain outright—but do say something to show what you are like!"

"You put a hard question," I objected, just a little embarrassed. "I simply don't know how to answer."

And then, as a pleasant means of shifting the burden, I suggested, "But maybe you'll show me how, Yasma. Maybe you'll show me by telling something about yourself."

"Do you really want to know?"

"There is nothing that interests me more."

"Very well," she assented, after an instant's hesitation. "I will tell you from the beginning."

And, with a reflective smile, she related, "I was born here in the Valley of Sobul, seventeen summers ago. I have two brothers and three sisters—but I won't say anything about them, because you're going to meet them some day. When I was born, a strange prophecy was made by the soothsayer, Hamul-Kammesh"—here she paused, and the trace of a frown came over her face—"but I won't say anything about that, either."

At this point, of course, I interrupted and insisted on knowing about the prophecy, which, I suspected, was connected with the prediction she had already mentioned. But she would neither confirm my surmise nor deny it.

"When I was five summers old," she went on, "I suffered a great misfortune. My mother, whom I remember only as a kind spirit who came to me long ago in a dream, was taken away by the genii of the wind and snowstorms, and went to live with the blessed ones on the highest peak of that range which meets the stars. Ever since that time, I have been lonely. I have often stood looking up above our tallest mountains, up above Yulada to the mountains of the clouds, and wondered if she might be there, gazing down and hearing the prayers I spoke to her in my heart. But she never seemed to see me, and never seemed to hear. And as I grew up, my brothers and sisters would go off playing by themselves, and I would be left to myself—but I would not always care, for I loved to be alone with the mountains and trees. I would go chasing butterflies all afternoon; or I would scramble up the mountainside, picking wild fruits and berries and laughing to see the little squirrels go jumping out of my path; or I would watch the clouds riding through the sky, and imagine that they were fairy boats bearing me away to strange and wonderful lands. But sometimes I would be frightened, when I heard some big beast rustle in the bushes; and once I saw the face of a great staring black bear, and ran down the mountain so fast I nearly fell over a cliff; and once I almost trod on a coiling snake, but the good spirits of the mountain were with me, because if it had bitten me you would not see me now."

Yasma paused, a dreamy glow in her lustrous brown eyes. And before she could continue I put a question which, I fancied, might shed a ray on some perplexing problems.

"You are telling me only about the summers. How was it in the wintertime, when the blizzards shrieked and the snow fell, and you were cooped up in your log cabin?"

It seemed to me that a curious light, half happy and half melancholy, came into her eyes as she murmured, "Ah, the winters, the winters—until now I have never worried about them. They were always the best time of all."

"Why the best time?"

She merely shook her head. "I cannot tell you," she answered, regretfully. "You would not understand."

Yes, indeed, there was much that I did not understand! Even to discuss the matter brought a cloud between us; her manner grew unnatural and constrained, as if she had something to conceal and was anxious to change the subject. To press her would only have ended all conversation for the day; and so, after vexing myself fruitlessly, I abandoned the discussion, although with a deepened sense of something sinister and mysterious about the Ibandru, something somehow connected with the seasons of the year.

"Come, tell me more about your past," I requested, reverting to our original topic. "Have you always been so solitary? Have you had no companions?"

"I have always had companions, but have always been solitary," she declared, as though unconscious of the paradox. "Yet what are companions if you cannot tell them what is in your heart? What are companions if you stand looking with them at the sunset, and you feel its loveliness till the tears come, and they feel nothing at all? Or what are companions if you watch the birds twittering in the treetops, and are glad they are living and happy, while your friends wish to mangle them with stones, and laugh at your softness and folly? I would not have you think that we Ibandru are of the kind that would harm little birds; only that my kinsmen and I do not have the same thoughts. I suppose it is my own stupidity and strangeness that makes all the difference."

"No, your own natural wisdom makes all the difference."

"I wonder," she mused, as she absently toyed with the decaying dead leaves that coated the rich dank soil. "I have tried to be like the others, but never could be. I would always speak about things they did not seem to understand; and they would jest about things that were sacred to me. I would be interested in the bee and the grasshopper, the crawling little worm and the bird that flies like the storm-wind; but they would not care, and would not often join me in my rambles through the woods, for I might pause too long to make friends with some new flower, or to watch the ants as they swarmed into one of their wonderful earthen houses. Oh, they are marvelous, the things I have seen! But the others have not seen them, and think me queer for noticing them at all!"

"Never mind, Yasma," I whispered, consolingly. "I do not think you queer. I think you clever indeed."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she cried, clapping her little hands together happily. "You're the first who ever said that!"

"Come, come now, certainly not the first," I denied. "Surely, some of the others—say, your father—"

"No, not father! He's very, very good to me, of course, but he's like all the men—imagines that the great god of the flowering spring, and the god of the ripening fall, who put women into the world, had only one use for them. And he thinks I'm growing old enough to—"

Abruptly Yasma halted, as though she feared to tread on unsafe ground. Her fingers still fumbled among the dead leaves, while her averted eyes searched the dense, dark masses of foliage as if in pursuit of something elusive and much desired.

"But I've told you enough about myself," she resumed, hastily, in a half whisper. "Now it's your turn to speak about yourself."

Though I would have done all I could to please her, I was still at a loss for a reply. Embarrassed at my own speechlessness after her frank recital, I wasted much time in telling her that I really had nothing to tell.

"Oh, yes, you must have," she insisted, almost with a child's assurance, as she looked up at me with candid great brown eyes. "What friends had you before you came here? Had you any family? Were you always alone, as I was? Or were there many people around you?"

"Yes, there were many people," I declared, hesitatingly, "though no one who was close of kin, and no one who was such a comrade to me as you have been, Yasma. No, never anyone at all. I did not have any lovely young girl to help me and be kind to me and go romping into the woods with me for nuts and berries."

I paused, and noted that Yasma sat with eyes still averted, still gazing into the shadowy thickets as if she saw there something that interested her immensely. And as I peered at the delicately modelled features, the sensitive nostrils and lips and the auburn hair heaped over the rose-tinged cheeks, I seemed to detect there a wistfulness I had never noticed before, an indefinable melancholy that made her appear no longer the dashing, tumultuous daughter of the wilderness, but rather a small and pathetic creature pitifully in need of comfort and protection. And at this thought—purely fanciful though it may have been—my mind was flooded with sentiments such as I had not known for years. Spontaneously, as though by instinct, my hand reached out for hers, which did not resist, and yet did not return my pressure; and my lips phrased sentiments which certainly my reason would have countermanded if reason had had time to act.

"You don't know what a beautiful girl you are, Yasma," I heard myself repeating the old commonplace of lovers. "What a rare, beautiful girl! I have never known anyone—never—"

"Come, let us not talk of such things!" Yasma cut me short. And she leapt to her feet with a return of her former animation. "See! the sunset shadows are already deepening! In another hour the woods will be cold and dark!"

Again the impetuous wild thing, she seized one of the bags of nuts before I had had time to stop her, and went darting off before me along the forest track, while I was left to follow slowly in a sober mood.

Chapter VIII

THE BIRDS FLY SOUTH

It was early in October when the mystery of the Ibandru began to take pronounced form.

Then it was that I became aware of an undercurrent of excitement in the village, a suppressed agitation which I could not explain, which none would explain to me, and which I recorded as much by subconscious perception as by direct observation. Yet there was sufficient visible evidence. The youth of the village had apparently lost interest in the noisy pastimes that had made the summer evenings gay; old and young alike seemed to have grown restless and uneasy; while occasionally I saw some man or woman scurrying about madly for no apparent reason. And meantime all bore the aspect of waiting, of waiting for some imminent and inevitable event of surpassing importance. Interest in Yulada was at fever pitch; a dozen times a day some one would point toward the stone woman with significant gestures; and a dozen times a day I observed some native prostrating himself in an attitude of prayer, with face always directed toward the figure on the peak while he mumbled incoherently to himself.

But the strangest demonstration of all occurred late one afternoon, when a brisk wind had blown a slaty roof across the heavens, and from far to the northeast, across the high jutting ridges of rock, a score of swift-flying black dots became suddenly visible. In an orderly, triangular formation they approached, gliding on an unwavering course with the speed of an express train; and in an incredibly brief time they had passed above us and out of sight beyond Yulada and the southern peak. After a few minutes they were followed by another band of migrants, and then by another, and another still, until evening had blotted the succeeding squadrons from view and their cries rang and echoed uncannily in the dark.

To me the surprising fact was not the flight of the feathered things; the surprising fact was the reaction of the Ibandru. It was as if they had never seen birds on the wing before; or as if the birds were the most solemn of omens. On the appearance of the first flying flock, one of the Ibandru, who chanced to observe the birds before the others, went running about the village with cries of excitement; and at his shouts the women and children crowded out of the cabins, and all the men within hearing distance came dashing in from the fields. And all stood with mouths open, gaping toward the skies as the successive winged companies sped by; and from that time forth, until twilight had hidden the last soaring stranger, no one seemed to have any purpose in life except to stare at the heavens, calling out tumultuously whenever a new band appeared.

That evening the people held a great celebration. An enormous bonfire was lighted in an open space between the houses; and around it gathered all the men and women of the village, lingering until late at night by a flickering eerie illumination that made the scene appear like a pageant staged on another planet. In the beginning I did not know whether the public meeting had any connection with the flight of the birds; but it was not long before this question was answered.

In their agitation, the people had evidently overlooked me entirely. For once, they had forgotten politeness; indeed, they scarcely noticed me when I queried them about their behavior. And it was as an uninvited stranger, scarcely remembered or observed, that I crept up in the shadows behind the fire, and lay amid the grass to watch.

In the positions nearest the flames, their faces brilliant in the glow, were two men whom I immediately recognized. One, sitting cross-legged on the ground, his features rigid with the dignity of leadership, was Abthar, the father of Yasma; the other, who stood speaking in sonorous tones, was Hamul-Kammesh, the soothsayer. Because I sat at some distance from him and was far from an adept at Pushtu, I missed the greater part of what he said; but I did not fail to note the tenseness with which the people followed him; and I did manage to catch an occasional phrase which, while fragmentary, impressed me as more than curious.

"Friends," he was saying, "we have reached the season of the great flight.... The auguries are propitious ... we may take advantage of them whenever the desire is upon us.... Yulada will help us, and Yulada commands...." At this point there was much that I could not gather, since Hamul-Kammesh spoke in lower tones, with his head bowed as though in prayer.... "The time of yellow leaves and of cold winds is upon us. Soon the rain will come down in showers from the gray skies; soon the frost will snap and bite; soon all the land will be desolate and deserted. Prepare yourselves, my people, prepare!—for now the trees make ready for winter, now the herbs wither and the earth grows no longer green, now the bees and butterflies and fair flowers must depart until the spring—and now the birds fly south, the birds fly south, the birds fly south!"

The last words were intoned fervently and with emphatic slowness, like a chant or a poem; and it seemed to me that an answering emotion swept through the audience. But on and on Hamul-Kammesh went, on and on, speaking almost lyrically, and sometimes driving up to an intense pitch of feeling. More often than not I could not understand him, but I divined that his theme was still the same; he still discoursed upon the advent of autumn, and the imminent and still more portentous advent of winter....

After Hamul-Kammesh had finished, his audience threw themselves chests downward on the ground, and remained thus for some minutes, mumbling unintelligibly to themselves. I observed that they all faced in one direction, the south; and I felt that this could not be attributed merely to chance.

Then, as though at a prearranged signal, all the people simultaneously arose, reminding me of a church-meeting breaking up after the final prayer. Yet no one made any motion to leave; and I had an impression that we were nearer the beginning than the end of the ceremonies. This impression was confirmed when Hamul-Kammesh began to wave his arms before him with a bird-like rhythm, and when, like an orchestra in obedience to the band-master, the audience burst into song.

I cannot say that the result pleased me, for there was in it a weird and barbarous note; yet at the same time there was a certain wild melody ... so that, as I listened, I came more and more under the influence of the singing. It seemed to me that I was hearing the voice not of individuals but of a people, a people pouring forth its age-old joys and sorrows, longings and aspirations. But how express in words the far-away primitive quality of that singing?—It had something of the madness and abandon of the savage exulting, something of the loneliness and long-drawn melancholy of the wolf howling from the midnight hilltop, something of the plaintive and querulous tone of wild birds calling and calling on their way southward.

After the song had culminated in one deep-voiced crescendo, it was succeeded by a dance of equal gusto and strangeness. Singly and in couples and in groups of three and four, the people leapt and swayed in the wavering light; they flung their legs waist-high, they coiled their arms snake-like about their bodies, they whirled around like tops; they darted forward and darted back again, sped gracefully in long curves and spirals, tripped from side to side, or reared and vaulted like athletes; and all the while they seemed to preserve a certain fantastic pattern, seemed to move to the beat of some inaudible rhythm, seemed to be actors in a pageant whose nature I could only vaguely surmise. As they flitted shadow-like in the shadowy background or glided with radiant faces into the light and then back into the gloom, they seemed not so much like sportive and pirouetting humans as like dancing gods; and the sense came over me that I was beholding not a mere ceremony of men and women, but rather a festival of wraiths, of phantoms, of cloudy, elfin creatures who might flash away into the mist or the firelight.

Nor did I lose this odd impression when at intervals the dance relaxed and the dancers lay on the ground recovering from their exertions, while one of them would stand in the blazing light chanting some native song or ballad. If anything, it was during these intermissions that I was most acutely aware of something uncanny. It may, of course, have been only my imagination, for the recitations were all of a weird nature; one poem would tell of men and maidens that vanished in the mists about Yulada and were seen no more; another would describe a country to which the south wind blew, and where it was always April, while many would picture the wanderings of migrant birds, or speak of bodiless spirits that floated along the air like smoke, screaming from the winter gales but gently murmuring in the breezes of spring and summer.

For some reason that I cannot explain, these legends and folk-tales not only filled my mind with eerie fancies but made me think of one who was quite human and real. I began to wonder about Yasma—where was she now? What part was she taking in the celebration? And as my thoughts turned to her, an irrational fear crept into my mind—what if, like the maidens described in the poems, she had taken wing? Smiling at my own imaginings, I arose quietly from my couch of grass, and slowly and cautiously began to move about the edge of the crowd, while scanning the nearer forms and faces. In the pale light I could scarcely be distinguished from a native; and, being careful to keep to the shadows, I was apparently not noticed. And I had almost circled the clearing before I had any reason to pause.

All this time I had seen no sign of Yasma. I had almost given up hope of finding her when my attention was attracted to a solitary little figure hunched against a cabin wall in the dimness at the edge of the clearing. Even in the near-dark I could not fail to recognize her; and, heedless of the dancers surging and eddying through the open spaces, I made toward her in a straight line.

I will admit that I had some idea of the unwisdom of speaking to her tonight; but my impatience had gotten the better of my tongue.

"I am glad to see you here," I began, without the formality of a greeting. "You are not taking part in the dance, Yasma."

Yasma gave a start, and looked at me like one just awakened from deep sleep. At first her eyes showed no recognition; then it struck me there was just a spark of anger and even of hostility in her gaze.

"No, I am not taking part in the dance," she responded, listlessly. And then, after an interval, while I stood above her in embarrassed silence, "But why come to me now?... Why disturb me tonight of all nights?"

"I do not want to disturb you, Yasma," I apologized. "I just happened to see you here, and thought—"

My sentence was never finished. Suddenly I became aware that there was only vacancy where Yasma had been. And dimly I was conscious of a shadow-form slipping from me into the multitude of shadows.

In vain I attempted to follow her. She had vanished as completely as though she had been one of the ghostly women of the poems. No more that evening did I see her small graceful shape; but all the rest of the night, until the bonfire had smoldered to red embers and the crowd had dispersed, I wandered about disconsolately, myself like a ghost as I furtively surveyed the dancing figures. A deep, sinking uneasiness obsessed me; and my dejection darkened into despair as it became plainer that my quest was unavailing, and that Yasma had really turned against me.

Chapter IX

IN THE REDDENING WOODS

During the weeks before the firelight celebration, I had gradually made friends with the various natives. This was not difficult, for the people were as curious regarding me as I would have been regarding a Martian. At the same time, they were kindly disposed, and would never hesitate to do me any little favor, such as to help me in laying up my winter's supplies, or to advise me how to make a coat of goat's hide, or to tell me where the rarest herbs and berries were to be found, or to bring me liberal portions of any choice viand they chanced to be preparing.