Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  “It’s a fine thing to be an Oracle!” said Chip-Cheloogoo, again; but he remained quiet and kept his eyes busy.

  The shaft of light came from the forest, dropping clear through a big hollow tree whose roots supported the roof of the cavern. At the far side from the entrance the intruder noticed a flight of steps which had been dug in the earth, and led upward. “To the cylinder!” guessed the stupid one. “How much pains the Oracle has taken to fashion this hiding-place!”

  While he gazed about him he heard the sound of iron scraping, and then a monster cocoanut rolled down the steps and fell into the cavern.

  “The Oracle is busy,” whispered Chip-Cheloogoo, and crept at once to the further opening, and so up the steps.

  At the top was the iron cylinder, and squatted in the hollow beneath the open door was an aged chimpanzee, so gray and wrinkled that the youngster thought he might have lived a century.

  But now a voice was heard speaking from the clearing, and it made Chip-Cheloogoo start to recognize the accents of his father, the aristocratic H. Chatterton.

  “Tell me, O Terrible Unknown,” spoke the father; “where is my stupid son Chip-Cheloogoo?”

  “Where should he be?” asked the Voice of the Oracle, just above the stupid one’s listening ears.

  “He should be at home,” replied H. Chatterton. “But he has run away, and he is so stupid and such an innocent that his mother and I are worrying lest something should happen to him.”

  “Something will happen to him!” cried the Oracle, so positively that it made the listener shiver. “Something always happens to everybody. Either your stupid son will remain away, or he will return home in safety. I advise you to run away and stop worrying.”

  “Run away!” gasped H. Chatterton.

  “Yes; run away home.”

  Then the door slammed shut, and Chip-Cheloogoo thought it best to creep back to the cavern.

  A wise animal would at once have escaped; but Chip-Cheloogoo was not noted for wisdom as yet. He seized a hatchet in one nervous hand and crouched in the cavern, awaiting the arrival of the Oracle.

  The aged Chimpanzee came down the steps and paused as he saw a strange form.

  “Who are you?” he asked, plainly surprised at being discovered.

  “I am the stupid one, and my name is Chip-Cheloogoo.”

  “Why, so is mine!” exclaimed the other.

  “I was named after the great philosopher,” said the youth.

  “And I am the great philosopher!” declared the old chimpanzee.

  The young one stared at him. “But you have other titles, it seems,” he at last replied. “You are the Terrible Unknown, the Mighty Oracle — the Fraud of the Forest!”

  The old chimpanzee laughed.

  “Sit down and make yourself at home, my dear namesake,” said he, “and stop playing with that hatchet. You do not seem to be so stupid as people think.”

  The youngster carelessly tossed aside the weapon.

  “Certainly I am not an Oracle,” he answered scornfully. He looked up as he spoke, and saw a ball of gray fur whirling at him through the air; and in the centre of the ball flashed the blade of a knife.

  Like a streak of lightning the startled intruder bounded over the floor of the cavern and quickly turned. They had merely changed places, and now Chip-Cheloogoo crouched near a choice collection of weapons, one of which he grasped.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the philosopher, from the opposite side. “I fear I frightened you, my dear namesake.”

  “Not at all,” said the young one, coolly. “But do not let us quarrel, since you are about to die.”

  “About to die! I about to die? How is that?” asked the wrinkled one, curiously, as he felt the edge of his knife and measured the distance with his eye.

  “Why, as I came here I met a brown bear,” returned Chip-Cheloogoo, “and he told me of your cavern, and of the tunnel, and how to find it. At noon he will be here to tear the Oracle into shreds for advising him to fight a grizzly twice his size.”

  “Did the grizzly win?” asked the Oracle, now quite interested.

  “The grizzly nearly killed the brown bear,” said the other; “but he has still enough life to be revenged upon a wrinkled old chimpanzee.”

  The philosopher reflected a moment. “Very well; let him come,” said he. “I think I know a way to conquer him.”

  “And there is a red monkey coming to fight you because you deceived him. When he returned home his grandfather was dead.”

  “I only said — ” began the Oracle.

  “I know; but the red one will fight, and he has killed seven strong chimpanzees already,” interrupted the stupid one.

  The Oracle shuddered.

  “And the brown bear also told a jaguar the secret of this cavern,” continued the youth, calmly; “and the jaguar will kill you if the bear does not — because you rejected his offering. And there is a serpent waiting outside to slip through the door when it is next opened and destroy you because you advised the gray squirrel.”

  By this time the aged philosopher was trembling as with the ague, and beads of perspiration stood thick upon his wrinkled forehead.

  “Help me, namesake!” he pleaded, anxiously; “help me to defeat my enemies!”

  “Not I!” retorted Chip-Cheloogoo. “You welcomed me with soft words and a sharp knife. Perhaps you were once a great philosopher, but now you are grown childish and silly. Your secret is out — even now the whole forest knows how you have deceived the animals. You will only live until the first of your enemies reaches this cave.”

  “Then I am ruined! Ruined and discovered! Discovered and ruined!” moaned the other. “I might perhaps kill you, but I cannot kill all the animals that are coming to destroy me! What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?”

  “Perhaps you may yet escape,” answered Chip-Cheloogoo, in a careless tone. “If you run through the tunnel, and hide between the high banks of the brook, your enemies may not discover you until you have fled far from here and reached another forest where your frauds and deceptions are unknown.”

  “You are right! I will fly at once!” cried the philosopher, now fully terror-stricken; and without waiting even to say good-by, he darted from the cavern.

  Chip-Cheloogoo followed more leisurely. When he struck his head out beside the bush he could see the old chimpanzee running frantically between the banks of the brook, and presently he had passed out of sight in his wild rush to another forest and safety.

  The stupid one laughed and returned to the cavern. Next minute a comb of fine honey rolled down the steps to his feet.

  Chip-Cheloogoo sprang up the stairs and squatted in the cylinder.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, striving to make his voice sound as deep and hollow as that of the old philosopher.

  “It’s me,” spoke the voice of the brown bear, quite pleasant in tone. “I came to tell you that you were right, for I fought the grizzly and conquered him. So I have brought more honey to pay for your good advice.”

  Then the bear went away, swinging his huge body proudly at each step. Chip-Cheloogoo drew a long breath. “I was just in time,” said he. “There is nothing like seizing on opportunity promptly.”

  A handful of nuts rattled around his feet.

  “Thank you!” called the voice of the gray squirrel. “I closed the entrance to my nest, as you advised, and now the serpent has gone away and left me in peace.” Shortly afterward three cocoanuts, one after the other, [forced him to] duck his head to escape them. “You are wise, O Terrible Unknown!” cried the red monkey, happily. “For my grandfather has recovered, and is now alive and well. Accept my grateful offerings!” And while the stupid one sat thoughtfully within the cylinder the door again opened and a fine bread-fruit — the luxury most prized by chimpanzees — fell at his feet and rolled down the incline into the cavern.

  “Perhaps that will suit the Mighty Oracle,” growled the jaguar. “I am sorry I offended you yesterday by bringing a bird. Tell me,
will the moon shine to-night?”

  “If there are no clouds,” answered Chip-Cheloogoo.

  “And will my hunt be successful?” continued the jaguar.

  “Yes; if you find game,” said the Oracle.

  “Thanks, O Mighty One!” returned the beast, and crept away to the forest.

  Again the stupid one laughed softly to himself, and then he slid down the passage into the cavern.

  The flood was strewn with the gifts he had just received.

  “There are a good many ways to make an honest living,” said he, as he looked around him, “and although one may be born stupid, it is no bar to becoming a successful Oracle!”

  The Enchanted Buffalo

  From: The Delineator, May 1905

  This is a tale of the Royal Tribe of Okolom--those mighty buffaloes that once dominated all the Western prairies, Seven hundred strong were the Okolom--great, shaggy creatures herding together and defying all enemies. Their range was well known to the Indians, to lesser herds of bisons and to all the wilds that roamed in the open; but none cared to molest or interfere with the Royal Tribe.

  Dakt was the first King of the Okolom. By odds the fiercest and most intelligent of his race, he founded the Tribe, made the Laws that directed their actions and led his subjects through wars and dangers until they were acknowledged masters of the prairie.

  Dakt had enemies, of course; even in the Royal Tribe. As he grew old it was whispered he was in league with Pagshat, the Evil Genius of the Prairies; yet few really believed the lying tale, and those Who did but feared King Dakt the more.

  The days of this monarch were prosperous days for the Okolom. In Summer their feeding grounds were ever rich in succulent grasses; in Winter Dakt led them to fertile valleys in the shelter of the mountains.

  But in time the great leader grew old and gray. He ceased quarreling and fighting and began to love peace--a sure sign that his days were numbered. Sometimes he would stand motionless for hours, apparently in deep thought. His dignity relaxed; he became peevish; his eye, once shrewd and compelling, grew dim and glazed.

  Many of the younger bulls, who coveted his Kingship, waited for Dakt to die; some patiently, and some impatiently. Throughout the herd there was an undercurrent of excitement. Then, one bright Spring morning, as the Tribe wandered in single file toward new feeding grounds, the old King lagged behind. They missed him, presently, and sent Barrag the Bull back over the hills to look for him. It was an hour before this messenger returned, coming into view above the swell of the prairie.

  “The King is dead,” said Barrag the Bull, as he walked calmly into the midst of the tribe. “Old age has at last overtaken him.”

  The members of the Okolom looked upon him curiously. Then one said: “There is blood upon your horns, Barrag. You did not wipe them well upon the grass.”

  Barrag turned fiercely “The old King is dead,” he repeated. “Hereafter, I am the King!”

  No one answered in words; but, as the Tribe pressed backward into a dense mass, four young bulls remained standing before Barrag, quietly facing the would-be King. He looked upon them sternly. He had expected to contend for his royal office. It was the Law that any of the Tribe might fight for the right to rule the Okolom. But it surprised him to find there were four who dared dispute his assertion that he was King.

  Barrag the Bull had doubtless been guilty of a cowardly act in goring the feeble old King to his death. But he could fight; and fight he did. One after another the powerful young bulls were overthrown, while every member of the Tribe watched the great tournament with eager interest. Barrag was not popular with them, but they could not fail to marvel at his prowess. To the onlookers he seemed inspired by unseen powers that lent him a strength fairly miraculous. They murmured together in awed tones, and the name of the dread Pagshat was whispered more than once.

  As the last of the four bulls--the pride of half the Tribe--lay at the feet of the triumphant Barrag, the victor turned and cried aloud: “I am King of the Okolom! Who dares dispute my right to rule?”

  For a moment there was silence. Then a fresh young voice exclaimed: “I dare!” and a handsome bull calf marched slowly into the space before Barrag and proudly faced him. A muttered protest swelled from the assemblage until it became a roar. Before it had subsided the young one’s mother rushed to his side with a wail of mingled love and fear.

  “No, no, Oknu!” she pleaded, desperately. “Do not fight, my child. It is death! See--Barrag is twice thy size. Let him rule the Okolom!”

  “But I myself am the son of Dakt the King, and fit to rule in his place,” answered Oknu, tossing his head with pride. “This Barrag is an interloper! There is no drop of royal blood in his veins.”

  “But he is nearly twice thy size!” moaned the mother, nearly frantic with terror. “He is leagued with the Evil Genius. To fight him means defeat and death!”

  “He is a murderer!” returned the young bull, glaring upon Barrag. “He has killed his King, my father!”

  “Enough!” roared the accused. “I am ready to silence this King’s cub. Let us fight.”

  “No!” said an old bull, advancing from the herd. “Oknu shall not fight to-day. He is too young to face the mighty Barrag. But he will grow, both in size and strength; and then, when he is equal to the contest, he may fight for his father’s place among the Okolom. In the meantime we acknowledge Barrag our King!”

  A shout of approval went up from all the Tribe, and in the confusion that followed the old Queen thrust her bold son out of sight amidst the throng.

  Barrag was King. Proudly he accepted the acclaims of the Okolom--the most powerful Tribe of his race. His ambition was at last fulfilled; his plotting had met with success. The unnatural strength he had displayed had vanquished every opponent. Barrag was King.

  Yet as the new ruler led his followers away from the field of conflict and into fresh pastures, his heart was heavy within him. He had not thought of Prince Oknu, the son of the terrible old King he had assisted to meet death. Oknu was a mere youth, half-grown and untried. Yet the look in his dark eyes as he had faced his father’s murderer filled Barrag with a vague uneasiness. The youth would grow, and bade fair to become as powerful in time as old Dakt himself. And when he was grown he would fight for the leadership of the Okolom.

  Barrag had not reckoned upon that.

  When the moon came up, and the prairie was dotted with the reclining forms of the hosts of the Royal Tribe, the new King rose softly to his feet and moved away with silent tread. His pace was slow and stealthy until he had crossed the first rolling swell of the prairie; then he set off at a brisk trot that covered many leagues within the next two hours.

  At length Barrag reached a huge rock that towered above the plain. It was jagged and full of rents and fissures, and after a moment’s hesitation the King selected an opening and stalked fearlessly into the black shadows. Presently the rift became a tunnel; but Barrag kept on, feeling his way in the darkness with his fore feet. Then a tiny light glimmered ahead, guiding him, and soon after he came into a vast cave hollowed in the centre of the rock. The rough walls were black as ink, yet glistened with an unseen light that shed its mellow but awesome rays throughout the cavern.

  Here Barrag paused, saying in a loud voice:

  “To thee, 0 Pagshat, Evil Genius of the Prairies, I give greeting! All has occurred as thou didst predict. The great Dakt is dead, and I, Barrag the Bull, am ruler of the Tribe of Okolom.”

  For a moment after he ceased the stillness was intense. Then a Voice, grave and deep, answered in the language of the buffaloes: “It is well!”

  “But all difficulties are not yet swept aside,” continued Barrag. “The old King left a son, an audacious young bull not half grown, who wished to fight me. But the patriarchs of the Tribe bade him wait until he had size and strength. Tell me, can the young Prince Oknu defeat me then?”

  “He can,” responded the Voice.

  “Then what shall I do?” demanded the King. “Thou h
ast promised to make me secure in my power?’

  “I promised only to make you King of the Tribe--and you are King. Farther than that, you must protect yourself,” the Voice of the Evil Genius made answer. “But, since you are hereafter my slave, I will grant you one more favor--the power to remove your enemy by enchantment?”

  “And how may I do that?” asked Barrag, eagerly.

  “I will give you the means,” was the reply. “Bow low thine head, and between the horns I will sprinkle a magical powder.”

  Barrag obeyed. “And now?” said he, inquiringly.

  “Now,” responded the unseen Voice, “mark well my injunctions. You must enchant the young Prince and transform him from a buffalo into some small and insignificant animal. Therefore, to-morrow you must choose a spring, and before any of the Tribe has drunk therein, shake well your head above the water, that the powder may sift down into the spring. At the same time centre your thoughts intently upon the animal into which you wish the Prince transformed. Then let him drink of the water in the spring, and the transformation on the instant will be accomplished?”

  “That is very simple,” said Barrag. “Is the powder now between my horns?”

  “It is,” answered the Voice.

  “Then, farewell, 0 Pagshat!”

  From the cavern of the Evil Genius the King felt his way through the passages until he emerged upon the prairie. Then, softly--that he might not disturb the powder of enchantment--he trotted back to the sleeping herd.

  Just before he reached it a panther, slender, lithe and black as coal, bounded across his path, and with a quick blow of his hoof Barrag crushed in the animal’s skull. “Panthers are miserable creatures,” mused the King, as he sought his place among the slumbering buffaloes. “I think I shall transform young Oknu into a black panther?”

  Secure in his great strength, he forgot that a full-grown panther is the most terrible foe known to his race.

  At sunrise the King led the Royal Tribe of Okolom to a tiny spring that welled clear and refreshing from the centre of a fertile valley.