Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “That is why I desired you — so I might sleep safely, knowing myself safe when you are, too. And you are safe only when you are at my side. Do you follow my philosophy?”

  I said presently: “This is our White Bridal, Lois. The ceremony completes itself by dawn.”

  “Save that the Sagamore is but a heathen priest, truly I feel myself already wedded to you, so solemn was our pretty rite.... Dare you kiss me, Euan? You never have. Christians betrothed may kiss each other once, I think.”

  “Not such as we — if the rite means anything to us.”

  “Why?”

  “Not on the White Bridal night — if we regard this rite as sacred.”

  “I feel its sacredness. That is why I thought no sin if you should kiss me — on such a night.”

  She sat up in her blanket; and I sat up, too.

  * “Tekasenthos,” she said.

  [* “I am weeping.”]

  * “Chetena, you are laughing!”

  [* “Mouse.”]

  * “Neah. Tekasenthos!” she insisted.

  [* “No, I am weeping.”]

  “Why?”

  “You do not love me,” she remarked, kicking off one ankle moccasin.

  * “Kenonwea-sasita-ha-wiyo, chetenaha!” I said, laughing.

  [* “I love your beautiful foot, little mouse.”]

  * “Akasita? Katontats. But is that all of me you love?”

  [* “My foot? I consent.”]

  “The other one also.”

  “The other one also.”

  * “Neah-wenh-a, O Loskiel. I shall presently slay you and go to sleep.”

  [* “I thank you.”]

  There fell a silence, then:

  “Do you not know in your heart how it is with me?” I said unsteadily.

  She lay down, facing me.

  “In my heart I know, beloved above all men! But I am like a child with you — desiring to please, ardent, confused, unaccustomed. And everything you say delights me — and all you do — or refrain from doing — thrills me with content.... It was so true and sweet of you to leave my lips untouched. I adore you for it — but then I had adored you if you had kissed me, also. Always, your decision pleasures me.”

  After a long while I spoke cautiously. She lay asleep, her lips scarce parted; but in her sleep she seemed to hear my voice, for one arm stole out in the dark and closed around my neck.

  And so we lay until the dark forms gliding from the forest summoned me to mount my guard, and Lois awoke with a little sigh, sat upright, then sprang to her feet to face the coming dawn alone with me.

  CHAPTER XIX

  AMOCHOL

  By daybreak we had salted our parched corn, soaked, and eaten it, and my Indians were already freshening their paint. The Sagamore, stripped for battle, barring clout and sporran, stood tall and powerfully magnificent in his white and vermilion hue of war. On his broad chest the scarlet Ghost Bear reared; on his crest the scarlet feathers slanted low. The Yellow Moth was unbelievably hideous in the poisonous hue of a toad-stool; his crest and all his skin glistened yellow, shining like the sulphurous belly of a snake. But the Grey-Feather was ghastly; his bony features were painted like a skull, spine, ribs, and limb-bones traced out heavily in yellowish white so that he seemed a stalking and articulated skeleton as he moved in the dim twilight of the trees. And I could see that he was very proud of the effect.

  As for the young and ambitious Night Hawk, he had simply made one murderous symbol of himself — a single and terrific emblem of his entire body, for he was painted black from head to foot like an Iroquois executioner, and his skin glistened as the plumage of a sleek crow shines in the sunlight of a field. Every scalp-lock was neatly braided and oiled; every crown shaven; every knife and war-axe and rifle-barrel glimmered silver bright under the industrious rubbing; flints had been renewed; with finest priming powder pans reprimed; and now all my Indians squatted amiably together in perfect accord, very loquacious in their guarded voices, Iroquois, Mohican, and Stockbridge, foregathering as though there had never been a feud in all the world.

  Through the early dusk of morning, Lois had stolen away, having discovered a spring pool to bathe in, the creek water being dark and bitter; and I had freshened myself, too, when she returned, her soft cheeks abloom, and the crisp curls still wet with spray.

  When we had eaten, the Sagamore rose and moved noiselessly down the height of land to the trail level, where our path entered the ghostly gloom of the evergreens. I followed; Lois followed me, springing lightly from tussock to rotting log, from root to bunchy swale, swift, silent footed, dainty as a lithe and graceful panther crossing a morass dry-footed.

  Behind her trotted in order the Yellow Moth, Tohoontowhee, and lastly the Grey-Feather— “Like Father Death herding us all to destruction,” whispered Lois in my ear, as I halted while the Sagamore surveyed the trail ahead with cautious eyes.

  As we moved forward once more, I glanced around at Lois and thought I never had seen such fresh and splendid vigor in any woman. Nor had I ever seen her in such a bright and happy spirit, as though the nearness to the long sought goal was changing her every moment, under my very eyes, into a lovelier and more radiant being than ever had trod this war-scarred world.

  While we had eaten our hasty morning meal, I had told her what I had learned of the Vale Yndaia; and this had excited her more than anything I ever saw to happen to her, so that her grey eyes sparkled with brilliant azure lights, and the soft colour flew from throat to brow, waxing and waning with every quick-drawn breath.

  She wore also, and for the first time, the “moccasins for flying feet” — and ere she put them on she showed them to me with eager and tender pride, kissing each soft and beaded shoe before she drew it over her slender foot. Around her throat, lying against her heart, nestled her father’s faded picture. And as we sped I could hear her murmuring to herself:

  “Jean Coeur! Jean Coeur! Enfin! Me voici en chemin!”

  North, always north we journeyed, moving swiftly on a level runway, or, at fault, checked until the Sagamore found the path, sometimes picking our dangerous ways over the glistening bog, from swale to log, now leaping for some solid root or bunch of weed, now swinging across quicksands, hanging to tested branches by our hands.

  Duller grew the light as the foliage overhead became denser, until we could scarce see the warning glimmer of the bog. Closer, taller, more unkempt grew the hemlocks on every hand. In the ghostly twilight we could not distinguish their separate spectral trunks, so close they grew together. And it seemed like two solid walls through which wound a dusky corridor of mud and bitter tasting water.

  Then, far ahead a level gleam caught my eye. Nearer it grew and brighter; and presently out of the grewsome darkness of the swamp we stepped into a lovely oval intervale of green ferns and grasses, set with oak trees, and a clear, sweet thread of water dashing through it, and spraying the tall ferns along its banks so that they quivered and glistened with the sparkling drops. And here we saw a little bird flitting — the first we had seen that day.

  At the western end of the oval glade a path ran straight away as far as we could see, seeming to pierce the western wall of the hills. The little brook followed at.

  As Lois knelt to drink, the Sagamore whispered to me:

  “This is the pass to the Vale Yndaia! You shall not tell her yet — not till we have dealt with Amochol.”

  “Not till we have dealt with Amochol,” I repeated, staring at the narrow opening which crossed this black and desolate region like a streak of sunshine across burnt land.

  Tahoontowhee examined the trail; nothing had passed since the last rain, save deer and fox.

  So I went over to where Lois was bathing her flushed face in the tiny stream, and lay down to drink beside her.

  “The water is cold and sweet,” she said, “not like that bitter water in the swamp.” She held her cupped hands for me to drink from. And I kissed the fragrant cup.

  As we rose and I shouldered my rifle,
the Grey-Feather began to sing in a low, musical, chanting voice; and all the Indians turned merry faces toward Lois and me as they nodded time to the refrain:

  “Continue to listen and hear the truth,

  Maiden Hidden and Hidden Youth.

  The song of those who are ‘more than men’!

  *Thi-ya-en-sa-y-e-ken!”

  [* “They will (live to) see it again!”]

  “It is the chant of the Stone Throwers — the Little People!” said Mayaro, laughing. “Ye two are fit to hear it.”

  “They are singing the Song of the Hidden Children,” I whispered to Lois. “Is it not strangely pretty?”

  “It is wild music, but sweet,” she murmured, “ — the music of the Little People — che-kah-a-hen-wah.”

  “Can you catch the words?”

  “Aye, but do not understand them every one.”

  “Some day I will make them into an English song for you. Listen! ‘The Voices’ are beginning! Listen attentively to the Chant of *Ta-neh-u-weh-too!”

  [* “Hidden in the Husks.”]

  The Night Hawk was singing now, as he walked through the sunlit glade, hip-deep in scented ferns and jewel-weed. Two brilliant humming-birds whirled around him as he strode.

  A VOICE

  “Who shall find my Hidden Maid

  Where the tasselled corn is growing?

  Let them seek her in Kandaia,

  Let them seek her in Oswaya,

  Where the giant pines are growing,

  Let them seek and be afraid!

  Where the Adriutha flowing

  Splashes through the forest glade,

  Where the Kennyetto flowing

  Thunders through the hemlock shade,

  Let them seek and be afraid,

  From Oswaya To Yndaia,

  All the way to Carenay!”

  ANOTHER VOICE

  “Who shall find my Hidden Son

  Where the tasselled corn is growing?

  Let them seek my Hidden One

  From the Silver Horicon

  North along the Saguenay,

  Where the Huron cocks are crowing,

  Where the Huron maids are mowing

  Hay along the Saguenay;

  Where the Mohawk maids are hoeing

  Corn along the Carenay,

  Let them seek my Hidden Son,

  West across the inland seas,

  South to where the cypress trees

  Quench the flaming scarlet flora

  Of the painted Esaurora,

  Drenched in rivers to their knees!

  *Honowehto! Like Thendara!

  [* “They have vanished.”]

  Let them hunt to Danascara

  Back along the Saguenay,

  On the trail to Carenay,

  Through the Silver Horicon

  Till the night and day are one!

  Where the Adriutha flowing

  Sings below Oswaya glowing.

  Where the sunset of Kandaia

  Paints the meadows of Yndaia,

  Let them seek my Hidden Son

  ‘Till the sun and moon are one!”

  *TE-KI-E-HO-KEN

  [* “Two Voices (together).”]

  * “Nai Shehawa! She lies sleeping,

  [* “Behold thy children!”]

  Where the green leaves closely fold her!

  He shall wake first and behold her

  Who is given to his keeping;

  He shall strip her of her leaves

  Where she sleeps amid the sheaves,

  Snowy white, without a stain,

  Nothing marred of wind or rain.

  So from slumber she shall waken,

  And behold the green robe shaken

  From his shoulders to her own!

  *Ye-ji-se-way-ad-kerone!”

  [* “So ye two are laid together.”]

  The pretty song of the Hidden Children softened to a murmur and died out as our trail entered the swamp once more, north of the oval glade. And into its sombre twilight we passed out of the brief gleam of sunshine. Once more the dark and bitter water coiled its tortuous channel through the slime; huge, gray evergreens, shaggy and forbidding, towered above, closing in closer and closer on every side, crowding us into an ever-narrowing trail.

  But this trail, since we had left the sunny glade, had become harder under foot, and far more easy to travel; and we made fast time along it, so that early in the afternoon we suddenly came out into that vast belt of firm ground and rocky, set with tremendous oaks and pines and hemlocks, on the northern edge of which lies Catharines-town, on both banks of the stream.

  And here the stream rushed out through this country as though frightened, running with a mournful sound into the northern forest; and the pines were never still, sighing and moaning high above us, so that the never ceasing plaint of wind and water filled the place.

  And here, on a low, bushy ridge, we lay all day, seeing in the forest not one living thing, nor any movement in that dim solitude, save where the grey and wraith-like water tossed a flat crest against some fallen tree, or its dull and sullen surface gleamed like lead athwart the valley far ahead.

  My Indians squatted, or sprawled prone along the ridge; Lois lay flat on her stomach beside me, her chin resting on her clasped hands. We talked of many things that afternoon — of life as we had found it, and what it promised us — of death, if we must find it here in these woods before I made her mine. And of how long was the spirit’s trail to God — if truly it were but a swift, upward flight like to the rushing of an arrow already flashing out of sight ere the twanging buzz of the bow-string died on the air. Or if it were perhaps a long, slow, painful journey through thick night, toilsome, blindly groping, wings adroop trailing against bruised heels. Or if we two must pass by hell, within sight and hearing of the thunderous darkness, and feel the rushing wind of the pit hot on one’s face.

  Sometimes, like a very child, she prattled of happiness, which she had never experienced, but meant to savour, wedded or not — talked to me there of all she had never known and would now know and realize within her mother’s tender arms.

  “And sometimes, Euan, dreaming of her I scarce see how, within my heart, I can find room for you also. Yet, I know well there is room for both of you, and that one without the other would leave my happiness but half complete.... I wonder if I resemble her? Will she know me — and I her? How shall we meet, Euan — after more than a score of years? She will see my moccasins, and cry out! She will see my face and know me, calling me by name! Oh, happiness! Oh, miracle! Will the night never come!”

  “Dear maid and tender! You should not build your hopes too high, so that they crush you utterly if they must fall to earth again.”

  “I know. Amochol may have slain her. We will learn all when you take Amochol — when God delivers him into your hands this night.... How will you do it, Euan?”

  “Take him, you mean?”

  “Aye.”

  “We lie south, just outside the fire-ring’s edge. Boyd watches them from the north. His signal to us begins the business. We leap straight for the altar and take Amochol at its very foot, the while Boyd’s heavy rifles deal death on every side, keeping the others busy while we are securing Amochol. Then we all start south for the army, God willing, and meet our own people on the high-ridge east of us.”

  “But Yndaia!”

  “That we will scour the instant we have Amochol.”

  “You promise?”

  “Dearest, I promise solemnly. Yet — I think — if your mother lives — she may be here in Catharines-town tonight. This is the Dream Feast, Lois. I and my Indians believe that she has bought her life of Amochol by dreaming for them. And if this be true, and she has indeed become their Prophetess and Interpreter of Dreams, then this night she will be surely here to read their dreams for them.”

  “Will we see her before you begin the attack?”

  “Little Lois, how can I tell you such things? We are to creep up close to the central fire — as close as w
e dare.”

  “Will there be crowds of people there?”

  “Many people.”

  “Warriors?”

  “Not many. They are with Hiokatoo and Brant. There will be hunters and Sachems, and the Cat-People, and the Andastes pack, and many women. The False Faces will not be there, nor the Wyoming Witch, nor the Toad Woman, because all these are now with Hiokatoo and Walter Butler. For which I thank God and am very grateful.”

  “How shall I know her in this fire-lit throng?” murmured Lois, staring ahead of her where the evening dusk had now veiled the nearer trees with purple.

  Before I could reply, the Sagamore rose from his place on my left, and we all sprang lightly to our feet, looked to our priming, covered our pans, and trailed arms.

  “Now!” he muttered, passing in front of me and taking the lead; and we all filed after him through the open forest, moving rapidly, almost on a run, for half a mile, then swung sharply out to the right, where the trees grew slimmer and thinner, and plunged into a thicket of hazel and osier.

  “I smell smoke,” whispered Lois, keeping close to me.

  I nodded. Presently we halted and stood in silence, minute after minute, while the purple dusk deepened swiftly around us, and overhead a few stars came out palely, as though frightened.

  Then Mayaro dropped noiselessly to the ground and began to crawl forward over the velvet moss; and we followed his example, feeling our way with our right hands to avoid dry branches and rocks. From time to time we paused to regain our strength and breathe; and the last time we did so the aromatic smell of birch-smoke blew strong in our nostrils, and there came to our ears a subdued murmur like the stirring of pine-tops in a steady breeze. But there were no pines around us now, only osier, hazel, and grey-birch, and the deep moss under foot.

  “A house!” whispered the Yellow Moth, pointing.

  There it stood, dark and shadowy against the north. Another loomed dimly beyond it; a haystack rose to the left.

  We were in Catharines-town.

  And now, as we crawled forward, we could see open country on our left, and many unlighted houses and fields of corn, dim and level against the encircling forest. The murmur on our right had become a sustained and distinct sound, now swelling in the volume of many voices, now subsiding, then waxing to a dull tumult. And against the borders of the woods, like a shining crimson curtain shifting, we could see the red reflection of a fire sweeping across the solid foliage.