CHAPTER 11
There was a welcome change in the weather when I
rose early next morning; the sky was without cloud and had that purity in its
color and look of infinite distance seen only when the atmosphere is free from
vapor. The sun had not yet risen, but old Nuflo was already among the ashes, on
his hands and knees, blowing the embers he had uncovered to a flame. Then Rima
appeared only to pass through the room with quick light tread to go out of the
door without a word or even a glance at my face. The old man, after watching at
the door for a few minutes, turned and began eagerly questioning me about my
adventures on the previous evening. In reply I related to him how the girl had
found me in the forest lost and unable to extricate myself from the tangled
undergrowth.
He rubbed his hands on his knees and chuckled.
"Happy for you, senior," he said, "that my granddaughter regards
you with such friendly eyes, otherwise you might have perished before morning.
Once she was at your side, no light, whether of sun or moon or lantern, was
needed, nor that small instrument which is said to guide a man aright in the
desert, even in the darkest night—let him that can believe such a thing!"
"Yes, happy for me," I returned. "I
am filled with remorse that it was all through my fault that the poor child was
exposed to such weather."
"O senior," he cried airily, "let
not that distress you! Rain and wind and hot suns, from which we seek shelter,
do not harm her. She takes no cold, and no fever, with or without ague."
After some further conversation I left him to
steal away unobserved on his own account, and set out for a ramble in the hope
of encountering Rima and winning her to talk to me.
My quest did not succeed: not a glimpse of her
delicate shadowy form did I catch among the trees; and not one note from her
melodious lips came to gladden me. At noon I returned to the house, where I
found food placed ready for me, and knew that she had come there during my
absence and had not been forgetful of my wants.
"Shall I thank you for this?" I said.
"I ask you for heavenly nectar for the sustentation of the higher winged
nature in me, and you give me a boiled sweet potato, toasted strips of
sun-dried pumpkins, and a handful of parched maize! Rima! Rima! my woodland
fairy, my sweet savior, why do you yet fear me? Is it that love struggles in
you with repugnance? Can you discern with clear spiritual eyes the grosser
elements in me, and hate them; or has some false imagination made me appear all
dark and evil, but too late for your peace, after the sweet sickness of love
has infected you?"
But she was not there to answer me, and so after a
time I went forth again and seated myself listlessly on the root of an old tree
not far from the house. I had sat there a full hour when all at once Rima
appeared at my side. Bending forward, she touched my hand, but without glancing
at my face. "Come with me," she said, and turning, moved swiftly
towards the northern extremity of the forest. She seemed to take it for granted
that I would follow, never casting a look behind nor pausing in her rapid walk;
but I was only too glad to obey and, starting up, was quickly after her.
She led me by easy ways, familiar to her, with
many doublings to escape the undergrowth, never speaking or pausing until we
came out from the thick forest, and I found myself for the first time at the
foot of the great hill or mountain Ytaioa. Glancing back for a few moments, she
waved a hand towards the summit, and then at once began the ascent. Here too it
seemed all familiar ground to her. From below, the sides had presented an exceedingly
rugged appearance—a wild confusion of huge jagged rocks, mixed with a tangled
vegetation of trees, bushes, and vines; but following her in all her doublings,
it became easy enough, although it fatigued me greatly owing to our rapid pace.
The hill was conical, but I found that it had a flat top— an oblong or
pear-shaped area, almost level, of a soft, crumbly sandstone, with a few blocks
and boulders of a harder stone scattered about—and no vegetation, except the
gray mountain lichen and a few sere-looking dwarf shrubs.
Here Rima, at a distance of a few yards from me,
remained standing still for some minutes, as if to give me time to recover my
breath; and I was right glad to sit down on a stone to rest. Finally she walked
slowly to the center of the level area, which was about two acres in extent;
rising, I followed her and, climbing on to a huge block of stone, began gazing
at the wide prospect spread out before me. The day was windless and bright,
with only a few white clouds floating at a great height above and casting
travelling shadows over that wild, broken country, where forest, marsh, and
savanna were only distinguishable by their different colors, like the grays and
greens and yellows on a map. At a great distance the circle of the horizon was broken
here and there by mountains, but the hills in our neighborhood were all beneath
our feet.
After gazing all round for some minutes, I jumped
down from my stand and, leaning against the stone, stood watching the girl,
waiting for her to speak. I felt convinced that she had something of the very
highest importance (to herself) to communicate, and that only the pressing need
of a confidant, not Nuflo, had overcome her shyness of me; and I determined to
let her take her own time to say it in her own way. For a while she continued
silent, her face averted, but her little movements and the way she clasped and
unclasped her fingers showed that she was anxious and her mind working.
Suddenly, half turning to me, she began speaking eagerly and rapidly.
"Do you see," she said, waving her hand
to indicate the whole circuit of earth, "how large it is? Look!" pointing
now to mountains in the west. "Those are the Vahanas—one, two, three—the
highest—I can tell you their names—Vahana-Chara, Chumi, Aranoa. Do you see that
water? It is a river, called Guaypero. From the hills it comes down, Inaruna is
their name, and you can see them there in the south—far, far."
And in this way she went on pointing out and
naming all the mountains and rivers within sight. Then she suddenly dropped her
hands to her sides and continued: "That is all. Because we can see no
further. But the world is larger than that! Other mountains, other rivers. Have
I not told you of Voa, on the River Voa, where I was born, where mother died,
where the priest taught me, years, years ago? All that you cannot see, it is so
far away—so far."
I did not laugh at her simplicity, nor did I smile
or feel any inclination to smile. On the contrary, I only experienced a
sympathy so keen that it was like pain while watching her clouded face, so
changeful in its expression, yet in all changes so wistful. I could not yet
form any idea as to what she wished to communicate or to discover, but seeing
that she paused for a reply, I answered: "The world is so large, Rima,
that we can only see a very small portion of it from any one spot. Look at
this," and with a stick I had used to aid me in my ascent I traced a
circle six or seven inches in circumference on the soft stone, and in its
center placed a small pebble. "This represents the mountain we are
standing on," I continued, touching the pebble. "And this line
encircling it encloses all of the earth we can see from the mountain-top. Do
you understand? – the line I have traced is the blue line of the horizon beyond
which we cannot see. And outside of this little circle is all the flat top of
Ytaioa representing the world. Consider, then, how small a portion of the world
we can see from this spot!"
"And do you know it all?" she returned
excitedly. "All the world?" waving her hand to indicate the little
stone plain. "All the mountains, and rivers, and forests—all the people in
the world?"
"That would be impossible, Rima; consider how
large it is."
"That does not matter. Come, let us go
together—we two and grandfather —and see all the world; all the mountains and
forests, and know all the people."
"You do not know what you are saying, Rima.
You might as well say: 'Come, let us go to the sun and find out everything in
it.'"
"It is you who do not know what you are
saying," she retorted, with brightening eyes which for a moment glanced
full into mine. "We have no wings like birds to fly to the sun. Am I not
able to walk on the earth, and run? Can I not swim? Can I not climb every
mountain?"
"No, you cannot. You imagine that all the
earth is like this little portion you see. But it is not all the same. There
are great rivers which you cannot cross by swimming; mountains you cannot
climb; forests you cannot penetrate—dark, and inhabited by dangerous beasts,
and so vast that all this space your eyes look on is a mere speck of earth in
comparison."
She listened excitedly. "Oh, do you know all
that?" she cried, with a strangely brightening look; and then half turning
from me, she added, with sudden petulance: "Yet only a minute ago you knew
nothing of the world—because it is so large! Is anything to be gained by
speaking to one who says such contrary things?"
I explained that I had not contradicted myself,
that she had not rightly interpreted my words. I knew, I said, something about
the principal features of the different countries of the world, as, for
instance, the largest mountain ranges, and rivers, and the cities. Also
something, but very little, about the tribes of savage men. She heard me with
impatience, which made me speak rapidly, in very general terms; and to simplify
the matter I made the world stand for the continent we were in. It seemed idle
to go beyond that, and her eagerness would not have allowed it.
"Tell me all you know," she said the
moment I ceased speaking. "What is there—and there—and there?" pointing
in various directions. "Rivers and forests—they are nothing to me. The
villages, the tribes, the people everywhere; tell me, for I must know it
all."
"It would take long to tell, Rima."
"Because you are so slow. Look how high the
sun is! Speak, speak! What is there?" pointing to the north.
"All that country," I said, waving my
hands from east to west, "is Guyana; and so large is it that you could go
in this direction, or in this, travelling for months, without seeing the end of
Guyana. Still it would be Guyana; rivers, rivers, rivers, with forests between,
and other forests and rivers beyond. And savage people, nations and
tribes—Guahibo, Aguaricoto, Ayano, Maco, Piaroa, Quiriquiripo, Tuparito—shall I
name a hundred more? It would be useless, Rima; they are all savages, and live
widely scattered in the forests, hunting with bow and arrow and the zabatana.
Consider, then, how large Guyana is!"
"Guyana—Guyana! Do I not know all this is
Guyana? But beyond, and beyond, and beyond? Is there no end to Guyana?"
"Yes; there northwards it ends at the
Orinoco, a mighty river, coming from mighty mountains, compared with which
Ytaioa is like a stone on the Around on which we have sat down to rest. You
must know that guayana is only a portion, a half, of our country, Venezuela.
Look," I continued, putting my hand round my shoulder to touch the middle
of my back, "there is a groove running down my spine dividing my body into
equal parts. Thus does the great Orinoco divide Venezuela, and on one side of
it is all Guyana; and on the other side the countries or provinces of Cumana,
Maturm, Barcelona, Bolivar, Guarico, Apure, and many others." I then gave
a rapid description of the northern half of the country, with its vast llanos
covered with herds in one part, its plantations of coffee, rice, and sugar-cane
in another, and its chief towns; last of all Caracas, the gay and opulent
little Paris in America.
This seemed to weary her; but the moment I ceased
speaking, and before I could well moisten my dry lips, she demanded to know
what came after Caracas—after all Venezuela.
"The ocean—water, water, water," I
replied.
"There are no people there—in the water; only
fishes," she remarked; then suddenly continued: "Why are you
silent—is Venezuela, then, all the world?"
The task I had set myself to perform seemed only
at its commencement yet. Thinking how to proceed with it, my eyes roved over
the level area we were standing on, and it struck me that this little irregular
plain, broad at one end and almost pointed at the other, roughly resembled the
South American continent in its form.
"Look, Rima," I began, "here we are
on this small pebble—Ytaioa; and this line round it shuts us in—we cannot see
beyond. Now let us imagine that we can see beyond—that we can see the whole
flat mountaintop; and that, you know, is the whole world. Now listen while I
tell you of all the countries, and principal mountains, and rivers, and cities
of the world."
The plan I had now fixed on involved a great deal
of walking about and some hard work in moving and setting up stones and tracing
boundary and other lines; but it gave me pleasure, for Rima was close by all
the time, following me from place to place, listening to all I said in silence
but with keen interest. At the broad end of the level summit I marked out
Venezuela, showing by means of a long line how the Orinoco divided it, and also
marking several of the greater streams flowing into it. I also marked the sites
of Caracas and other large towns with stones; and rejoiced that we are not like
the Europeans, great city-builders, for the stones proved heavy to lift. Then
followed Colombia and Ecuador on the west, and, successively, Bolivia, Peru,
Chile, ending at last in the south with Patagonia, a cold arid land, bleak and
desolate. I marked the littoral cities as we progressed on that side, where
earth ends and the Pacific Ocean begins, and infinitude.
Then, in a sudden burst of inspiration, I
described the Cordilleras to her—that world-long, stupendous chain; its sea of
Titicaca, and wintry, desolate Paramo, where lie the ruins of Tiahuanaco, older
than Thebes. I mentioned its principal cities—those small inflamed or festering
pimples that attract much attention from appearing on such a body. Quito,
called—not in irony, but by its own people—the Splendid and the Magnificent; so
high above the earth as to appear but a little way removed from heaven—"de
Quito al cielo," as the saying is. But of its sublime history, its kings
and conquerors, Haymar Capac the Mighty, and Huascar, and Atahualpa the
Unhappy, not one word. Many words—how inadequate!--of the summits, white with
everlasting snows, above it—above this navel of the world, above the earth, the
ocean, the darkening tempest, the condor's flight. Flame-breathing Cotopaxi,
whose wrathful mutterings are audible two hundred leagues away, and Chimborazo,
Antisana, Sarata, Illimani, Aconcagua—names of mountains that affect us like
the names of gods, implacable Pachacamac and Viracocha, whose everlasting
granite thrones they are. At the last I showed her Cuzco, the city of the sun,
and the highest dwelling-place of men on earth.
I was carried away by so sublime a theme; and
remembering that I had no critical hearer, I gave free reins to fancy, forgetting
for the moment that some undiscovered thought or feeling had prompted her
questions. And while I spoke of the mountains, she hung on my words, following
me closely in my walk, her countenance brilliant. her frame quivering with excitement.
There yet remained to be described all that
unimaginable space east of the Andes; the rivers—what rivers! – the green plains
that are like the sea—the illimitable waste of water where there is no land—and
the forest region. The very thought of the Amazonian forest made my spirit
droop. If I could have snatched her up and placed her on the dome of Chimborazo
she would have looked on an area of ten thousand square miles of earth, so vast
is the horizon at that elevation. And possibly her imagination would have been
able to clothe it all with an unbroken forest. Yet how small a portion this
would be of the stupendous whole—of a forest region equal in extent to the whole
of Europe! All loveliness, all grace, all majesty are there; but we cannot see,
cannot conceive—come away! From this vast stage, to be occupied in the distant
future by millions and myriads of beings, like us of upright form, the nations
that will be born when all the existing dominant races on the globe and the
civilizations they represent have perished as utterly as those who sculptured
the stones of old Tiahuanaco—from this theatre of palms prepared for a drama
unlike any which the Immortals have yet witnessed—I hurried away; and then
slowly conducted her along the Atlantic coast, listening to the thunder of its
great waves, and pausing at intervals to survey some maritime city.
Never probably since old Father Noah divided the
earth among his sons had so grand a geographical discourse been delivered; and
having finished, I sat down, exhausted with my efforts, and mopped my brow, but
glad that my huge task was over, and satisfied that I had convinced her of the
futility of her wish to see the world for herself.
Her excitement had passed away by now. She was
standing a little apart from me, her eyes cast down and thoughtful. At length
she approached me and said, waving her hand all round: "What is beyond the
mountains over there, beyond the cities on that side—beyond the world?"
"Water, only water. Did I not tell you?"
I returned stoutly, for I had, of course, sunk the Isthmus of Panama beneath
the sea.
"Water! All round?" she persisted.
"Yes."
"Water, and no beyond? Only water—always
water?"
I could no longer adhere to so gross a lie. She
was too intelligent, and I loved her too much. Standing up, I pointed to
distant mountains and isolated peaks.
"Look at those peaks," I said. "It
is like that with the world—this world we are standing on. Beyond that great
water that flows all round the world, but far away, so far that it would take
months in a big boat to reach them, there are islands, some small, others as
large as this world. But, Rima, they are so far away, so impossible to reach,
that it is useless to speak or to think of them. They are to us like the sun
and moon and stars, to which we cannot fly. And now sit down and rest by my
side, for you know everything."
She glanced at me with troubled eyes.
"Nothing do I know—nothing have you told me.
Did I not say that mountains and rivers and forests are nothing? Tell me about
all the people in the world. Look! there is Cuzco over there, a city like no
other in the world—did you not tell me so? Of the people nothing. Are they also
different from all others in the world?"
"I will tell you that if you will first answer
me one question, Rima."
She drew a little nearer, curious to hear, but was
silent.
"Promise that you will answer me," I
persisted, and as she continued silent, I added: "Shall I not ask you,
then?"
"Say," she murmured.
"Why do you wish to know about the people of
Cuzco?"
She flashed a look at me, then averted her face.
For some moments she stood hesitating; then, coming closer, touched me on the
shoulder and said softly: "Turn away, do not look at me."
I obeyed, and bending so close that I felt her
warm breath on my neck, she whispered: "Are the people in Cuzco like me? Would
they understand me—the things you cannot understand? Do you know?"
Her tremulous voice betrayed her agitation, and
her words, I imagined, revealed the motive of her action in bringing me to the
summit of Ytaioa, and of her desire to visit and know all the various peoples
inhabiting the world. She had begun to realize, after knowing me, her isolation
and unlikeness to others, and at the same time to dream that all human beings might
not be unlike her and unable to understand her mysterious speech and to enter
into her thoughts and feelings.
"I can answer that question, Rima," I
said. "Ah, no, poor child, there are none there like you—not one, not one.
Of all there—priests, soldiers, merchants, workmen, white, black, red, and
mixed; men and women, old and young, rich and poor, ugly and beautiful—not one
would understand the sweet language you speak."
She said nothing, and glancing round, I discovered
that she was walking away, her fingers clasped before her, her eyes cast down,
and looking profoundly dejected. Jumping up, I hurried after her.
"Listen!" I said, coming to her side. "Do you know that there
are others in the world like you who would understand your speech?"
"Oh, do I not! Yes—mother told me. I was
young when you died, but, O mother, why did you not tell me more?"
"But where?"
"Oh, do you not think that I would go to them
if I knew— that I would ask?"
"Does Nuflo know?"
She shook her head, walking dejectedly along.
"But have you asked him?" I persisted.
"Have I not! Not once—not a hundred
times."
Suddenly she paused. "Look," she said,
"now we are standing in Guyana again. And over there in Brazil, and up there
towards the Cordilleras, it is unknown. And there are people there. Come, let
us go and seek for my mother's people in that place. With grandfather, but not
the dogs; they would frighten the animals and betray us by barking to cruel men
who would slay us with poisoned arrows."
"O Rima, can you not understand? It is too
far. And your grandfather, poor old man, would die of weariness and hunger and old
age in some strange forest."
"Would he die—old grandfather? Then we could
cover him up with palm leaves in the forest and leave him. It would not be
grandfather, only his body that must turn to dust. He would be away—away where
the stars are. We should not die, but go on, and on, and on."
To continue the discussion seemed hopeless. I was
silent, thinking of what I had heard—that there were others like her somewhere
in that vast green world, so much of it imperfectly known, so many districts
never yet explored by white men. True, it was strange that no report of such a
race had reached the ears of any traveler; yet here was Rima herself at my
side, a living proof that such a race did exist. Nuflo probably knew more than
he would say; I had failed, as we have seen, to win the secret from him by fair
means, and could not have recourse to foul—the rack and thumbscrew—to wring it
from him. To the Indians she was only an object of superstitious fear—a
daughter of the Didi—and to them nothing of her origin was known. And she, poor
girl, had only a vague remembrance of a few words heard in childhood from her
mother, and probably not rightly understood.
While these thoughts had been passing through my
mind, Rima had been standing silent by, waiting, perhaps, for an answer to her
last words. Then stooping, she picked up a small pebble and tossed it three or
four yards away.
"Do you see where it fell?" she cried,
turning towards me. "That is on the border of Guyana—is it not? Let us go there
first."
"Rime, how you distress me! We cannot go
there. It is all a savage wilderness, almost unknown to men—a blank on the map…"
"The map? – speak no word that I do not
understand."
In a very few words I explained my meaning; even
fewer would have sufficed, so quick was her apprehension.
"If it is a blank," she returned
quickly, "then you know of nothing to stop us—no river we cannot swim, and
no great mountains like those where Quito is."
"But I happen to know, Rima, for it has been
related to me by old Indians, that of all places that is the most difficult of access.
There is a river there, and although it is not on
the map, it would prove more impassable to us than the mighty Orinoco and Amazon.
It has vast malarial swamps on its borders, overgrown with dense forest,
teeming with savage and venomous animals, so that even the Indians dare not
venture near it. And even before the river is reached, there is a range of
precipitous mountains called by the same name—just there where your pebble
fell—the mountains of Riolama..."
Hardly had the name fallen from my lips before a
change swift as lightning came over her countenance; all doubt, anxiety,
petulance, hope, and despondence, and these in ever-varying degrees, chasing
each other like shadows, had vanished, and she was instinct and burning with
some new powerful emotion which had flashed into her soul.
"Riolama! Riolama!" she repeated so
rapidly and in a tone so sharp that it tingled in the brain. "That is the
place I am seeking! There was my mother found—there are her people and mine! Therefore
was I called Riolama—that is my name!"
"Rima!" I returned, astonished at her
words.
"No, no, no—Riolama. When I was a child, and
the priest baptized me, he named me Riolama—the place where my mother was found.
But it was long to say, and they called me Rima."
Suddenly she became still and then cried in a ringing
voice: "And he knew it all along—that old man—he knew that Riolama was
near—only there where the pebble fell—that we could go there!"
While speaking she turned towards her home,
pointing with raised hand. Her whole appearance now reminded me of that first meeting
with her when the serpent bit me; the soft red of her irides shone like fire,
her delicate skin seemed to glow with an intense rose color, and her frame
trembled with her agitation, so that her loose cloud of hair was in motion as
if blown through by the wind.
"Traitor! Traitor!" she cried, still
looking homewards and using quick, passionate gestures. "It was all known
to you, and you deceived me all these years; even to me, Rima, you lied with
your lips! Oh, horrible! Was there ever such a scandal known in Guyana? Come,
follow me, let us go at once to Riolama." And without so much as casting a
glance behind to see whether I followed or no, she hurried away, and in a
couple of minutes disappeared from sight over the edge of the flat summit.
"Rime! Rima! Come back and listen to me! Oh, you are mad! Come back! Come
back!"
But she would not return or pause and listen; and
looking after her, I saw her bounding down the rocky slope like some wild,
agile creature possessed of padded hoofs and an infallible instinct; and before
many minutes she vanished from sight among crabs and trees lower down.
"Nuflo, old man," said I, looking out
towards his lodge, "are there no shooting pains in those old bones of
yours to warn you in time of the tempest about to burst on your head?"
Then I sat down to think.
