CHAPTER VII: THE LITTLE PEOPLE
I came to myself to find Jim pumping the breath
back into me. I was lying on something soft. I moved my legs gingerly, and sat
up. I looked around. We were on a bank of moss - in it, rather, for the tops of
the moss were a foot or more above my head. It was an exceedingly overgrown moss,
I thought, staring at it stupidly. I had never seen moss as big as this. Had I
shrunk, or was it really so overgrown? Above me was a hundred feet of almost
sheer cliff. Said Jim:
"Well, we're
here."
"How did we
get here?" I asked, dazed. He pointed to the cliff.
"We fell
down that. We struck a ledge. You did, rather. I was on top. It bumped us right
out on this nice big moss mattress. I was still on top. That's why I've been
pumping breath back into you for the last five minutes. Sorry, Leif, but if it
had been the other way about, you'd certainly have had to proceed on your
pilgrimage alone. I haven't your resilience."
He laughed. I
stood up, and looked about us. The bed of giant moss on which we had landed
formed a mound between us and the forest. At the base of the cliff was piled
the debris of the fall that had made the slide. I looked at these rocks and
shivered. If we had struck them we would have been a jumble of broken bones and
mangled flesh. I felt myself over. I was intact.
"Everything,
Indian," I said piously, "is always for the best."
"God, Leif!
You had me worried for awhile!" He turned abruptly. "Look at the
forest."
The mound of moss
was a huge and high oval, hemmed almost to the base of the cliffs by gigantic
trees. They were somewhat like the sequoias of California, and quite as high.
Their crowns towered; their enormous boles were columns carved by Titans.
Beneath them grew graceful ferns, tall as palm trees, and curious conifers with
trunks thin as bamboos, scaled red and yellow. Over them, hanging from the
boles and branches of the trees, were vines and dusters of flowers of every
shape and colour; there were cressets of orchids, and chandeliers of lilies; strange
symmetrical trees, the tips of whose leafless branches held up flower cups as
though they were candelabra; chimes of flower bells swayed from boughs and
there were long ropes and garlands of small starry flowers, white and crimson
and in all the blues of the tropic seas. Bees dipped into them. There was a
constant flashing of great dragon-flies all in lacquered mail of green and
scarlet. And mysterious shadows drifted through the forest, like the shadows of
the wings of hovering unseen guardians.
It was no forest
of the Carboniferous Age, at least none such as I had ever seen reconstructed
by science. It was a forest of enchantment. Out of it came heady fragrances.
Nor was it, for all its strangeness, in the least sinister, or forbidding. It
was very beautiful.
Jim said:
"The woods
of the gods! Anything might live in a place like that. Anything that is lovely -”
Ah, Tsantawu, my
brother - had that but been true!
All I said was:
"It's going to be damned hard to get
through."
"I was
thinking that," he answered. "Maybe the best thing is to skirt the
cliffs. We may run across easier going farther on. Which way – right or
left?"
We tossed a coin.
The coin spun right. I saw the pack not far away, and walked over to retrieve
it. The moss was as unsteady as a double spring-mattress. I wondered how it
came to be there; thought that probably a few of the giant trees had been
felled by the rock fall and the moss had fed upon their decay. I slung the pack
over my shoulders, and we tramped, waist-deep in the spongy growth, to the cliffs.
We skirted the
cliffs for about a mile. Sometimes the forest pressed so closely that we had
trouble clinging to the rock. Then it began to change. The giant trees
retreated. We entered a brake of the immense ferns. Except for the bees and the
lacquered dragon-flies, there was no sign of life amid the riotous vegetation.
We passed out of the ferns and into a most singular small meadow. It was almost
like a clearing. At each side were the ferns; the forest formed a palisade at
one end; at the other was a sheer cliff whose black face was spangled with
large cup-shaped white flowers which hung from short, reddish, rather repellantly
snake-like vines whose roots I supposed were fixed in crevices in the rock.
No trees or ferns
of any kind grew in the meadow. It was carpeted by a lacy grass upon whose tips
were minute blue flowerlets. From the base of the cliff arose a thin veil of
steam which streamed up softly high in the air, bathing the cup-shaped white
blossoms.
A boiling spring,
we decided. We drew closer to examine it.
We heard a
wailing - despairing, agonized... Like the wail of a heart-broken, tortured
child, yet neither quite human nor quite animal. It had come from the cliff,
from somewhere behind the veils of steam. We stopped short, listening. The
wailing began again, within it something that stirred the very depths of pity,
and it did not cease. We ran toward the cliff. The steam curtain at its base
was dense. We skirted it and reached its farther end.
At the base of
the cliff was a long and narrow pool, like a small closed stream. Its water was
black and bubbling, and from these bubbles came the steam. From end to end of
the boiling pool, across the face of the black rock, ran a yard-wide ledge.
Above it, spaced at regular intervals, were niches cut within the cliff, small
as cradles.
In two of these
niches, half-within them and half-upon the ledge, lay what at first glance
seemed two children. They were outstretched upon their backs, their tiny hands
and feet fastened to the stone by staples of bronze. Their hair streamed down
their sides; their bodies were stark naked.
And now I saw
that they were not children. They were mature - a little man and a little
woman. The woman had twisted her head and was staring at the other pygmy. It
was she who was wailing. She did not see us. Her eyes were intent upon him. He
lay rigid, his eyes closed. Upon his breast, over his heart, was a black
corrosion, as though acid had been dropped upon it.
There was a
movement on the cliff above him. One of the cup-shaped white flowers was there.
Could it have been that which had moved? It hung a foot above the little man's
breast, and on its scarlet pistils was a slowly gathering drop which I took for
nectar.
It had been the
flower whose movement had caught my eye! As I looked the reddish vine trembled.
It writhed like a sluggish worm an inch down the rock. The flower shook its cup
as though it were a mouth trying to shake loose the gathering drop. And the
flower mouth was directly over the little man's heart and the black corrosion
on his breast.
I stepped out
upon the narrow path, reached up and grasped the vine and tore it loose. It
squirmed in my hand like a snake. Its roots dug to my fingers, and like a
snake's head the flower raised itself as though to strike. Its rim was thick
and fleshy, like a round white mouth. The drop of nectar fell upon my hand and
a fiery agony bit into it, running up my arm like a flame. I hurled the
squirming thing into the boiling pool.
Close above the
little woman was another of the crawling vines. I tore it loose as I had the
other. It, too, strove to strike me with its head of flower, but either there
was none of that dreadful nectar in its cup, or it missed me. I threw it after
the other.
I bent over the
little man. His eyes were open; he was glaring up at me. Like his skin, his
eyes were yellow, tilted, Mongolian. They seemed to have no pupils, and they
were not wholly human; no more than had been the wailing of his woman. There
was agony in them, and there was bitter hatred. His gaze wandered to my hair,
and I saw amazement banish the hatred.
The flaming
torment of my hand and arm was almost intolerable. By it, I knew what the pygmy
must be suffering. I tore away the staples that fettered him. I lifted the
little man, and passed him over to Jim. He weighed no more than a baby.
I snapped the
staples from the slab on which lay the little woman. There was no fear nor
hatred in her eyes. They were filled with wonder and unmistakable gratitude. I
carried her over and set her beside her man.
I looked back, up
the face of the black cliff. There was movement all over it; the reddish ropes
of the vines writhing, the white flowers swaying, raising and lowering their
cups.
It was rather
hideous...
The little man
lay quietly, yellow eyes turning from me to Jim and back to me again. The woman
spoke, in trilling, bird-like syllables. She darted away across the meadow,
into the forest.
Jim was staring
down upon the golden pygmy like a man in a dream. I heard him whisper:
"The Yunwi Tsundi!
The Little People! It was all true then! All true!"
The little woman
came running out of the fern brake. Her hands were full of thick, heavily
veined leaves. She darted a look at me, as of apology. She bent over her man.
She squeezed some of the leaves over his breast. A milky sap streamed through
her fingers and dropped upon the black, corroded spot. It spread over the spot
like a film. The little man stiffened and groaned, relaxed and lay still.
The little woman
took my hand. Where the nectar had touched, the skin had turned black. She
squeezed the juice of the leaves upon it. A pang, to which all the torment that
had gone before was nothing, ran through hand and arm. Then, almost instantly,
there was no pain.
I looked at the
little man's breast. The black corrosion had disappeared. There was a wound
like an old burn, red and normal. I looked at my hand. It was inflamed, but the
blackness was no longer there.
The little woman
bowed before me. The little man arose. He looked at my eyes and ran his gaze
along my bulk. I watched suspicion grow, and the return of bitter hate. He
spoke to his woman. She answered at some length, pointing to the cliff, to my
inflamed hand, and to the ankles and wrists of both of them. The little man
beckoned to me; by gesture asked me to bend down to him. I did, and he touched
my yellow hair; he ran it through his tiny fingers. He laid his hand on my
heart... then laid his head on my heart,
listening to its beat.
He struck me with
his small hand across my mouth. It was no blow; I knew it for a caress.
The little man
smiled at me, and trilled. I could not understand, and shook my head
helplessly. He looked up at Jim and trilled another question. Jim tried him in
the Cherokee. This time it was the little man who shook his head. He spoke
again to his woman. Clearly I caught the word ev-ah-lee in the bird-like
sounds. She nodded.
Motioning us to
follow, they ran across the meadow, toward the further brake of fern. How
little they were - hardly to my thighs. They were beautifully formed. Their
long hair was chestnut brown, fine and silky. Their hair floated behind them
like cobwebs.
They ran like
small deer. We were hard put to keep up with them. They entered the fern brake
toward which we had been heading, and here they slowed their pace. On and on we
went through the giant ferns. I could see no path, but the golden pygmies knew
their way.
We came out of
the ferns. Before us was a wide sward covered with the flowerets whose blue
carpet ran to the banks of a wide river, to the banks of a strange river, a
river all milky white, over whose placid surface hovered swirls of opalescent
mist. Through the swirls I caught glimpses of green, level plains upon the
white river's further side, and of green scarps.
The little man halted.
He bent his ear to the ground. He leaped back into the brake, motioning us to
follow. In a few minutes we came across a half-ruined watch tower. Its entrance
gaped open. The pygmies slipped within it, beckoning.
Inside the tower
was a crumbling flight of stones leading to its top. The little man and woman
danced up them, with us close behind them. There was a small chamber at the
tower's top through the chinks of whose stones the green light streamed. I
peered through one of the crevices, down upon the blue sward and the white
river. I heard the faint trampling of horses' feet and the low chanting of
women; closer they drew, and closer.
A woman came
riding down the blue sward. She was astride a great black mare. She wore, like
a hood, the head of a white wolf. Its pelt covered her shoulders and back. Over
that silvery pelt her hair fell in two thick braids of flaming red. Her high,
round breasts were bare, and beneath them the paws of the white wolf were
clasped like a girdle. Her eyes were blue as the cornflower and set wide apart
under a broad, low forehead. Her skin was milky-white flushed with soft rose.
Her mouth was full-lipped, crimson, and both amorous and cruel.
She was a strong
woman, tall almost as I. She was like a Valkyrie, and like those messengers of
Odin she carried on her saddle before her, held by one arm, a body. But it was
no soul of a slain warrior snatched up for flight to Valhalla. It was a girl. A
girl whose arms were bound to her sides by stout thongs, with head bent
hopelessly on her breast. I could not see her face; it was hidden under the
veil of her hair. But the hair was russet red and her skin as fair as that of
the woman who held her.
Over the
Wolf-woman's head flew a snow-white falcon, dipping and circling and keeping pace
with her as she rode.
Behind her rode a
half-score other women, young and strong-thewed, pink-skinned and blue-eyed,
their hair of copper-red, rust-red, bronzy-red, plaited around their heads or
hanging in long braids down their shoulders. They were bare-breasted, kirtled
and buskined. They carried long, slender spears and small round targes. And
they, too, were like Valkyries, each of them a shield-maiden of the Aesir. As they
rode, they sang, softly, muted, a strange chant.
The Wolf-woman
and her captive passed around a bend of the sward and out of sight. The
chanting women followed and were hidden.
There was a gleam
of silver from the white falcon's wing as it circled and dropped, circled and
dropped. Then it, too, was gone.
CHAPTER VIII: EVALIE
The golden
pygmies hissed; their yellow eyes were molten with hatred.
The little man
touched my hand, talking in the rapid trilling syllables, and pointing over the
white river. Clearly he was telling me we must cross it. He stopped, listening.
The little woman ran down the broken stairs. The little man twittered angrily,
darted to Jim, beat at his legs with his fists as though to arouse him, then
shot after the woman.
"Snap out of
it, Indian!" I said, impatiently. "They want us to hurry."
He shook his
head, like a man shaking away the last cobwebs of some dream.
We sped down the
broken steps. The little man was waiting for us; or at least he had not run
away, for, if waiting for us, he was doing so, in a most singular manner. He
was dancing in a small circle, waving his arms and hands oddly, and trilling a
weird melody upon four notes, repeated over and over in varying progressions.
The woman was nowhere in sight.
A wolf howled. It
was answered by other wolves farther away in the flowered forest - like a
hunting pack whose leader has found the scent.
The little woman
came racing through the fern brake; the little man stopped dancing. Her hands
were filled with small purplish fruits resembling fox-grapes. The little man
pointed toward the white river, and they set off through the screening brake of
ferns. We followed.
We came out of
the brake, crossed the blue sward and stood on the bank of the river.
The howl of the
wolf sounded again, answered by the others, and closer.
The little man
leaped upon me, twittering frantically; he twined his legs about my waist and
strove to tear my shirt from me. The woman was trilling at Jim, waving in her
hands the bunches of purple fruit.
"They want
us to take off our clothes," said Jim. "They want us to be quick
about it."
We stripped,
hastily. There was a crevice in the bank into which I pushed the pack. Quickly
we rolled up our clothes and boots, and threw a strap around them and slung
them over our shoulders.
The little woman
threw a handful of the purple fruit to her man. She motioned Jim to bend, and
as he did so she squeezed the berries over his head and hands, his breasts and
thighs and feet. The little man was doing the same for me. The fruit had an
oddly pungent odour that made my eyes water.
I straightened up
and looked out over the white river.
The head of a
serpent broke through its milky surface; then another and another. Their heads
were as large as those of the anaconda, and were scaled in vivid emerald. They
were crested by brilliant green spines which continued along their backs and
were revealed as they swirled and twisted in the white water. Quite definitely,
I did not like plunging into that water, but now I thought I knew the purpose
of our anointing, and that most certainly the golden pygmies intended us no
harm. And just as certainly, I assumed, they knew what they were about.
The howling of
the wolves came once more, not only much nearer, but from the direction along
which had gone the troop of women.
The little man
dived into the water, motioning me to follow. I obeyed, and heard the small
splash of the woman and the louder one of Jim. The little man glanced back at
me, nodded, and began to swim across like an eel, at a speed that I found
difficult to emulate.
The crested
serpents did not molest us. Once I felt the slither of scales across my loins;
once I shook the water from my eyes to find one of them swimming beside me,
matching in play my speed, or so it seemed; racing me.
The water was
warm, as warm as the milk it resembled, and curiously buoyant. The river at
this point was about a thousand feet wide. I had covered half of it when I heard a shrill shriek and felt
the buffeting of wings about my head. I rolled over, beating up with my hands
to drive off whatever it was that had attacked me.
It was the white
falcon of the Wolf-woman, hovering, dropping, rising again, threshing me with
its pinions!
I heard a cry
from the bank, a bell-like contralto, vibrant, imperious - in archaic Uighur:
"Come back!
Come back. Yellow-hair!"
I swung round to
see. The falcon ceased its bufferings. Upon the farther bank was the Wolf-woman
upon her great black mare, the captive girl still clasped in her ann. The
Wolf-woman's eyes were like sapphire stars, her free hand was raised in
summons.
And all around
her, heads lowered, glaring at me with eyes as green as hers were blue, was a
pack of snow-white wolves!
"Come
back!" she cried again.
She was very
beautiful - the Wolf-woman. It would not have been hard to have obeyed. But no
- she was not a Wolf-woman! What was she? Into my mind came a Uighur word, an
ancient word that I had not blown I knew. She was the Salur'da - the
Witch-woman. And with it came angry resentment of her summons. Who was she -
the Salur'da - to command me! Me, Dwayanu, who in olden time long forgot would
have had her whipped with scorpions for such insolence!
I raised myself
high above the white water.
"Back to
your den, Salur'da!" I shouted. "Does Dwayanu come to your call? When
I summon you, then see that you obey!"
She stared at me,
stark amazement in her eyes; the strong arm that held the girl relaxed so that
the captive almost dropped from the mare's high pommel. I struck out across the
water to the farther shore.
I heard the
Witch-woman whistle. The falcon circling round my head screamed, and flew. I
heard the white wolves snarling; I heard the thud of the black mare's hoofs
racing over the blue sward. I reached the bank and climbed it. Only then did I
turn. Witch-woman, falcon and white wolves - all of them were gone.
Across my wake
the emerald-headed, emerald-crested serpents swam and swirled and dived.
The golden
pygmies had climbed upon the bank.
Jim asked:
"What did
you say to her?"
"The
Witch-woman comes to my call - not I to hers," I answered, and wondered as
I did so what it was that compelled the words.
"Still very
much - Dwayanu, aren't you, Leif? What touched the trigger on you this
time?"
"I don't
know." The inexplicable resentment against the woman was still strong,
and, because I could not understand it, irritating to a degree. "She
ordered me to come back, and a little fire-cracker went off in my brain. Then I
- I seemed to know her for what she is, and that her command was rank
insolence. I told her so. She was no more surprised by what I said than I am.
It was like someone else speaking. It was like -” I hesitated -”well, it was
like when I started that cursed ritual and couldn't stop."
He nodded, then
began to put on his clothes. I followed suit. They were soaking wet. The
pygmies watched us wriggle into them with frank amazement. I noticed that the
angry red around the wound on the little man's breast had paled, and that while
the wound itself was raw, it was not deep and had already begun to heal. I
looked at my own hand; the red had almost disappeared, and only a slight
tenderness betrayed where the nectar had touched it.
When we had laced
our boots, the golden pygmies trotted off, away from the river toward a line of
cliffs about a mile ahead. The vaporous green light half hid them, as it had
wholly hidden our view to the north when we had first looked over the valley.
For half the distance the ground was level and covered with the blue-flowered
grass. Then ferns began, steadily growing higher. We came upon a trail little
wider than a deer path which threaded into a greater brake. Into this we turned.
We had eaten
nothing since early morning, and I thought regretfully of the pack I had left
behind. However, it is my training to eat heartily when I can, and
philosophically go without when I must. So I tightened my belt and glanced back
at Jim, close upon my heels.
"Hungry?"
I asked.
"No. Too
busy thinking."
"Indian -
what brought the red-headed beauty back?"
"The wolves.
Didn't you hear them howling after her? They found our track and gave her the
signal."
"I thought
so - but it's incredible! Hell - then she is a Witch-woman."
"Not because
of that. You're forgetting your Mowgli and the Grey Companions. Wolves aren't
hard to train. But she's a Witch-woman, nevertheless.
Don't hold back Dwayanu when you deal with her, Leif."
The little drums
again began to beat. At first only a few, then steadily more and more until
there were scores of them. This time the cadences were lilting, gay, tapping
out a dancing rhythm that lifted all weariness. They did not seem far away. But
now the ferns were high over our heads and impenetrable to the sight, and the
narrow path wove in and out among them like a meandering stream
The pygmies
hastened their pace. Suddenly the trail came out of the ferns, and the pair
halted. In front of us the ground sloped sharply upward for three or four
hundred feet. The slope, except where the path ran, was covered from bottom to
top with a tangle of thick green vines studded along all their lengths with
wicked three-inch thorns; a living chevaux-de-frise which no living creature
would penetrate. At the end of the path was a squat tower of stone, and from
this came the glint of spear-heads.
In the tower a
shrill-voiced drum chattered an unmistakable alarm. Instantly the lilting drums
were silent. The same shrill chatter was taken up and repeated from point to
point, diminishing in the far distance; and now I saw that the slope was like
an immense circular fortification, curving far out toward the unbroken palisade
of the giant ferns, and retreating at our right toward the sheer wall of black cliff,
far away. Everywhere upon it was the thicket of thorn.
The little man
twittered to his woman, and walked up the trail toward the tower. He was met by
other pygmies streaming out of it. The little woman stayed with us, nodding and
smiling and patting our knees reassuringly.
Another drum, or
a trio of them, began to beat from the tower. I thought there were three
because their burden was on three different notes, soft, caressing, yet
far-carrying. They sang a word, a name, those drums, as plainly as though they
had lips, the name I had heard in the trilling of the pygmies...
Ev-ah-lee...
Ev-ah-lee... Ev-ah-lee... Over and over and over. The drums in the other towers
were silent.
The little man
beckoned us. We went forward, avoiding with difficulty the thorns. We came to
the top of the path beside the small tower. A score of the little men stepped
out and barred our way. None was taller than the one I had saved from the white
flowers. All had the same golden skin, the same half-animal yellow eyes; like
his, their hair was long and silky, floating almost to their tiny feet, They
wore twisted loin-cloths of what appeared to be cotton; around their waists
were broad girdles of silver, pierced like lace-work in intricate designs. Their
spears were wicked weapons for all their apparent frailty, long-handled, hafted
in some black wood, and with foot-deep points of red metal, and barbed like a
muskalonge hook from tip to base. Swung on their backs were black bows with
long arrows barbed in similar manner; and in their metal girdles were slender
sickle-shaped knives of the red metal, like scimitars of gnomes.
They stood
staring at us, like small children. They made me feel as Gulliver must have
felt among the Liliputians. Also, there was that about them which gave me no
desire to tempt them to use their weapons. They looked at Jim with curiosity
and interest and with no trace of unfriendliness. They looked at me with little
faces that grew hard and fierce. Only when their eyes roved to my yellow hair
did I see wonder and doubt lighten suspicion - but they never dropped the
points of the
spears turned toward me.
Ev-ah-lee...
Ev-ah-lee... Ev-ah-lee... sang the drums.
There was an
answering roll from beyond, and they were silent.
I heard a sweet,
low-pitched voice at the other side of the tower trilling the bird-like
syllables of the Little People - And then - I saw Evalie.
Have you watched
a willow bough swaying in spring above some clear sylvan pool, or a slender
birch dancing with the wind in a secret woodland and covert, or the flitting
green shadows in a deep forest glade which are dryads half-tempted to reveal
themselves? I thought of them as she came toward us.
She was a dark
girl, and a tall girl. Her eyes were brown under long black lashes, the clear
brown of the mountain brook in autumn; her hair was black, the jetty hair that
in a certain light has a sheen of darkest blue. Her face was small, her
features certainly neither classic nor regular - the brows almost meeting in
two level lines above her small, straight nose; her mouth was large but finely
cut, and sensitive. Over her broad, low forehead the blue-black hair was
braided like a coronal. Her skin was clear amber. Like polished fine amber it shone
under the loose, yet clinging, garment that clothed her, knee-long, silvery,
cobweb fine and transparent. Around her hips was the white loin-cloth of the
Little People. Unlike them, her feet were sandalled.
But it was the
grace of her that made the breath catch in your throat as you looked at her,
the long flowing line from ankle to shoulder, delicate and mobile as the curve
of water flowing over some smooth breast of rock, a liquid grace of line that
changed with every movement.
It was that - and
the life that burned in her like the green flame of the virgin forest when the
kisses of spring are being changed for the warmer caresses of summer. I knew
now why the old Greeks had believed in the dryads, the naiads, the nereids -
the woman souls of trees, of brooks and waterfalls and fountains, and of the
waves.
I could not tell
how old she was - hers was the pagan beauty which knows no age.
She examined me,
my clothes and boots, in manifest perplexity; she glanced at Jim, nodded, as
though to say there was nothing in him to be disturbed about; then turned back
to me, studying me. The small soldiers ringed her, their spears ready.
The little man
and his woman had stepped forward. They were both talking at once, pointing to
his breast, to my hand, to my yellow hair. The girl laughed, drew the little
woman to her and covered her lips with a hand. The little man went on trilling
and twittering.
Jim had been
listening with a puzzled intensity whenever the girl had done the talking. He
caught my arm.
"It's
Cherokee they're speaking! Or something like it - Listen... there was a word...
it sounded like 'Yun'-wini'giski'... it means 'Man-eaters.' Literally, 'They
eat people'... if that's what it was... and look... he's showing how the vines crawled
down the cliffs...”
The girl began
speaking again. I listened intently. The rapid enunciation and the trilling
made understanding difficult, but I caught sounds that seemed familiar - and
now I heard a combination that I certainly knew.
"It's some
kind of Mongolian tongue, Jim. I got a word just then that means
'serpent-water' in a dozen different dialects."
"I know -
she called the snake 'aha'nada' and the Cherokees say 'inadu' - but it's
Indian, not Mongolian."
"It might be
both. The Indian dialects are Mongolian. Maybe it's the ancient mother-tongue.
If we could only get her to speak slower, and tune down on the trills."
"It might be
that. The Cherokees called themselves 'the oldest people' and their language
'the first speech' - wait -”
He stepped
forward, hand upraised; he spoke the word which in the Cherokee means, equally,
friend or one who comes with good intentions. He said it several times. Wonder
and comprehension crept into the girl's eyes. She repeated it as he had spoken
it, then turned to the pygmies, passing the word on to them - and I could
distinguish it now plainly within the trills and pipings. The pygmies came
closer, staring up at Jim.
He said, slowly:
"We come from outside. We know nothing of this place. We know none within
it."
Several times he
had to repeat this before she caught it. She looked gravely at him, and at me
doubtfully - yet as one who would like to believe. She answered haltingly.
"But
Sri" - she pointed to the little man -”has said that in the water he spoke
the tongue of evil."
"He speaks
many tongues," said Jim - then to me:
"Talk to
her. Don't stand there like a dummy, admiring her. This girl can think - and
we're in a jam. Your looks make no hit with the dwarfs, Leif, in spite of what
you did."
"Is it any
stranger that I should have spoken that tongue than that I now speak yours,
Evalie?" I said. And asked the same question in two of the oldest dialects
of the Mongolian that I knew. She studied me, thoughtfully.
"No,"
she said at last -”no; for I, too, know something of it, yet that does not make
me evil."
And suddenly she
smiled, and trilled some command to the guards. They lowered their spears,
regarding me with something of the friendly interest they had showed toward
Jim. Within the tower, the drums began to roll a cheerful tattoo. As at a
signal, the other unseen drums which the shrill alarm had silenced, resumed
their lilting rhythm.
The girl beckoned us. We walked behind her, the little
soldiers ringing us, between a portcullis of thorn and the tower.
We passed over
the threshold of the Land of the Little People and of Evalie.
